The Valentine (Steamy Shorts #28)

Chapter 1

EMILY

Will you be my Valentine?

You can actually say no. If you do, I'll simply cry in my apartment quietly and deal with it like a grown woman, or move to another country. I honestly haven't thought that far ahead.

No pressure, I promise.

I lower the card, my face burning hotter than the "Mr. Darcy's Sweat" candle flickering on my coffee table. Selena's sprawled on my couch, legs crossed, wineglass dangling between manicured fingers.

Everything about her is perfect. The blonde hair. The makeup. She's the type every guy wants to be with and every girl aspires to be like. An absolute stunner.

"Keep going." Her lips curve into a smile. "You've barely gotten to the good part."

"I think that's enough of a dramatic reading." I set the card down and reach for my own wine. The rosé is too sweet, coating my tongue like liquid candy. Selena brought it—"on sale," she said, which meant it was probably still more than I'd spend on wine.

"Don't chicken out now." She leans forward and refills my glass before I can protest. "The whole point of girls' night is to be bold, remember? You've been obsessing over Mr. 3A for months."

"That's not true," I say, even as my eyes drift to the wall I share with Alex's apartment.

Ugh. Alex Kahn a.k.a Mr. 3A. I thought I was too old for crushes, but here we are.

Selena gives me the look. "Emily, you deeply inhale the air outside his door. Don't think I didn't notice."

My orange tabby, Croissant, jumps onto the windowsill, tail flicking as he stares judgmentally at us both.

He always acts like I annoy him. Me, the one who spends half her salary in cat food, toys, and supplies.

I once spent almost four hundred dollars for a custom-made tree, and he spent exactly five seconds on it and stared at me as though I smelled like a wet rag.

I swear the men in this building, including those of the feline variety, are grumpy.

"It's not that simple." I pull my knees to my chest and curl deeper into my recliner. "He's ... intimidating."

"That's the appeal," Selena says, stretching her arms overhead.

Her silk top rides up, revealing a slice of toned stomach.

Suddenly, the box of red velvet cookies in my fridge don't seem worth it anymore.

"All that military discipline. Those arms. The broad shoulders.

God, his face." She sighs dramatically. "If he hadn't helped you with groceries that day, I might never have noticed him. "

She says it casually, like she's not reminding me that she saw him first. Like she's not implying she'd have better chances.

"It was just a couple of books," I say. "Not groceries."

"Whatever." She waves dismissively. "The point is, you need to stop hiding in this adorable little" —she glances around my studio— "cozy space, and actually talk to the man."

"I talk to him," I tell her, scratching Croissant behind the ears when he abandons the window to settle in my lap.

“A ‘good morning' while checking your mail twice isn't talking." She rolls her eyes. "Look at your place, Em. Look at you."

I glance down at my soft curves wrapped in my favorite worn pajama shorts and oversized t-shirt with a faded flower shop logo. Not Dead Yet—the place I currently work at. "What's wrong with me?"

"Nothing! That's what I'm saying." Her voice softens, which somehow makes it worse. "You're cute … in that accessible, girl-next-door kind of way. Most men love that."

I take another sip of wine, bigger this time. The cheap alcohol buzzes through my system, not enough for major drunk decisions but just enough to make Selena's terrible ideas sound plausible.

"The Valentine's card was your idea, Selena."

“Because I know you'd never do it on your own." She picks up the half-finished card. "But this tame little note isn't going to catch the attention of a man like that. You need to make an impression."

I wince. "I'm not exactly impressive."

"Stop that. Do you really want to spend Valentine's Day alone with" —Selena tilts her chin at Croissant— "Mr. Whiskers here? Because that's pretty sad, even for you."

"His name is Croissant."

"Whatever. Are you going to make a move or just keep watching Grumpy Hot Neighbor from your peephole forever?"

Put like that, it sounds pathetic. And maybe it is.

Maybe I am. I've been watching him for eight months, give or take, and I notice everything about him.

Those muscular thighs and calves flexing as he runs down the stairs.

The delicious-looking biceps each time he opts for a muscle tee instead of a dri-fit shirt on his morning runs.

The scar through his left eyebrow I've imagined tracing with my finger.

His hands. God, his hands. Large and veiny.

I've built entire fantasies around those hands. Like, I had no idea hands could look sexy.

"Fine." I grab the card back. "What exactly do you suggest I write?"

Selena's smile widens. "Something he can't ignore. Tell him what you want."

