Page 88 of Never Your Valentine

“Yes,” she says, half asleep.

The sound lands somewhere behind my ribs. It reminds me of something. Coffee cooling on a counter while sunlight moves across a floor. A half-read book interrupted in scattered kisses. The particular peace of knowing exactly where someone is without needing to look.

Don’t, I tell myself. That isn’t something I’m supposed to want.

But I do.

Chapter 35

Annabelle

It’s somewhere around five in the morning when I realize I’ve made a huge mistake. A six-foot, hard-muscled, Grant Neverly-shaped mistake.

His bed has a down comforter, and high-quality sheets, and plenty of pillows. The mattress is a cloud. I’ve appreciated this bed on numerous occasions, but as a place for activities, not as a place for rest. I never knew how comfortable it was.

It’s not just the bed that’s comfortable. It’s living across the hall from Grant, being able to see him whenever I want. It’s passing each other on the stairs. It’s teasing each other about the laundry room. It’s being welcomed by his huge, loving family.

It’s whatever happened last night, when suddenly I felt more for Grant than I should have. Something that my heart doesn’t dare name.

We’re spooned together, with Grant’s arm around me. His breathing is slow and steady. I’m wearing his lucky shirt, on purpose, with permission. He wants me to wear it. He wants me, period.

But he doesn’t love me.

He made that clear last night at dinner, when I gave him all the openings in the world and he didn’t take them. He won’t follow me. He won’t chase me. He won’t be the man I need him to be.

That’s not his fault. It’s mine. I somehow let all his positive qualities stand in for the one quality that’s non-negotiable. I told myself it didn’t matter.

But it does.

The sun is up now, but you’d barely notice it, since it’s another overcast day. I’ve turned on every light in my apartment, trying to combat the gray dimness.

They have sunshine in Los Angeles, even in March. In California, they live outdoors all year. You can drink coffee in the open air. You can get lunch from a food truck. You can go barefoot on the beach. I wonder what that’s like?

I can’t wait to find out.

I’m putting tank tops into my suitcase when Grant knocks on my door. I look through the burglar hole. A rattling warning shakes in my stomach when I see that he’s carrying a breakfast tray. He’s made bacon, a little cup of berries, and in the center, a huge stack of pancakes.

I crack the door and the warm buttery scent hits my nose. I glance from his face to the tray and back again, as if one of them is going to explain this. “You made me pancakes?”

He clears his throat, lifting the tray higher. “I didn’t want you to pack on an empty stomach.”

“You don’t do pancakes. Or mornings. Or people in the morning. This is very confusing.”

“Yeah.” His eyes flick past me to the apartment, like he’s looking for a way in. “That’s kind of where I’m at.”

“Is this because I’m leaving?”

“It’s breakfast,” he says. “I’m showing you I can do that.”

I open the door wider. “I’ll make coffee.”

“I made some.” He puts the tray down on my kitchen counter. “That was going to be my second trip. I’ll be right back.”

He’s gone and back in a flash, carrying the carafe from his coffee maker. I’ve already got the mugs out—the pink one for me and the souvenir one from Seul Choix Pointe Lighthouse that he always uses.

“I shouldn’t know this,” I whisper as he pours.

“Know what?” He gets two plates and opens the drawer with the forks. He’s at ease in my kitchen. That shouldn’t happen either.