Two
Byron
T he last time I saw glitter raining down on Lyra MacLellan, we were dancing at the Kilt Valley High Winter Ball. I’d spent the entire night trying to work up the courage to tell her how I felt.
That I loved her and couldn’t imagine a future without her.
Then the unexpected happened.
And it turned out I couldn’t imagine a future with her in it—not if I wanted either of us to have one.
I left Kilt Valley and stayed away as much as humanly possible. My foster family moved to Denver when I did, so I could attend the University of Colorado and live at home. Lachlan MacLellan is the only reason I’m occasionally required to come back.
Without his bottomless bank account, I could never have darkened the door of a college, let alone attend law school. Sure, I could have gotten loans, but the debt for seven years of college would have been crippling.
I owe my benefactor everything. Including my loyalty.
My head knows this. My heart is still struggling to get the memo.
“So,” Lyra says with a saccharine grin that feels forced, but I’ve lost the ability to read her. “When exactly did my father decide to sell his mother’s legacy?”
There’s an edge to her voice that I also want to understand, but I’m balancing some pretty heavy scales here. I’m continually fighting the urge to ask her how she’s been, if she likes working at the resort with her father, what she had for breakfast, and if she’d eat dinner with me so I don’t have to wonder about that, too.
A box scrapes across the attic floor as she drags it toward the stairs.
“Let me help with that,” I say.
“I’ve got it.” But she doesn’t stop me when I take the other end, just drills me with her laser gaze. “You didn’t answer my question.”
I adjust my grip on the surprisingly heavy box. “The decision’s been in the works for a while.”
“Define ‘a while.’”
“The papers were drawn up last month.”
She nods like this is exactly what she expected. “And you’re handling it personally because…?”
Because your father asked me to.
And maybe because I thought enough time had passed that seeing Lyra sounded like a fantastic bonus.
It’s not looking too good on that front. I underestimated how upset she’d be about Lachlan selling the inn.
But at least I knew she would be. Lachlan on the other hand, not so much.
“I handle your father’s trust,” I say instead. “The sale of this property results in a host of legal ramifications, and I also act in your father’s stead via power of attorney. There’s not really anyone else who could do it.”
“So, you’re on his side.” She releases her end of the box abruptly, and I nearly stumble. “Sorry. Slipped.”
I regain my balance—physically. “I’m on the side of the law.”
“Spoken like a true lawyer.” She smirks. “You know that means you’re on the wrong side, right? That’s why the lawyer is the bad guy in all the movies.”
I grin. “Oh, you mean like in Erin Brockovich , A Few Good Men , Legally Blond , Marshall , My Cousin Vinny —”
“You’ve made your point.” She reaches for another box, this one spilling over with strings of white and pink hearts. “ Legally Blond ? That’s not really a movie guys watch, is it?”
“This guy did.”
Anything with legal themes was fair game back when I was struggling to understand my place in the world, particularly among men like Lachlan MacLellan, who could buy and sell small countries if they wished.
If nothing else, Lyra’s question reminds me that we don’t really know each other any longer. We’ve had over a decade to grow into the adults we are now.
I want to know everything about who she is.
That might be at least half the reason I didn’t push back when Lachlan dropped this assignment on me.
Okay, there was never a scenario where I would have told my employer no. Not even knowing that I would be thrown straight into this pressure cooker. So, I’m trying to look for the positives.
Lyra pushes back her light brown hair and picks up the box full of heart strings. Defiantly. Because she wants me to see that she doesn’t need me or my help.
“I assume you’ve already lined up buyers?” she asks.
“There’s been some interest.” I grab the other end of this one before she can stop me. “The location alone—”
“Makes it direct competition for the resort?” The smile she gives me is sly. “Don’t put it past me to undercut the new owner’s prices.”
I hold up my hands. “That’s none of my business. I would assume anyone who is serious about buying would do their due diligence to determine the viability of the inn.”
Secretly, I’m cheering for her. When she gets that calculating glint in her eye, she’s breathtaking.
She must see something in my expression because her smile dims slightly. “What?”
“Nothing.” I clear my throat. “These decorations—”
“Are going downstairs,” she says with a nod to one of the boxes. “You might as well make yourself useful.”
We manage to get the boxes down the narrow attic stairs without her “accidentally” shoving me to my death, which feels like a minor miracle given the tension crackling between us.
I help her arrange the boxes in the front lobby, watching as she starts unpacking decorations with measured movements that tell me she’s trying to pretend I’m not here. She hangs the first paper heart with practiced ease in the front window.
“Your grandmother loved Valentine’s Day,” I say, because the silence is killing me.
Her hands still. “Yes, she did.”
I remember helping string these same decorations years ago, dragging her into a kiss between each strand we hung. Now I’m here to essentially dismantle everything her grandmother built. The irony isn’t lost on me.
“What’s in the other box?” I ask, nodding toward the one she already told me once is none of my business. I’m doubly curious why she brought it down since it’s so much smaller than the others. And whether or not she’ll tell me the contents this time, now that we’ve established the hierarchy around here.
