A Valentine Proposal (Little Shops on Heart Street)

by Viv Royce

  He sucked in air, but his chest wouldn’t widen. Her rejection smacked him against a concrete wall, and he was left flat inside. She had only been nice to him to get something out of him. Like James had with Tamela. Like so many others had done to his father, their family, before. Always the same thing. The Stephens name, the Stephens money.

  It was never about him.

  He turned to the counter and slapped the file folder down on it. He wanted to retrieve the present from it, take it back, but it would look odd. He had to act normal, as if he didn’t notice her lukewarm response. “Read it when you have the time. If you have questions, Graham will be happy to answer those. You can find his contact information in there.”

  This is it. Just leave now.

  But he didn’t leave; he couldn’t. He stood there, and he asked, his entire being tense for this moment, “So with the Valentine’s event over, what will you be doing tonight?”

  Maybe if she says she isn’t doing anything…if she gives me an inch…

  “I don’t know, probably reading and going to bed early. It’s been rather exhausting.”

  Yes, exhausting to work him until she had what she wanted. He remembered in a flash how at the restaurant Lizzie Cates had made a sort of go-for-it gesture at Cleo, and he hadn’t understood what it meant. But now he understood. Go for it, wrap the guy around your little finger, get him to do what you want, and then drop him like a hot potato.

  Oh, to her credit, she had told him after the kiss she didn’t want it. She hadn’t really led him on. Even so, it hurt like crazy. All his own fault, of course. The risk he had taken falling for her. Allowing her to get under his skin.

  “Good, well…” He stood there, contemplating. To turn and grab her by the shoulders and plead with her to give him a chance.

  That would be sad.

  He had to keep his back straight and leave.

  He turned to her. He was leaving, all right, but not like a kicked dog. With dignity. “Thanks for the cooperation. You really made me feel welcome in Wood Creek.”

  …

  Cleo stared into Mark’s eyes. The eyes that had lit up when he saw her, that had sparked as he had leaned over to kiss her. The eyes that were even now, somehow, reaching out to her. But they were saying goodbye, right? He was leaving, and it was better that way. The hurt inside now was nothing compared to what she might feel later on. She could deal with this. She’d have Rook to comfort her. Her safe place to hide out, among her books.

  “I wanted you to get a good impression of the town and the potential and…”

  “Yes.” He smiled, a sad small smile. “I understand.” He walked to the door and opened it, not with a wild jerk, but with a quiet, controlled movement. He didn’t look at her as he said, “I wish you all the best with the shop.”

  Then he walked out. The door fell to a soft close behind him.

  No! Sharp pain slashed through her. She ran for the door and watched him walk away, her forehead pressed against the cold window pane. I understand, he had said. I understand.

  “No, you don’t,” she whispered. You don’t understand any of it. Her lungs burned. On that cold morning after her run, his car had pulled up behind her, and he had picked her up. But now he was leaving. She had made him leave without even looking at his plan. Give him a chance.

  Tears burned behind her eyes, but she didn’t open the door to go after him. She forced her weight against the door as if she had to keep it shut against something that tried to get in. She had dealt with the need for belonging a long time ago. She had determined her path, by herself.

  Mark might have shown her what life could be if she didn’t think she had to do it all by herself. He had offered her his hand, his help, his company, his understanding. But she wasn’t ready for it. She couldn’t accept it. She couldn’t take the risk of being hurt.

  Then why does it hurt so badly already? She closed her burning eyes. She had gotten exactly what she wanted: to keep the shop alive, with everything she loved about it. No forced changes, no sacrifices for the money she needed to continue. She should be dancing, hugging a few books, telling them it was okay now, and they were safe.

  Yes, they are safe, but I’m not.

  She turned and went to the counter, picked up the file folder Mark had put there for her. She ran her fingers across the smooth paper, touching where he had touched. Had he actually given the small town program to someone else so he wasn’t her boss any longer and they could be together?

