Be Mine: Valentine Novellas to Warm The Heart

by Nicole Flockton

  Paul smiled at the little girl. “I think you were a very brave princess.”

  “Absolutely,” Libby said.

  “I think you’d do a great job of rescuing me, if I needed it.” Paul didn’t need to be rescued, though.

  Chloe’s eyed widened. “Sir Paul, would you come to my birthday party? I’m having a princess party and we could all rescue you. That would be so much fun.”

  “Um.” He raised his eyebrows and looked at Libby.

  A grin spread across Libby’s face. “I think a knight would be a great addition to the party, if you’re game?”

  Game? He was game. “You’re on. Let me know when and where.” Maybe he could find a costume?

  “It’s in two weeks at Mummy’s house,” Chloe said.

  “I’ll give you the address when we get back to the tent. I need to call Daniel and let him know Chloe is safe.”

  “I can pop into the house on the way and let them know we found her.”

  “Thanks.”

  He released the little girl’s hand and strode across to the house. Pushing open the rusty gate, he glanced over his shoulder. The sun streamed over the horizon, illuminating the mother and daughter duo. He was already in a trio, did he really have time to be part of another one? The warmth of the morning sun spread through his chest.

  He’d make time.

  Epilogue

  Libby stood before the full-length mirror. The little black wiggle dress hugged her hips, accentuating her hourglass figure. She leant closer to the mirror and smiled. No lipstick on her teeth. Ready to go.

  She plucked the strip of black and white photos from under the edge of the mirror frame. She saw them every day but hadn’t really looked at them in weeks. Paul, Chloe and herself, being silly in the photo booth at Chloe’s fifth birthday party.

  In the top photo, Paul was wearing his knight’s helmet. He’d actually gone out and bought a costume for Chloe’s party. The girls had so much fun fighting off imaginary dragons and climbing through the obstacle course in the back yard to rescue Paul. She and Chloe had clasped their hands under their chins, posing like princesses, complete with plastic crowns.

  In the middle photo, he’d snatched up her crown and tried to slip the helmet on her head but it had gone on sideways and got caught on her ear. The flash had gone off just as she was poking out her tongue. Chloe had been oblivious, smiling serenely at the camera.

  In the bottom photo, Libby and Paul had worn the crowns. Chloe had disappeared into the helmet and was trying to pry open the visor so she could see. They’d all laughed so much.

  Four months ago. Had it only been that long? It felt like she’d known Paul for years.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Mummy, Sir Paul is here,” Chloe called from the other end of the house.

  “Coming sweetie.” Libby slipped her feet into the red patent heels. These shoes finished off her new 50s look perfectly, but they were not made for dancing. They were barely made for walking. Dinner shoes, perfect for sitting. Between the fitted pencil skirt and the stilettos, Libby took twice as many steps as usual to get to the front door but from the look on Paul’s face, her effort was appreciated.

  Chloe stood by his side, a huge bunch of pink roses in her arms. “You look boo-fee, Mummy.” Chloe could actually pronounce beautiful if she wanted to but boo-fee was one of those toddler phrases that the whole family had picked up because it had sounded so darn cute.

  “You both look stunning.” Paul leant in to kiss Libby on the cheek then handed her a bunch of flowers, too. “Happy Valentine’s day, Libby.”

  She buried her face in the red roses, soft petals brushing her cheeks as the heady fragrance filled her lungs. Red roses might be a cliché, but she loved them, anyway.

  Libby’s mother came out from the kitchen where she’d been preparing dinner for her granddaughter. “Chloe, can you help me get these flowers into water?”

  “In a minute, Nan. I need to give Sir Paul something.” She passed her bunch of flowers to her grandmother and scurried off to her bedroom.

  “Have we got time?” Libby asked.

  Paul glanced at his watch. “We’re cutting it fine.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Libby grabbed her handbag from the hall table and slung it over one shoulder so they could make a quick getaway when Chloe returned. She had Paul’s present tucked away in her bag. She’d planned to give it to him at the restaurant. A leather chain wallet, embossed with a pin-up girl to match the one on his arm, though this one was wearing a swimsuit.

