The Valentine’s Day Disaster

by Lori Wilde

  “I sent her packing.”

  “She paid twenty-­five thousand dollars for you.”

  “I told her I wasn’t for sale and wrote her a check.”

  “You didn’t make up with her?” Her pulse sprinted, hurtled.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  His eyes were welding torches, soldering his gaze to hers. “She wasn’t you.”

  Sesty didn’t move a muscle.

  “That’s the same thing Miley told me the night I caught her with my best friend. It was her excuse. She said during our relationship that I wasn’t emotionally available because I was still hung up on you. She said it again just now as she drove away. ”

  A fluttering started in the dead center of her chest. Hope was about to take wings and fly. She curled her hands into fists.

  She stopped breathing. “You talked about me? To your fiancée?”

  “Of course I did. You were my first, Sesty.”

  “I was your first?” She placed a palm to her chest. “You were a virgin too? When we did it the first time?”

  “Made love, Ses. Go ahead and say the words, because that’s what we did. We made love.”

  Was he talking about then or now? What did he want from her? How would she fit into his life?

  “Before you go any further,” she said, “there’s something I have to tell you.”

  A look of alarm flared in his eyes. “Is it bad?”

  “It all depends on you.”

  His hand was still outstretched, an invitation, beckoning her closer. She did not move.

  “You hurt my feelings last night when you told me you didn’t want me at the hospital. It made me feel cheap. Like once the sex was over, you were done with me.”

  “Sesty . . .” He shook his head, his eyes were so sad. “I never meant to make you feel that way.”

  “I know. It’s my fault. I lied,” she confessed. “I told you that I hated Valentine’s Day, but it’s not true. I love Valentine’s Day. I love hearts and flowers and chubby babies flinging arrows. I love sappy cards and teddy bears that play “Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch” and candlelit dinners for two. I’m a sucker for all of it.”

  “I only said that about a no-­strings-­attached fling because I thought that’s what you wanted.”

  She could hardly believe what she was hearing. “So what are you saying, Josh?”

  “That Miley is right. I never fully got over you, and in fact, that’s why I came back to Twilight. Not to heal, not to look after my grandmother’s place, but to get to the bottom of my feelings about you.”

  “Really?” She breathed.

  “I told you I didn’t want you at the hospital because I knew you wouldn’t leave if I didn’t do something to make you go. I’m sorry I hurt you, and I intend on making it up to you the best way I know how.” His gaze lingered on her lips. “But I needed time alone. I needed time to think.”

  “About what?” she asked so softly she could hardly hear herself.

  He didn’t immediately respond, and for a moment she thought he hadn’t heard her, but then he dropped the second crutch and took a step toward her. The smacking noise as the crutch hit the floor echoed throughout the empty auditorium.

  “To make the final decision about my future.”

  She gulped, moistened her lips, but she could not have broken her gaze from his face if a tornado had been barreling down on them. “What did you decide?”

  “I’m done with NASCAR.”

  “Josh no! It’s your heart and soul.”

  “Maybe it was once.” He took another step toward her. “But it’s not anymore.”

  “You’re just saying that because you reinjured your knee. You’ll think differently once it’s healed.”

  Slowly, he shook his head. “I called the owner of the car I drive and told him I wouldn’t be coming back.”

  She sucked in a massive gulp of air. Her head was spinning crazily out of control and she was trembling all over. “But wha . . . what are you going to do?”

  “When I saw my old shop teacher, he told me he was retiring at the end of the school year and wants to start a local racetrack. He’s got the land for it west of town and I’ve got the funds.”

  “You’re opening a racetrack here in Twilight with your shop teacher?”

  “It’ll be small at first. Just somewhere kids can train.”

  She cupped her palms around her mouth. “Are you sure?”

  “When you get to the NASCAR level, there’s so much more going on than driving. It’s all about money and competition. Don’t get me wrong, I loved it, but now I want more. And I’ve always liked the basics of racing and I like teaching other ­people about the sport. You said yourself that I was good with kids.”

  She stared into his eyes and the world bloomed with possibilities.

  “There’s just one sticking point.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You, Sesty. None of this is worth a damn without you. I love you, Sesty. I never stopped loving you. Will you have me? I’m certainly not perfect, but I love you.”

  “Oh, Josh! I admit it. I fought against it, but there it is. I’m a fool for love.” She gulped. “I’m a fool for you.”

  “Not a fool, not a fool at all.”

  He held his arms open wide and smiled the deepest, brightest smile she’d ever seen. A brilliant smile that said more than a million words ever could. His smile captured her, held her, promised a lifetime of love and kisses.

  She flew into his arms and he wrapped them around her. It had taken them a decade to find their way back to each other, but there were some risks worth taking, and loving Josh was one of them.

  Want more from New York Times bestselling author

  Lori Wilde?

  Read on for a sneak peek at

  LOVE WITH A PERFECT COWBOY

  The next fun and sexy installment in the

  Cupid, Texas Series!

  Available May 2014

  AND

  Don’t miss the other heartwarming novels in the

  Twilight, Texas Series!

