You Had Me At Valentine (Valentine’s Sweethearts)

One

Lyra

R emember when you were a kid and someone asked what you wanted to be when you grew up? You were only limited by your imagination: a ballerina, a policeman, an astronaut. Or a hedgehog in the case of my brother, Leith, which explains a lot about him.

I guess everyone’s answer explains a lot about them because I always said I wanted to be like my grandmother. The innkeeper part, not the baking cookies and slipping five-dollar bills to her grandkids part.

She taught me the true meaning of hospitality in every sense of the word, a lesson I soaked up whenever I visited her at the inn. And then I spent a decade learning to manage the MacLellan Highlands Ski Resort and Spa.

Yes, it’s a mouthful, and yes, that’s my last name on the sign, so there was never any question in my mind that I’d take over for my father one day.

Here’s the thing. The resort is not the inn.

The inn is all the way down the mountain in the valley. Kilt Valley, so named when the first MacLellan came from Scotland and fell in love with this area of the Rockies. Our ancestor James recreated his homeland in central Colorado and built a house worthy enough to be the town’s centerpiece.

The still-intact property sits just off the main square, a breathtaking Tudor Revival meets English Country Cottage—white with a wraparound porch and a steeply pitched roofline that has dumped snow on me more than once. The original stained glass survived all these years, so the windows glow all kinds of colors when the interior lights come on.

It looks like a fairy tale. A place where magic happens.

Gran and my grandpa lived in the house for a while before I was born, but it has six bedrooms, and while I could argue they felt it was too big for them, I think Gran liked the idea of welcoming new people into her home. So, it became the MacLellan Inn.

I like the idea too. But the resort takes massive energy and time to run, so I only make it down the mountain once a week to check in on the secret love of my life.

Don’t get me wrong. I grew up at a ski lodge and that has its own kind of magic. I spent many of my childhood days ice skating, snow tubing, and swimming in Loch MacClellan in the summer (loch means lake in Scottish in case you didn’t know. We don’t have a Loch Ness Monster of our own, so we had a plaster one made that sits in the middle).

But the inn is special.

You might wonder why I don’t work at the inn full-time since it clearly has a piece of my heart. That’s due to my father. And partly my brothers, but mostly Dad.

Let’s just say he hoped my brothers would follow in his footsteps and instead he got me. I’ve been trying to make up for that since…a long time, actually.

It’s my day off, which means I can focus on the MacLellan property of my choosing. The inn, of course. It’s almost Valentine’s Day and the place needs some festive red, pink, and white cheer. Gran used to be the one to string up the decorations and now it’s a task I take on lovingly.

Judy, who has managed the inn since I can remember, stands at the front desk as I shake snow off my boots from the front porch.

“Wasn’t expecting you today,” she calls and something is off in her tone.

Puzzled, I let the door close behind me as I take in her short, graying curls and note that the laugh lines around her eyes don’t even look remotely amused. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, dear.” Her lips purse. “I’m guessing you didn’t talk to your father today.”

Whatever she’s about to say, it’s not going to be good. “I try not to talk to Dad before lunch if I can help it.”

Her smile trembles. “I’m retiring. Finally. At the end of the month.”

“Retiring?” My voice comes out smaller than I intend. “But you’ve been here forever.”

“Since your grandmother hired me.” Judy wrings her hands, something I’ve never seen her do in all these years. “Which is exactly why it’s time. Past time, really.”

I drag in a breath, trying to process this. “Okay. Well, we’ll need to start interviewing replacements. I can adjust my schedule at the resort to help with the transition—”

“Lyra.” The tremor in her voice stops me. “You need to talk to your father.”

That’s the last thing I plan to do on my one day at the inn, so I wave that off.

“I will.” Eventually . “I’ll be in the attic for a bit, hauling out all of Gran’s old decorations. We’ve got to get this place looking like Valentine’s Day!”

My exit feels more like an escape, but I can’t process the idea of Judy retiring. Worse, I can’t stomach the job I want going to someone else.

I always thought I’d take over for Judy when she retired. Because it was always going to happen way, way in the future—after I figure out how to tell my father that managing the resort is not my dream job.

Spoiler alert: I still don’t know how to disappoint him.

The attic is a time capsule, a welcome distraction. Trunks, boxes, and a collection of random furniture crowd the space, dust particles floating in the sunlight streaming through the small window. Every corner of this inn feels like my Gran, down to the faint scent of lavender that’s somehow seeped into the wood. Even up here.

I flick on the light and skirt boxes that shouldn’t still be here in the attic of a former home-turned-bed and breakfast. I’m glad no one ever moved this stuff out, though. I used to love playing up here.

Last year, I decorated the inn with leftovers from the resort. I’m not sure what made me decide to see if Gran’s stuff is still up here. A bout of nostalgia, I guess.

Over near the window, I see a stack of boxes that likely hold what I’m looking for. Written on the top in Gran’s neat handwriting are the words Valentine’s Day Party.

I remember those. She stopped throwing them when I was in high school. I never knew why.

Curiosity prickles as I pull open the top box, which indeed holds the Valentine’s Day decorations I’m looking for. At the bottom is a smaller box made of heavy cardboard.

