Four
Byron
O ne of the benefits of being a lawyer is that I’ve learned to multitask with the best of them. At the moment, I’m updating the inn’s property listing on my laptop, making Valentine’s party notes on my phone, and trying not to watch Lyra as she goes through old photos of the previous Valentine’s Day parties her grandmother hosted.
It’s hard to peel my gaze from her face, though. She gets this misty smile when she runs across pictures where her grandmother is actually in the frame.
She used to look at me like that. As if I mattered.
I’m the worst lawyer stereotype in the world because I did actually forget how much I liked being the center of Lyra’s world, as opposed to the center of a trust asset dispute.
She glances up, catching me in the act of not working on my own half of the project.
“Can you add white chocolate chips to the list?” she asks.
Is that a thing? “For?”
“Heart-shaped scones. Justine Douglas is coming by to help recreate Gran’s recipe.” Her smile brightens. “I found the original in that box of Valentines.”
My gut clenches involuntarily. I hate that box. Since she hasn’t mentioned anything about one of the envelopes being addressed to her, I can only assume I’m in the clear.
For now.
It’s only a matter of time before she runs across my valentine though. And I have no idea how to handle it when she does. Better scenario: find it first. And destroy it.
The bell over the front door chimes. Tabitha Douglas breezes in, already unwinding her scarf. “My aunt is right behind me.”
“Perfect timing.” Lyra jumps up and hugs her friend. “I need your help convincing Byron that pink and red candy hearts won’t clash with the inn’s historic aesthetic.”
“They absolutely will,” I say, though I don’t mention I already added them to the list.
No one has to know that I still secretly want to give Lyra everything she wishes for. Anything she asks of me. As long as it’s in my power to give.
Candy hearts, paper hearts, real hearts.
Talk about a pipe dream.
Lyra’s eyes narrow playfully. “Are you questioning my decorating skills?”
“I would never.” I affect my most innocent expression which actually makes Lyra laugh. “I’m simply pointing out that your grandmother’s decorations were tasteful and fitting with the existing design. Maybe stick with the tried and true.”
“Which will appeal to buyers more than partygoers,” Lyra points out. “So that’s a no dawg from me.”
“Isn’t the phrase nah, dawg ?” Tabitha says with obvious amusement.
Lyra waves that off. “My mouth autocorrects how it will. No apologies.”
“I can’t believe you’re enabling this, Byron,” Tabitha muses. “Is your participation Lachlan-approved?”
The mention of Lachlan threatens to dampen the mood, but Lyra just shakes her head. “He’s not enabling, he’s supervising. Isn’t that right, Counselor?”
“Strictly professional oversight.” I hold up my phone. “See? I’m documenting everything.”
I know Lyra thinks I’m reporting back to her father. I’m not. Furthermore, I hope this party works to change Lachlan’s mind. Doubtful I could convince anyone of my sincerity in that, though.
My phone buzzes with an incoming email. Another potential buyer. All I had to do was list the inn as “upcoming” and interest frothed up immediately. This one has heard about the party and is asking about the inn’s event-hosting capabilities.
“Speaking of professional oversight,” I say, turning the screen toward Lyra. “Looks like your Valentine’s party idea is already generating buzz. The MacLellan Inn’s reputation for hosting community celebrations is apparently still going strong.”
“Really?” She peers at the email and makes a face. “I guess you were right.”
“Mark the date and time. That admission should probably go in writing.”
She rolls her eyes, but her smile stays. “Don’t push your luck, Hale.”
Something has changed. I can’t put my finger on what it might be, but Lyra is nowhere near as hostile as I would have expected. She’s also…smiley. It doesn’t feel faked either.
I admit I am not hating this.
The front door chimes again. Justine Douglas bustles in with her arms full of baking supplies, followed by what looks like half her family, all carrying various contributions to the cause.
Everyone in Kilt Valley loves the idea of resurrecting the Valentine’s Day party. The news spread so fast that I thought I saw literal smoke coming from various spots as folks burned up the phone lines.
“Byron!” Justine sets down her bags and pulls me into a hug that smells like vanilla and cinnamon. “It’s been too long. How is my favorite lawyer faring in Denver? Eating enough?”
“The bakeries are subpar. No one can compare with you,” I assure her.
Some things never change in Kilt Valley. The Douglas women’s baking is one of them. Their ability to make me feel simultaneously welcomed and guilty is another.
“Flatterer.” Justine pats my cheek. “Now, are you going to help us test Gran MacLellan’s recipe or are you just going to stand there looking pretty in that fancy suit?”
“He’s supervising,” Lyra and Tabitha say in unison.
I straighten my tie. “Actually, I thought I’d make myself useful and start delivering some of those Valentines.”
The sooner I get that box away from Lyra, the better. Bonus—it gets me out of this inn and away from all the Douglas women with their smiles (Justine, and her daughters, London and Nola who were both named after the places they were conceived)(don't ask) and cool, assessing stares (Tabitha).
But Lyra’s whole face lights up. “Really? You’ll help deliver them?”
“Strictly from a business perspective,” I say, in case anyone clues in that I’m A ) angling to get out of Dodge and B ) a sucker when Lyra looks at me like this. “You said we’re handing out invitations to the party at the same time. It’s a good way to get the rest of Kilt Valley involved with the inn. So it will sell.”
“You have your agenda, I have mine,” she says, as if she doesn’t quite buy what I’m selling.
Guess I’m not so good at hiding a blessed thing from her. Maybe it’s not such a disaster if she knows I’m on her side.