  “Give me your flowers.” Libby’s mum took the red roses off her and turned to Paul. “You’re spoiling my girls, you know.”

  Paul bent, reaching for something off to the side. He stood and presented another bunch of roses. Peach ones this time. “I didn’t forget you.” He tucked the roses into her mother’s arms along with the other two bunches. “Thanks for babysitting tonight. We won’t be too late.”

  “You didn’t have to but thank you. They’re absolutely beautiful.” Libby’s mother’s face lit up. Libby’s dad hated the commercial side of holidays. These were probably the first Valentine’s flowers she had ever got. “I’d better find somewhere to put them all. You two have fun.”

  Chloe came thundering down the hallway, squeezing past her nan. “Sir Paul, this is for you.” She curtsied and gave him a handmade card that Libby had helped her with that afternoon. The front was covered with a colourful drawing of a castle and a dragon with a knight at the top of the tower and a princess standing next to the dragon, an oversized sword in her hand. And love hearts. So many love hearts.

  He opened the card and read the inscription. “All the dragons, I will fight, to save Sir Paul, my favourite knight.”

  Chloe was besotted with Paul. They both were.

  If you enjoyed meeting Libby and Paul, you may also like Brooke and Ryan in Heart Swings.

  About Renee Conoulty

  Renee Conoulty is an Air Force wife and mother of two. She writes stories of dance, romance and military life including Dancing on the Grass, Heart Swings and Don't Mean a Thing.

  If you run into Renee at the shops, make sure you wave to get her attention because she'll likely be listening to an audiobook or lost in a daydream.

  Sign up for Renee's monthly newsletter and receive her ebook collection Dance, Romance and Military Life for FREE!

  Connect with Renee

  Facebook

  Instagram

  Website

  Bookbub

  Amazon

  Also by Renee

  Got That Swing series

  Baby it's Cold Outside

  Don't Mean a Thing

  Cheek to Cheek

  Tain't What You Do

  Jeepers Creepers

  Rockabilly Romance series

  Dancing on the Grass

  Standalone

  Heart Swings

  Catching Onix

  And more.

  How (Not) To Make A Grandchild

  Maryanne Ross

  Setting:

  Australia - uses Australian English spelling and local slang.

  Trakka-daks: tracksuit pants, or ‘activewear’ pants.

  Bogan: a person of low culture.

  Sparky: An electrician.

  Heat rating - one chilli

  About How (Not) To Make A Grandchild

  Lilac Loveday has never had a February 14 quite like Valentine’s Day 2020!

  Lilac is fifty and fabulous. Since her husband died, she has brought up her two children alone and created a thriving landscape design business. But something is missing - Lilac wants a grandchild to cherish! The tricks and traps she sets up for daughter Lily to meet a suitable man backfire, and throw Lilac instead - literally – into the arms of construction giant Harris MacAuley.

  Lilac soon finds that her daughter is more precious than an imaginary grandchild, and that love and life choose their own ways of surprising us.

  1

  ‘Meow, Meow!
’ My ‘kitten-in-danger’ meow has a definite rasp of arthritic chainsaw. Not quite the cute feline effect I am aiming for.

  The plan is to get my daughter to stop mid-run and search for the stuck kitten, while a handsome jogger stops to assist.

  Perhaps unsurprisingly, everything goes crazy – fast.

  My daughter keeps jogging. I watch her blonde ponytail switching back and forth and her pert bottom disappearing into the distance.

  Worse, engrossed in the music pumping through her ear-buds, she barely notices the two handsome joggers running past her on the other side of the track.

  ‘Can I help you?’ says a gravelly male voice.

  I freeze. Perhaps it isn’t me being addressed. If I just stay quiet in this clump of shrubs...

  Footsteps approach. ‘Are you stuck?’

  Oh no, this plan is turning into an even worse disaster. It isn’t meant to be me being rescued, but my daughter.