"What I want…"

"Don't overthink it. Just be honest. What's the first thing you think about when you see him?"

His hands. His mouth. The way his t-shirts stretch across his chest when he's coming back from a run, the fabric taut, rippling and dark with sweat. Ohh, I get tingly just thinking about it.

I start writing, the pen scratching against the cheap cardstock.

Hello!

You probably don't know I exist beyond "that girl from 3B," but I've noticed you.

Every morning, you run past my window. Sometimes I time my coffee from my balcony just to watch you come back, breathing hard, shirt clinging to your chest. Is that creepy?

Maybe. But I've thought about those runs.

About what would happen if one morning, you looked up and saw me watching.

If you came upstairs still sweaty, still breathing hard, and knocked on my door instead of yours.

"That's more like it," Selena says, reading over my shoulder. "Keep going. Get specific."

I'm not THAT drunk, just loose enough that the words I've kept locked inside for months flow freely.

I've thought about your hands. They look strong—the kind of hands that would grip hard enough to leave marks. I've imagined them everywhere. Wondered if you'd be gentle or not. I'm not sure which I'd prefer.

Sometimes in the elevator, when it's just the two of us and that awkward silence, I think about hitting the emergency stop. About what might happen in those minutes before someone came. Would you lift me against the wall? Would you be shocked if I wrapped my legs around you?

I pause, realizing what I just wrote. "Oh God. This is too much."

"It's perfect, Em. Go on. Finish it strong."

I want your mouth on me. Everywhere. I want to know if you'd take your time or if you'd be efficient about pleasure the way you are about everything else.

I've touched myself thinking about it, you kow.

About you pushing into me slow and deep.

About how your voice might sound when you come.

Are you the groaning or grunting type? About how your stubble would feel between my thighs.

"Jesus, Emily." Selena's eyebrows rise to her hairline, and she tosses her head back to laugh. "Look who's been hiding depths."

I drop the pen, mortified. "I can't give him this."

"Of course you can." She picks up the card, reading it through. "He'd be crazy not to respond. Unless..."

"Unless what?"

She shrugs. "Nothing. I mean, he obviously keeps to himself for a reason. Maybe he's just not interested in ... you know. People."

"You think he's not into women?"

"Or maybe he's into a different type." Her eyes flick over me. "More ... athletic, maybe. Runners like him. The ones who put some effort into looking good, even at home."

The wine curdles in my stomach. I know what she's implying. That I'm not his type. That my curves and softness wouldn't appeal to someone like him. And honestly, like obviously, I thought about that too, many, many times.

Selena didn't have to say it straight to my face. I mean, I see myself in the mirror every day. I'm not blind.

With a sigh, I reach for the card. "You're right. This was a stupid idea."

She pulls it back and waggles a finger. "No, that's not what I meant at all! I think you should absolutely go for it."

"Then why—"

"I'm just saying be prepared for any reaction. I don't want you getting hurt. But also, you'll never know if you don't try, right? And it's anonymous enough that if he's not interested, you can just pretend it wasn't you."

I frown. "It literally says 'your neighbor from 3B.'"

"So? There's plausible deniability. You could say someone was playing a prank.”

“Like who?”

“Like me, maybe. A friend, a work colleague with a grudge.”

The idea has a certain appeal. A safety net. But, ”I don't know..."

"Look, it's already" —she checks her phone— "ten o'clock. He's probably still up. Just slip it under his door and run back. A minute of courage for potentially the best Valentine's Day ever."

"Or the most humiliating."

"Live a little, Em." She presses the card into my hand and closes my fingers around it. "When's the last time you did something truly daring? Something just for yourself?"

The answer is never. I've always been the careful one, the responsible one, the predictable one.

The one who dropped out of college because she hated marketing but still feels guilty about it.

The one who apologizes when someone steps on my foot.

Or bumps into me on the sidewalk. The one who palpitates when I argue with someone on the phone.

Maybe it is time for something different.

"Fine. I'll do it." I stand, Croissant tumbling from my lap with an offended meow. "But if this backfires spectacularly, I'm blaming you."

"It's going to be amazing. Go. I'll wait right here."

I hesitate. "Y-you're not coming?"

"And ruin your moment? Absolutely not. I'll hold down the fort with Mr. Whisk…um…Croissant.” Selena raises her glass in a mock toast. “Goddamn, even your cat’s a pastry, now…go get your man."