  Something thick and solid was inside. She opened the file folder. A wrapped-up parcel. A present? With trembling fingers, she opened it. Pride and Prejudice. The book he had bid on, taken away from her with that infuriating smile. He had bought it for her? Planning to give it to her at the same moment he gave her back the shop? This book that told the story of two people who at first had not seen eye to eye but who had fallen in love with each other anyway.

  Tears fell on the cover, forming trembling drops. He had reached out, and she had shut the door again. Staying on her own was the way to avoid heartache, right?

  But not this time.

  Standing here—alone—was pure heartache. Because Mark could have been with her, and she had let him go.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I know you.” The little boy looked up at Mark, blinking his eyes. “You made bookends with us. You sawed them for me. I’m giving them to Santa. I think he has books at the North Pole.”

  “Definitely. About reindeer and cookies and how to wrap presents.” A stab of pain wandered through Mark’s chest as he recalled that carefree night, crafting with the kids and getting to know Cleo. Believing there was something about her he could build on. He hadn’t even bothered taking his suit with the pink paint stains on it to the dry cleaners. He wanted to keep it as a memento of that night. He must be losing his mind.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m working here for a bit. I like horses. How about you?”

  The little boy tilted his head. “They’re awfully big,” he commented with some doubt in his voice.

  Mark nodded. “They are.” He pointed at a paddock where two horses stood. “But that white one, she’s also really old. How old do you think she is?”

  Hopping from one foot onto the other, the little boy thought hard. “Ten? Ten is old for a dog. Gran’s dog is ten. She’s a senior citizen, Gran says, just like her.”

  “Ten is old for a dog,” Mark agreed. “But horses can get even older. That beautiful mare there is sixteen. That means she is very calm. If I lifted you onto her back, she would not even stir. She would keep grazing.”

  “Wouldn’t she want to throw me off? I wouldn’t like carrying people on my back. Maybe she’s so old her back hurts.”

  Mark suppressed a smile. “We’ve got a very good vet here who looks after all the horses and ponies. He makes sure that her back doesn’t hurt.”

  “Ponies?” The little boy perked up. “They’re smaller, right?”

  “Sure. I can show you. Come on.” Mark reached out his hand, and the boy grabbed it and skipped along. A bleak spring sun was high in the skies, shining down on them, and Mark caught birdsong from the trees shadowing the ranch’s yard.

  Since his decision to cut back on work hours and spend one day a week working with kids, he had consciously thrown himself into deep water. He hadn’t combed through ads on the internet finding a position that would be perfect for his background, but he had put up an ad on a community center bulletin board, offering himself as free help for activities with kids.

  That night, he had sat in his hotel room staring at his phone, waiting for the offers to pour in. There hadn’t been any. Nor the next day or the next. People in small towns worked with people they knew and did not hire strangers. Maybe he’d be better off trying in the city? At a youth center where they were always short on volunteers? Why stick around the
area when Cleo had made it so clear she didn’t want to spend any more time with him? Why hope against hope they’d bump into each other and…the old attraction would prove not to be dead?

  How could it not be dead? It should have died inside him when he realized she had only been nice to him to get accepted into the chain. That he had hoped for more but that had never been her intention.

  He had tried hard to kill the feeling with anger, but it had bounced back. It even tried to tell him he was judging Cleo’s responses wrong and she had never meant to play him or deceive him. Their attraction had been genuine and the bond built between them real. She had…gotten cold feet or something.

  Stupid feeling. Accept reality for a change.

  Then, to his surprise, he had received an offer. To come work at this ranch. The owner had warned him he wouldn’t be playing with kids all the time but also mucking out stables, brushing horses, helping when the blacksmith came along. Mark had agreed at once. He wanted to do physical labor, wear himself out, get so tired he dropped into bed and slept, instead of dreaming about Cleo and wondering where it had gone wrong.