  I crawl backwards out of the deep bush into which I have inserted myself, twigs tangling in my hair and wet patches of mud adhering to my pants in all the wrong places.

  A man is standing near the track: a little older than me, weathered and slightly battered in a charming kind of way. A pair of shrewd blue eyes meet mine.

  Red suffuses my cheeks. My heart rate picks up.

  ‘Ah...I am looking for my cat,’ I offer, the desperate note plain in my voice.

  ‘What does he or she look like?’ His voice is polite, pleasant. Perhaps with just the edge of a little laugh in it. He begins looking around. Nice, the ‘he or she’. Likes animals, I think. Which probably makes it all worse. He might keep trying to help.

  ‘Ah....it’s OK...he’s probably gone home by himself now.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ That blue stare is curious and amused.

  Long pause while we look at each other, my mind whirling desperately for likely excuses. Kind, I think. He seems kind. Gentle. Large across the shoulders. Strong. But this damsel doesn’t need rescuing. Hasn’t for a good long while now.

  I look down at my far-from-elegant tracksuit pants, now spattered in mud from crouching, and old, sport sneakers. I rub my two-days unwashed hair, now crispy with dirt. Two leaves flutter to the ground. Something sticky on my hand – spider web? I flick it urgently, and suppressing the small shriek, try to unobtrusively wipe my hand on my pants.

  His eyes travel to my thighs.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, to get his attention back from my trakka-daks. ‘Thanks for offering to help.’ I emit a fake laugh. ‘I’m sure my naughty cat has taken himself home now.’ Pause. ‘Enjoy the rest of your walk.’

  He reaches out a hand, plucks a small twig from my hair. A little shiver courses through me, no doubt the reaction to the sudden proximity of a strange man.

  As I turn to go, I see him staring at the twig in his hand in bemusement. A giggle ripples through me as I make rapid strides back to the car and home.

  Mission Grandchild, first foray: Massive Fail.

  2

  ‘Mum, but you hate cricket,’ Lily says. She bends down and looks at me. Yanks my hair a little.

  ‘Careful! Don’t get that dark dye everywhere!’ I bounce on the fitball. Lily and I have found it is the perfect height to sit on while applying colour tint to each other’s hair. I’m dark with auburn streaks and she has blonde highlights in long, light brown, curling hair.

  Lily says, ‘You always say it can’t be a sport if commentators have time to talk about what they ate for lunch.’

  ‘But it’s different in the country,’ I answer hopefully. ‘I’ve decided it might be exciting. I want to know more about it. Plus, show support for our local country teams, you know.’

  ‘Well, hmm, OK,’ she says, her voice redolent with doubt. ‘Just for an hour or two maybe.’

  That’s my Lily. Always social, always popular, always making time for everyone around her.

  I fist-pump the air. ‘Awesome! You’ll love it!’

  Cricket, I think. Genius. All those sporty young men, apparently standing around doing not much. Plenty of time to talk.

  Male cricketers do tend to hang around in groups, comparing moustaches or something, laughing the same laugh and walking the same walk, but they generally seem to acquire girlfriends by some mysterious process.

  As Lily and I arrive at the local cricket oval in the big local Victoria Park, I am metaphorically rubbing my hands. So many young men! So many healthy specimens, with the humour and positive outlook that comes with healthy lifestyles and attitudes. I can see plenty of tall, handsome, date-material guys. Lily even waves at some of them!

  While Lily stops to chat with her friends – honestly, she has so many friends from so many surprising and varied walks of life – I make a few cheerful ‘mum jokes’, which garner amiable laughs from the circle of young men now surrounding us, and then sneak away to observe progress.

  It is just unfortunate that as I am watching a very auspicious conversation – Lily with not one but two cricketers! – that I slip from my discreet position on the roof of the large picnic shelter.

  I’m quite slender, though muscular, but even my small weight has a negative effect on the sadly rotting iron roof. With a strange screaming noise, the guttering begins to give way. I clutch desperately at a protruding roof spar, but it comes off in my hand.