It’s full of cards. Dozens of them. Some are elegant, others simple, all clearly handmade and handwritten. I pick one up, reading the sweet message from someone named Annie to her fiancé.

A smile tugs at my lips.

“What are you doing up here?”

A voice I still recognize even after all these years makes me jump. My arms flail and I knock over the stack of boxes. Turns out the top one also contains a big jar of glitter. With a broken lid.

It rains down on me. And the interloper near the door. I turn toward the voice which belongs to Byron Hale. Who could now star in a Twilight movie as the better looking, more sparkly vampire cousin of the Cullens.

Good grief. The boy I knew grew up. Gone is the slightly lanky teenager with longish hair that swept down over his eyes the exact right way to illicit much swooning.

Now his hair is artfully styled, his jaw is covered in sexy stubble, and he looks like he just walked off a runway for a designer who knows how to cut a suit for maximum effect.

How did Byron Hale get even hotter in the last decade?

Which is saying something because he’s pretty much always been the gold standard for men. Dang it.

“Byron,” I say, fighting to keep my tone neutral when it wants to lash out. “What are you doing here?”

“Practicing to be a Mardi Gras parade float?” He pauses, his lips quirking as he spreads out his glittery arms. “How’s it going so far?”

“You drove all the way from Denver to try on some glitter?” I cross my equally sparkly arms and treat Byron to the glare he deserves. “You should have called ahead. I could have given you directions to the nearest Hobby Lobby.”

His gaze falls to the box of Valentines. “What’s that?”

“None of your business.”

He doesn’t move, just watches me with that calm, unreadable expression that always drove me crazy in high school. “Everything in this inn is my business. Or didn’t your father tell you?”

First Judy, and now Byron? Why does everyone want me to talk to my dad?

The back of my neck heats as I internalize that something is going on, and I’m the last one to know about it. Byron is not only the boy who broke my heart, he’s also my father’s lawyer. Because my life is a cliché apparently.

And I’m going to like what Byron has to say even less than what Judy said, I can already tell.

“Why don’t you just cut to the chase and say whatever it is that you’re not saying so I can send you on your way?”

He pulls the strap of his messenger bag from his shoulder and sets it down on the attic floor. Also known as not queueing up by the door so I can shove him out of it.

“Your father is selling the inn,” he says, his expression unreadable.

“What?” I snap. “None of those words belong in the same sentence, especially not coming from your mouth. Try again.”

“Lyra.”

He takes a step forward but I fling up a hand to stop him as my brain does the thing I’ve been trying to prevent from happening.

It starts connecting dots.

Judy’s retiring.

Dad’s lawyer is suddenly here in Kilt Valley, the place he left for greener pastures.

I have two missed calls from my father that I ignored because it’s my day off.

“Start talking,” I command Byron.

“Lachlan should have told you,” he says in the world’s worst case of no duh . “I wasn’t expecting to walk into this situation, so you have my apologies for dropping this bomb on you.”

And the fact that he knows it is one makes it even worse somehow. My stomach heaves as if my rollercoaster car has just gone over the top of the first hill.

“ That’s what you want to apologize for?” I sound snarly. I, however, do not want to apologize for it. “Nothing else?”

Byron doesn’t bother to pretend he has no idea what I’m talking about. “Would it help?”

No. Not even a little bit.

But I’m not eighteen any longer, and neither is he. Only one of us is acting like an adult though.

And the longer I treat him like Public Enemy #1, the quicker he’s going to guess I never got over him. Though something tells me that ship has already sailed. Great.

I square my shoulders. “Okay, we got off on the wrong foot. Why don’t we start over. Why, Byron Hale, as I live and breathe. What are you doing in these parts?”

He lifts a brow, reminding me how he can turn utterly aristocratic in the blink of an eye. Goes with the name, though he’d tell you he hates sharing one with a poet.

“Lachlan wants us to work together to get the inn ready to sell. Is that going to be a problem for you?”

Big yes. Huge. I smile. “Only if you make it one.”

First order of business is to clear up this gargantuan misunderstanding where my father thinks he can sell Gran’s inn. I mean, technically it belongs to him under the MacLellan Properties umbrella. He has the legal right to do whatever he wants with it.

Morally, on the other hand, the inn is mine .

And I will work with the devil to sell it over my dead body.

Speaking of Satan, he wears glitter as well as he wears that five-thousand-dollar suit. No coat needed, apparently, despite the cold.

The Byron I knew used to wear ski pants with holes in the knees and sweaters with unraveling cuffs. This Byron is a far cry from that kid out of the low-rent part of town. This one looks like he’s never seen the business end of a ski pole and has zero issues with foreclosing on widows and orphans.

But I can’t stop the memories that flood back. Byron helping me hang Christmas lights in this very inn. Byron sneaking kisses behind the check-in desk. Byron promising we’d find a way to make our relationship work on a snowy night just like this one.

Byron breaking that promise, then my heart when he took off for college without a backward glance.

Now he’s back to take the last piece of my grandmother I have left.

He’ll have to fight me for it.