  Or asking himself where Tamela was and how James would take advantage of her this time. Mom had told him over the phone, almost in tears, that she had argued with Tamela about the reunion with James, and Tamela had said that if her parents didn’t support her, she wouldn’t come home anymore, that they had never liked James or wanted to give him an honest chance. Tamela was now in a hurry to marry James and wouldn’t let them know until it was all over and done with. The idea of her saying I do to that louse killed him inside. But he had no way to stop her. It was time to acknowledge he couldn’t keep her from getting hurt. No matter how he wanted to.

  Instead of coming to the ranch on the one day assigned to him, he often popped in at night, after his work hours, to do a bit of cleaning and spend time with the horses. They calmed him down. Sitting on a fence watching them, he could disconnect from the stream of worried thoughts about his sister, Cleo, and the future—he could enjoy what was right in front of him. That was Cleo’s gift to him: that he finally knew how to let go.

  “There are the ponies.” He pointed in the distance.

  The little boy pulled free and ran ahead.

  Mark didn’t call him back or warn him. The ponies were friendly enough to treat a newcomer with due respect.

  The little boy squatted and peeked between two bars of the tall wooden fence. One of the ponies, white with a black patch on her back, came over and studied him from her side. She slowly reached out her muzzle. The little boy stretched out his hand and touched her muzzle with two fingers. He pulled back and giggled. “It’s really soft.”

  Mark caught up with him. “Her name is Snowflake. What’s your name?”

  “Davey. And yours?”

  “Mark.”

  “Until I give ’em to Santa, I use my bookends every day. I take down a book to read before bed, and then I put it back and tell them they’re really good.”

  The warmth in that kid’s voice, for a pair of lifeless objects, punched Mark’s gut. He had never taken the time to appreciate the things in his life. But Cleo had made him see the value of small things. She had changed everything. He could never go back to the person he had been before. Sometimes at night he drove down Heart Street and looked up at her lit windows. He hoped he’d meet her someplace, run into her by chance, and could ask her quite casually how she was doing. Showing an interest in the shop would be natural. They hadn’t parted in anger or anything. He could talk to her, right?

  But it hadn’t happened. And he didn’t want to call her and…look like a stalker. She had said good-bye.

  Maybe he was crazy to stick around the area. If he had any sense, he would have left and tried to forget her by burying himself in work.

  But why walk away from something that was special? That had meaning?

  Why rush off in anger and destroy the last bit of connection left? If he truly believed in what had formed between them, he would never harm that. Harm her.

  Which was why he didn’t call her. Didn’t pop into the shop. He didn’t want to corner her, force himself upon her. He had offered her what he could. The chance to live her life the way she wanted. Without him.

  And that was good. It had been the right decision. No matter how much he had scolded himself for not having done it differently so she would have had to report to him or somehow stay in touch. No. He had given her the chance to stand on her own two feet, not need him or his approval.

  He could only hope that she would discover that she…missed him?

  Did he dare believe that she would?

  Mark almost huffed to himself. Why else am I still here?

  …

  Cleo gestured at the small oil painting on the wall in Lizzie’s shop. “I think that would be nice. If it’s reasonably priced. I know next to nothing about antiques. But Mrs. VanWilder’s house is full of these sorts of things, so I think she’d appreciate it. She did so much for the raffle.”

  Lizzie took the painting down and wrapped it in bubble wrap. “You’re working too hard.” She glanced up at Cleo. “You’ve been burying yourself in all these community activities. Is there one committee you’re not on these days?”

  Cleo shrugged. “I don’t like sitting on my hands.” The truth was that at night in her apartment, the walls seemed to close in on her, so she went to some kind of meeting to be away. Away from the questions of whether she had done the right thing in rejecting Mark. Didn’t even give him a chance.

  After she had studied the file folder Mark had left and talked extensively to her new contact, Graham, on the phone, she had felt confident that the shop was indeed saved and had gone home for the weekend to tell Mom and Dad. They had responded as could be expected: lukewarm, saying it was nice for her, but clearly implying it frustrated their hopes that she would come to her senses and join the firm.