  I feel the inevitable, sickening slide, as my hands and feet scrabble madly for purchase. It is only a couple of metres off the ground, so although I land with a thump, and am winded for a moment, I think I will survive.

  ‘Kitten gone missing again?’ The voice is deep, curious and has more than a hint of suppressed laughter. It is also familiar. Not. Possible. Surely?

  I roll over in the leaf-strewn dirt and squint up. Blocking the sky, bending over me, is a figure which I am pretty sure is horribly familiar. I blow away a leaf clinging to my lips, wipe a hand through my hair and watch a small cascade of leaf litter float to the ground. And meet his blue eyes, shining with wicked glee.

  A lean brown arm and hand stretches down towards me, and pulls me to my feet. I brush ineffectually at grime, dust, dirt, leaves and possibly small animals clinging to my person and clothes, and give up.

  I stand straight, put my hands on my hips, tilt my chin upwards. I am not embarrassed. Oh No!

  ‘I um...’ I say.

  He tries for a long tense moment to keep his expression concerned and interested. Sympathetic.

  He can’t help it. His face crumples, and he lets out an enormous bellow of laughter, and bending over, absolutely shakes with mirth. He can’t stop. He laughs so much, in such a friendly, disarming way, that I begin to laugh too. I laugh until I cry, the tears pouring from my eyes.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I tell him, when I can speak. ‘I’m a landscape designer.’

  ‘What?’ he practically screams and goes off into another gale of laughter. ‘Roof gardens, perhaps?’

  That starts me off again too. Finally, he steers us to a seat under one of the old spreading trees lining the dirt roads winding through the huge park.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says. ‘I shouldn’t have laughed. Are you feeling alright? You had a nasty fall.’ There is just the slightest quaver in his voice, which I choose to ignore.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I respond, my tone smart and brisk, businesslike.

  ‘W...What does the kitten look like?’ he asks.

  Silence for a long moment. I look down. Look at his rugged, weathered, pleasant face. A kind face. A Strong face.

  ‘There is no kitten,’ I say. He sort of snorts a little, but manages to maintain control. ‘It’s all part of my desperate and evil plan to get a grandchild.’

  ‘Grandchild?’ I’m afraid he starts laughing once more. ‘You have a very unique approach.’

  He takes my hand, gently brushing off more dirt. His hands are warm and strong and gentle. His fingers are long, lean and brown. I’m kind of frozen while he touches me, intent on the sensation. Shivers. Tingles. Hmmm: certain parts of me
waking up.

  He says, ‘This, I’ve got to hear. Can I offer you a recuperative coffee?’

  I cut a glance to the brown mossy smear across my chest, the muck slowly de-attaching in crumbly particles from my shorts, and my exposed knees, skinned and dirt-covered, just like a child’s.

  I flick a glance at him. Neat and clean, clad in old soft cottons, colours blurred from wear and washing. Nice jeans hanging from his hips.

  ‘Why?’ I ask.

  ‘You’ve had a shake up. A coffee might be welcome.’

  ‘I’m pretty relaxed generally, but I’d hate a potential client to see me like this. Not very professional.’

  ‘Unlike roof-climbing?’

  I crack a reluctant grin. ‘Might damage your image being seen with the wicked witch of Victoria Park.’

  ‘My image? What’s that when it’s home?’ He stops smiling. ‘You look stunning, actually.’

  ‘Oh please! Now I’m wondering what your motive really is.’

  He stands, hands up. ‘No motive except to hear more about why you somehow keep managing to get yourself in these situations.’

  I wave a hand at the cricket scorers. ‘Are you meant to be doing something for the club?’

  ‘I’m on the Board. No active role today. They won’t miss me for fifteen minutes.’

  I open my mouth to refuse. My eyes focus on his, and maybe it is the warmth and humour I see lurking there, or maybe even a sort of awkward vulnerability behind it all, because to my great surprise I find myself saying, ‘Yes, that would be lovely!’

  I text Lily: Met someone, having coffee. Back to cricket soon. Heart.

  Lily texts back: OK C U soon. With friends. Heart.