  THE SWEETHEARTS’ KNITTING CLUB

  THE TRUE LOVE QUILTING CLUB

  THE FIRST LOVE COOKIE CLUB

  THE WELCOME HOME GARDEN CLUB

  THE CHRISTMAS COOKIE COLLECTION

  Currently available in print and ebook from Avon Books!

  Chapter One

  New York, New York

  April 1

  MELODY SPENCER WAS rushing up Madison Avenue when she spied him.

  A tall, lanky man in a black Stetson logjamming the flow of foot traffic by moseying along at a lamb’s pace, craning his neck up at the skyscrapers as if he couldn’t believe they made buildings that lofty.

  Two simultaneous thoughts popped into her head. One was: What a hick. The other was: I’m homesick.

  Twelve years earlier she had marveled at the towering buildings when she first arrived in the city as a green freshman on a full academic scholarship to NYU. While she no longer stared at the high-­rises, she still lived by one motto—­Keep looking up. Vision, commitment, and hard work were what had brought her to this moment. She was about to receive the promotion she worked a lifetime to earn.

  Why else would her boss, Michael Helmsly, have texted her and asked her to come in for a private meeting thirty minutes early on the same day that the creative director was retiring?

  She shivered, smiled.

  At long last her time had come.

  A river of ­people flowed around the cowboy, some muttering obscenities, others flipping him off, a few glowering, but most not even bothering to acknowledge him at all. He was nothing more than a speck in their obstacle-­laden day.

  Although one smart-­aleck teen—­probably a tourist—­hollered from a passing taxi,
“Why aren’t you naked in Times Square, cowboy?”

  The man tipped his Stetson at the taxi, briefly revealing a head of thick, whiskey-­colored curls and a sense of humor. A navy blue, Western-­cut sport jacket hugged his broad shoulders. The crowd obscured her view of his backside, but she would have bet a hundred dollars that tight-­fitting Wranglers cupped a spectacular butt.

  Cowboys always seemed to have spectacular butts, probably from all that hard riding in the saddle.

  He turned his head and the morning light illuminated his profile—­straight nose, honed cheekbones, chiseled jaw. He was freshly clean-­shaven, but she could tell he had a heavy beard and that long before five o’clock he’d be sporting a shadow of stubble. In that regard he looked a bit like the actor Josh Holloway, who’d played Sawyer on the television show Lost.

  A cold jolt of recognition smacked into the pit of her stomach. She knew this man! Had once both loved and hated him.

  Luke Nielson, from her hometown of Cupid, Texas.

  Her chest tightened and suddenly she couldn’t breathe. What was Luke doing in New York City attracting attention like the proverbial fish out of water? What if their eyes met and he recognized her?

  Pulse thumping illogically fast, Melody ducked her head and scurried to the far side of the sidewalk. She had no time or inclination to take pity on him and help him navigate the city. He was on his own.

  Coward.

  She had fifteen minutes to spare. She was using the meeting as an excuse to get away from him. Right-­o. And a good excuse it was. She needed those few minutes to compose her thoughts and tamp down her excitement before heading into her boss’s office. Cool, calm, and unruffled. That was the image she projected on the job.

  Praying that Luke hadn’t seen her, she held her breath until she put an entire city block between them. By the time she exhaled, her lungs felt stretched and achy. Okay, she dodged a bullet, onward and upward.

  She pushed through the frosted glass door of the building that housed the Tribalgate offices. In the lobby, the security guard positioned at the check-­in desk nodded a mute greeting as Melody used her ID badge to swipe her way through the turnstile granting access to the elevators.

  Because she was a bit early, there was no one else waiting for the elevator to the thirty-­fourth floor. On the ride up, she whipped out her cell phone to text her boyfriend.

  Jean-­Claude was a top-­tier photographer who traveled all around the world, and Melody still couldn’t believe he’d chosen her when he had his pick of beautiful, fascinating women. Yes, sometimes he was distant and a bit self-­absorbed, but what artist wasn’t? He might not be the love of her life, but they had a nice thing going on.

  For the last two weeks, she’d been living with Jean-­Claude in his Upper West Side apartment across from Central Park. Not to mention that her new residence and illustrious boyfriend had duly impressed her mother, Carol Ann Fant Spencer, when she told her about him, although her mother had immediately made when-­are-­you-­getting-­married noises.

  It was definitely a monumental step up from her former loft apartment in Queens, although moving in with Jean-­Claude had taken a nerve-­wracking leap of faith on a relationship that was barely two months old. But her landlord had jacked up her rent, and one night Jean-­Claude casually offered to let her stay with him. For once in her life, she plunged in feetfirst without calculating the risks, and so far, so good.

  Tomorrow, Jean-­Claude was catching a plane to South Africa for a ten-­day photo shoot and she wanted to give him a proper send-­off.

  Dinner 2 nite. My treat. Bernadette’s, she texted. Fingers X we’ll have something big to celebrate.

  She waited a moment to see if he would text back right away. When he didn’t, she logged on to OpenTable. Since it was early in the week hopefully she could swing a reservation at their favorite restaurant.