  As she’d sat on the immaculate white leather couch, holding her glass of award-winning wine and looking at the fashionable snacks Mom had put on the table—full of the seaweed and seeds her mother’s health-conscious friends gushed about—Cleo had known that she would never be what they wanted her to be. She would never have this big house or entertain high-powered friends and serve the perfect snacks and make conversation about yachts and tropical vacations or museums full of modern art. Because she simply didn’t care for all of those things. She’d failed them. Couldn’t be who they wanted. It hurt, and she didn’t understand how she could stop that hurting. If she could just find a way, she might also get her nerves together and…contact Mark? If only to report how Rook was doing.

  Lizzie put colorful wrapping paper around the bubble wrap. “Flowers,” she said, “because Mrs. VanWilder likes those so much.”

  “She does have a nice garden,” Cleo responded automatically.

  Lizzie looked under the counter for something. “I saw Mark Stephens the other day.” Her voice sounded muffled. Cleo’s breath caught. She wanted to lean in and shout, Tell me more, but she said, in what was hopefully a normal tone, “Really?”

  “Yes, at the Happy Horses ranch. Seems he’s working there now.”

  “Working there?” Cleo echoed, her mind scrambling to make sense of this. Mark had told her that he wanted to work less hours, but…she hadn’t really taken him seriously. Everybody daydreamed every now and then. Didn’t mean they acted on it.

  “Well, not all week, but he seems to be there a lot. At night, too. I didn’t know he liked animals. You?” Lizzie popped up again, holding a bow to stick on the present for Mrs. VanWilder, and gave Cleo a probing look.

  Cleo shrugged. She really didn’t recall if Mark liked animals. Her head was full of chaos because she now knew he was still around. Why?

  “There.” Lizzie put the bow in place and studied the present. “I’m giving you a twenty percent discount because, like you sa
id, Mrs. VanWilder did do a lot of work for the raffle, and the raffle also included pieces from my shop, bringing me new customers. I even sold an old dressing table last week that had been sitting in the shop for ages.”

  Before Cleo could protest, Lizzie had already entered the price into the cash register. “I think,” she frowned hard, glancing over her shoulder at where a twined basket sat with newspapers and junk mail, “that the Happy Horses has an open house afternoon of some kind later this week.”

  Her fingers trembling, Cleo handed her a bill, and Lizzie gave her the change. She didn’t push the point about the open house or offer Cleo the newspaper that had advertised it. Cleo didn’t ask, either. She put the present for Mrs. VanWilder in her big shopping bag and left. Her knees were full of jelly.

  Open house. Meaning anyone could go there and have a look around. She could pretend she hadn’t known he worked there. That their meeting was purely coincidental. Did she want to see him again?

  Cleo stood in the street, not noticing the light drizzle that fell on her face. She only knew one thing.

  The answer of her heart.

  Yes, yes, yes.

  A wave of anxiety crashed through her. How will he react when I show up?

  Chapter Thirteen

  “That’s my girl. You’re doing great.” Mark patted Snowflake on her neck before turning to the row of kids lining up for the pony rides. “Next!”

  A bigger boy tried to elbow his way past a blonde girl with pigtails who had been waiting patiently, and Mark stared him back to his place. He lifted the girl onto the pony, told her to take the reins but not to pull at them, and away they went. The pony walked the familiar round, its hooves falling into the loose sand in slow thuds. Mark let Snowflake walk by herself, making sure that if something did spook her, he could grab her lead before something happened. Or grab the kid on top and let the pony go…

  He grinned to himself. He was getting better at this.

  They reached the other side of the paddock, and Mark glanced back to where the kids were, their coats, pants, and skirts a blast of color against the brown, beige, and gray of the ranch’s yard. A few grownups, probably mothers and one or two teenaged sisters, kept an eye on the eager group, pulling arguing kids apart. Another volunteer lifted a toddler onto the beige pony called Muffin. The paddock was large enough for them to work it with three ponies, which ensured the kids didn’t have to wait too long for their turn. His breath caught. A familiar face looked at him from the back. Those eyes, the nose, the chin. He’d spot her anywhere.