I’m saved from my waffling by Tabitha's other aunt, Emma Douglas, announcing she’s brought sample centerpieces from her flower shop. Soon the lobby is a whirlwind of activity, everyone talking over each other about ribbons and recipes and the proper shade of pink for romance.
I edged toward the door, snagging the box of Valentines from the desk. “I’ll just get started on these deliveries, then.”
“Wait.” Lyra catches my arm. “You’ll need the list mapped out. And the invitations. Let me sort through them first.”
“I think I can handle reading names and addresses.” I carefully extract the box from her reach. “You’ve got your hands full here.”
“But—”
“Trust me.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
Something flashes in her eyes. Pain? Regret? All of the above.
Because she doesn’t trust me, nor do I have a lot of options for repairing what I broke.
Then Justine calls her name and her gaze cuts away. While she’s distracted, I escape into the cold February morning with my heart pounding and a box full of Valentines that better include evidence of my biggest regret.
To be clear, it’s Lyra. Losing her is my biggest regret, not pouring my feelings onto a card.
“Thanks for coming with me,” Lyra says, appearing beside my car before I can even get the door open. “Some of these addresses might have changed. This way, one of us can drive and the other can navigate.”
Uh, what? I start to shake my head and correct her that I meant by myself . You know, so I can pluck out the inflammatory Valentine and burn it. But other words come out of my mouth.
“I always enjoy your company.”
The looks she gives me sends a thousand volts to my heart, defibrillator style. I pleased her with that off-the-cuff comment.
I’ll have some more of that, stat.
She climbs into the passenger seat of my BMW as if she owns it. Now I have to pretend I hate the idea of being shut up in a car with Lyra for a couple of hours. I sigh and slide into the driver’s seat, setting the box on the center console so I can snap my seatbelt into place.
“We should organize by location,” she says, already reaching for the stack. “Make a route that—oh!”
Several cards slip from her hands, scattering across the floor mat. We both bend to retrieve them at the same time, bumping heads in the process.
“Great minds bonk alike,” we both say at the same time.
She flushes, a faint smile on her lips that I might call nostalgic if I didn’t know better.
“You always hated it when I said that,” she reminds me.
“Because it’s not the saying.” I shrug, playing my part like I always did back in the day, as if truly bothered by the heinousness of this phrase crime. “Why mess with a time-honored aphorism?”
She rolls her eyes. “Only a lawyer would use that word. Besides, mine is better.”
“Debatable.”
My smile is absolutely rooted in sentiment as I casually pick up cards from the floormat, checking each envelope before handing it back, praying mine isn’t among them.
“Look at this one.” She holds up an elaborate creation covered in pressed flowers, her face misty again. “To Miss Henderson, my favorite teacher. She still substitutes sometimes at the elementary school.”
“First stop then?” I ask, mostly to distract her from the remaining cards I’m gathering. Including one cream-colored envelope I just spied that makes my pulse spike.
Lyra busies herself sorting Valentines into neat piles.
“There are so many. Gran never turned anyone away.” She shuffles through another stack. “It was like this little piece of magic, you know? The way my grandmother brought people together at exactly the right moment.”
The right moment. I wrote mine the day before the party, convinced it was the perfect time to tell her how I felt. Before everything changed.
What would it change today if I dropped my Valentine into Lyra’s hands at this moment?
“Byron?” Her voice pulls me back. “You looked far away for a minute.”
“Just thinking about routes,” I lie. “We should probably start with—”
She gasps softly, and my heart stops again. But she’s looking at a Valentine covered in children’s crayon drawings.
“Katie drew this for her dad when she was five,” Lyra says. “Right after her mom died. I remember helping her with the glitter.”
Without thinking, I reach over and squeeze her hand. She threads our fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
For a moment, we’re seventeen again, sharing secrets and dreams in my beat-up car. Then she seems to remember herself and pulls away.
“We should get going,” she says, gathering the sorted piles. As she lifts them, something falls.
My Valentine.
We both reach for it. My fingers close around the envelope a split second before hers.
“I’ll file this one for later,” I say, trying to sound casual as I tuck it into my jacket pocket. “Ready to make some deliveries?”
She gives me an odd look but nods. “First stop, Miss Henderson’s house. Try not to hit any potholes this time. I remember your driving.”
“That was one time. And if you hadn’t been distracting me with that ridiculous game—”
“Never Have I Ever is a classic road trip game.”
“We were driving across town!”
Her laugh fills the car, bright and genuine. “Fine. No games. But you have to tell me what you think people wrote in these Valentines.”
“Deal.” I start the car, hyperaware of the card burning a hole in my pocket. “And you have to tell me what you think this party and Valentine deliveries will accomplish.”
She shoots me a look. “So, you can undermine the whole thing?”
“No, so I can help you,” I tell her honestly and I like the taste of that in my mouth. So, I keep going. “There’s no law that says I can’t. And it so happens that your party doesn’t stop us from getting the inn ready to sell.”
She stares out the window. “The party is to get people interested in the inn again. If I increase bookings, that will only help, right? We need to get as many town folks involved as possible. Spread invitations and valentines until they cover the entire valley.”
“It’s a good plan.”
“We’ll see about that, Counselor.”
As we pull away from the inn, I can’t help but wonder if there’s the slightest possibility I can segue this situation into a second chance. Like a real one. What if I could figure out a way to explain what happened in high school that Lyra would listen to?
I just hope my loyalty to Lachlan doesn’t mess everything up this time, too.