“Valentines from Gran’s last party.” Lyra’s voice softens as she opens it. “I’d forgotten about these. She used to host the huge Valentine’s Day celebration every year. People would write cards and Gran would deliver them during the party. Remember?”
My heart falls off a cliff. Why, yes, I do remember. Because I wrote one of those cards. To Lyra.
I remember exactly what I wrote, too. It was during my short-lived foray into embracing the soul of the poet I’m named after. Flowery and dreadful prose graces that card, to be sure, but the words were so heartfelt.
She never saw it. Everything fell apart and then I forgot about it because Lyra’s grandmother never distributed them for some reason.
I can’t let her read that card.
It would open up so many questions, every last one with catastrophic answers. For me. For Lachlan. Even for Lyra—I can’t fathom how we could work together in any capacity if she finds out I lied when I told her I wasn’t in love with her.
And honestly a part of me doesn’t want to find out how she’ll react. She already hates me. I refuse to give her fodder to hate her father too.
She pulls out a handful of cards, and I have to physically stop myself from grabbing them from her fingers. My card isn’t on top, but it’s in there somewhere. I know it is.
“These were never delivered,” she says, examining one. Her eyes light up the way they used to right before suggesting we sneak into the resort’s indoor pool after hours or “borrow” a couple of snowmobiles. “Byron, I just had the most brilliant idea.”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intend.
She arches an eyebrow. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
“I know that look.” I try for a lighter tone. “That’s your ‘I’m about to do something crazy’ look.”
“We should deliver these cards.”
And there it is. My worst nightmare wrapped in pink paper and tied with a red bow.
“These are over a decade old, Lyra. The people who wrote them probably don’t even remember—”
“But what if they do?” She clutches the cards to her chest. “What if these messages still matter? What if delivering them now could make a difference?”
I know one card that would make a difference. Just not the kind she’s hoping for.
And then I clue in on her question. “A difference for what?”
“The inn, of course.”
My stomach squelches. “What are you talking about?”
“Saving it,” she continues, waving her hand in the air to presumably encompass the building at large. “What better way to prove the historical and cultural significance of the inn than by demonstrating its role in bringing people together? We could host a Valentine’s Day event, just like Gran used to do.”
She’s looking at me like I’m still the person who would follow her anywhere, give her the moon and stars if she asked for them.
But I’m not that guy anymore. I’m the villain of the movie who has to sell her grandmother’s inn.
“Lyra—”
“Stop being a lawyer for a second and listen. These cards are physical proof of the inn’s impact on the community. Like, what if we could convince my dad not to sell because the people of Kilt Valley deserve to have this piece of history in the hands of the MacLellans?”
“I think you should talk to Lachlan about this plan yourself,” I hedge since I already know what he’ll say.
No.
The inn doesn’t fit the brand in his mind. And he’s the one who gets to make the decision, not me. And not Lyra.
Though I completely disagree with this stance, and told Lachlan that from the beginning. He listens to no one, least of all me. I’m here to do his bidding and soothe myself to sleep with the exorbitant paycheck I get in return.
Lately, it hasn’t felt like an even exchange. Even less so as Lyra glances up at me with those liquid puppy dog eyes.
“I will talk to him,” she says. “But this will go so much further if you’re on my side.”
“We’re supposed to be working together to get the inn ready to sell,” I protest weakly. “Not concocting a scheme that will prevent us from doing this thing your father asked for.”
“We can do both.” Her voice is pure sweetness and light. “My father doesn’t need to know if we embark on a side quest.”
And then she does the absolute worst thing she could possibly do in this situation.
She reaches out and rests her fingertips on my arm. Her touch burns through the expensive fabric of my suit. The heat should serve as a warning but all it makes me want to do is pull her closer.
I should refuse. I should shut this down immediately. “I’m sensing you won’t take no for an answer.”
Her answering smile is both victory and warning. “Correct.”
As she turns back to the decorations, she shuffles the cards around absently and I see it. My card. It’s my handwriting on the envelope and it’s addressed to Lyra.
A pit opens in my chest. My agenda just got so much bigger. And stickier.
I have to get that card out of that stack. And make sure I know exactly what she’s planning with this “save the inn” nonsense. I have to stick to Lyra MacLellan like…glitter on a suit.
“Let me help you,” I say and reach for the box of cards, but she replaces the lid and shakes her head.
“I want to look through them and see how feasible this idea of mine is before I talk to my dad.”
And now I’m directly between a rock and a valentine. Or duty and desire, more to the point.
“Assign me a job, boss,” I say lightly. “At least put the tallest guy in the room to work hanging stuff or something.”
“You should go,” she tells me over her shoulder. “You have a long drive back to Denver. Wouldn’t want to keep all those other clients waiting.”
“I’m not going back to Denver.”
That gets her attention. A heart falls from her fingertips. “You’re staying in town?”
“Not just in town.” I spread my hands. “Here. At the inn. You really should call your father.”