Chapter 2
TESSA
Don’t forget you have that Valentine’s series coming up.” Joanie’s face fills my laptop screen, her cat-eye glasses catching the light from her own ring light setup. “One post about unrealistic expectations, a two-part piece about men who won’t commit. Is there anything you want to add?”
I adjust my own ring light and pretend to check my content calendar, even though I’ve been staring at the same blank document for twenty minutes.
My home office is usually my sanctuary—the soft pink accent wall, the “Curvy Cupid” banner with its heart motifs, the carefully curated bookshelf of romance novels behind me.
This is my happy place, but I’ve been unable to focus on anything today.
“I’ve got the three posts confirmed,” I say. “But honestly? I don’t have anything else for Valentine’s Day.”
Joanie’s eyebrows rise above her glasses. “Tessa Hart, queen of seasonal content, has nothing for the most romantic day of the year?”
I spin my chair away from the camera, buying myself a moment.
Through my window, Cupid City’s gray February sky hangs low over the rooftops.
Even from my desk, I can see the Lock the locks catching the last gray light.
On any other evening, I’d grab my coat and leave my phone on the counter—my favorite rule for my favorite place; no screens, just the river and the locks and whatever I need to sort through.
But tonight I can’t make myself walk away from a phone that might buzz again any second.
What would Curvy Cupid tell her followers right now?
Don’t overthink it. One ambiguous text doesn’t erase real chemistry.
You deserve someone who’s excited about you, but you also can’t expect mind-reading from anyone.
She’d say that a lot of men aren’t great at expressing themselves, especially via text.
I pick up the phone again.
The thing is, I felt that pull at the bar. The way Archie looked at me like he couldn’t quite stop his eyes from traveling the length of me, even though he was clearly trying to be a gentleman.
That wasn’t nothing. That wasn’t one-sided.
Was it?
I think about what I’d tell a client in this situation. I can hear my own voice in my head, warm and encouraging: Don’t assume the worst. You deserve to find out what’s real.
My fingers move before I can second-guess myself.
No, you’re stuck with me. I committed, and I’m keeping my word.
I hit send. Wait.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Good.
One word. Just one. But the tension in my shoulders loosens.
So. Valentine’s gala. Black tie?
Yeah. Saturday at 7, at the Gilded Hart. I can pick you up.
I bite my lip, suddenly very aware that I agreed to attend a fancy gala with a man I met yesterday. A man I don’t know. A man whose last name I still haven’t asked for because I was too busy drowning in his eyes.
Send me the address, and I’ll be ready.
Okay.
A pause. Then another message.
Tessa. Thanks.
I stare at the word. Such a small thing. But he didn’t have to say it. He could have just confirmed the logistics and left it there.
You can thank me after you survive whatever your sister has planned.
That bad?
She’s going to interrogate us like she’s the FBI.
You’re probably right.
I’m always right. It’s a gift.
A moment. Then: I’m starting to see that.
I’m smiling again as I set the phone down and head for my closet.
If I’m really walking into a Valentine’s Day gala on the arm of a gorgeous, grumpy stranger, I need to figure out what the hell I’m going to wear.
I flip through the hangers. The red cocktail dress I wore to my cousin’s wedding. Too predictable. The emerald wrap dress that makes my eyes look good but photographs terribly. The black sheath that’s elegant but boring. Nothing feels right. Nothing feels like the moment this deserves.
Then I push past the everyday options to the back of the closet. To the garment bag I haven’t touched in three years.
I unzip it slowly, revealing pink silk that catches the light like it’s woven with stars. The dress I bought on a whim during a sample sale, convinced I’d have somewhere to wear it. The dress I’ve been saving for a special occasion.
I pull it out and hold it against myself, turning to face the mirror.
The neckline is elegant but daring. The fabric drapes over my curves like it was made for me, which it was after I paid for two rounds of alterations. It makes me feel strong and pretty.
Someone who isn’t too much.
That phrase echoes in my head. Too much.
How many times have I heard it? From exes who said I was too ambitious, too loud, too successful.
From dates who seemed interested until they realized I wasn’t a damsel in distress.
I’ve built an entire career helping women navigate love.
Men who look at me and think I’m meek are always sorely disappointed.
But when Archie looked at me last night, I didn’t feel like too much. The way he looked at me felt like he was impressed by everything I said and wanted to know more.
I remember the way his gaze dropped to my body before he caught himself. The strength of his hand when he held mine. The way he said my name, low and deliberate, and how it made my core flare to life.
“I think it’s time for this dress to make its debut.”