  OpenTable came back telling her there were no vacancies at her preferred time of eight P.M. but there was a table available at five-­thirty. It was pretty early for dinner, but hey, at least she scored a table. She accepted the five-­thirty spot through OpenTable, and then on impulse called the restaurant and asked to have a bottle of iced Dom Perignon waiting tableside.

  It wasn’t every day a girl made creative director at one of the biggest ad agencies in the country.

  Her mother was going to be over the moon when she told her.

  Only a ­couple of executive assistants were in the office. She waved hello and headed for the coffee machine. She poured herself a cup, but drank only half of it, not wanting to look jittery when she walked into her boss’s office. With a ­couple of minutes left to kill, she popped into the ladies’ room and reapplied her lipstick.

  “Why thank you for this opportunity, Michael,” she said, practicing accepting the position. “I do appreciate your confidence in me and I promise you won’t be disappointed in my performance.”

  She smiled carefully. Making sure her upper lip hid her slightly crooked front tooth. She’d learned the flaw-­camouflaging smile when she was on the beauty pageant circuit. Why hadn’t she gotten veneers years ago? Oh yes, they cost a lot. But with this promotion, she could finally afford them now. Jean-­Claude had been nagging her to do it.

  She straightened her collar that wasn’t askew and brushed imaginary lint off her lapel, and gave herself one last appraisal. She wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot, but she looked presentable.

  “Here we go, Ms. Creative Director,” she murmured, and stepped out into the hallway.

  Her boss’s door stood ajar.

  She poked her head into his office.

  Michael sat at his desk, scowling at the computer screen. He looked so much like the Mad Men character Roger Sterling that he was almost a caricature, although he possessed none of that character’s easygoing, flamboyant ways. Personality-­wise, he was more like Don Draper, brilliant, but darkly moody.

  He glanced up and his scowl deepened.

  Her euphoria evaporated. What had upset him? Bounce. Don’t let his mood throw you. “Am I too early?”

  “Come in,” he said curtly. “And close the door behind you.”

  Squaring her shoulders, she stepped into the room and quietly shut the door. Michael did not ask her to sit down. In fact, he stood up.

  Her stomach pitched.

  “Jill Jones called me over the weekend,” he said.

  Jill Jones represented Mowry and Poltish, a chemical company looking to rebrand their image. She and Ms. Jones had had a difference of opinion over the direction of the recent ad campaign, but Melody believed they’d ironed out their differences.

  “Isn’t Jill sharp? I’m learning so much from her.” She struggled to keep her tone neutral. Where was this going?

  “Jill’s asked that you be removed from the campaign.”

  What? Melody gulped. “May I ask why?”

  He leaned forward, placed both palms flat on his desk in an intimidating gesture. “She says your values aren’t consistent with Mowry and Poltish’s vision.”

  She sank her hands on her hips. Yes, she wanted this promotion more than anything in the world, but she had to set the record straight. “Ms. Jones requested a television campaign that essentially claims their new cleaning product is one hundred percent safe. Her idea was to have a mom cleaning a cutting board with their product and then without rinsing the cutting board, cut up raw fruits and vegetables on it and serve the food to her family.”

  “Sounds to me like you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

  “The cleanser should be thoroughly rinsed off. It says so on the labeling. The chemicals could be harmful if ingested.”

  “Did Jill ask you to make false claims about the product?”

  “No, but—­”

  “It’s not your job to police our clients’ ethics.”

  “Yes, but such a—­
”

  “How many times do I have to tell you we’re selling the sizzle not the steak? Advertising is about playing on ­people’s emotions, not about bald-­faced facts.”

  “I know that, which is precisely why I objected to Ms. Jones’s vision of the ad. Her version would make ­people feel safe, but it’s a false sense of security and I pointed this out. She agreed to allow the actress playing the TV mom to thoroughly wash the cutting board before cutting food up on it. I don’t see—­”

  “That’s just it. You don’t see.”

  “See what?”

  He shook his head. “Jill says you’re difficult.”

  A heavy weight settled on her shoulders. She was not about to get that promotion after all. In fact, she was being called on the carpet. “So being ethical means I’m difficult?”

  “Jill didn’t ask you to tell a lie.”

  She extended her arms out to her sides, palms up. “So I shouldn’t have said anything?”

  “Never argue with a client.”

  “Even if I believe the ad they want intentionally misleads the consumer?”

  “The truth is rubbery, especially in advertising, and you should know that. There’s nothing wrong with bending the truth as far as it will go as long as you don’t break it.”

  “You’re telling me that you want me to lie?”

  “That’s not what I said.” He stalked around the desk to stare her down. “The fact that you can’t tell the difference between a lie and a creative spin on the truth concerns me.”

  A hot blast of adrenaline shot through her. Stunned, she curled her hands into fists. “What are you saying?”

  “This isn’t the first time your provincial ethics”—­he spat the word with disdain—­“have tripped up a campaign.”

  Taken aback, she placed a palm to her chest. “Specifically, what campaigns are you speaking of?”

  “The Palmer campaign for one thing.”

  “But I only worked on the Palmer ad for a few days,” she protested.

  “Exactly. Palmer said you were argumentative so I put you on another project.”