Chapter Five
Valentine’s Day has never been my holiday, but this year it’s hitting new lows at TrainTech. Tony’s disappointment over losing
Gale as our beta tester is so massive it could probably be spotted from the International Space Station. The accusing glares
he kept shooting my way made it clear who he blames for this disaster, as if I somehow masterminded the debacle.
It’s driving me crazy—I never asked for my personal life to crash headfirst into my professional one. The last thing I needed
was Gale Knight becoming our make-or-break pro athlete beta tester. Now my whole day has felt like walking through a minefield.
And all because I lusted over him holding his nephew in gray sweatpants.
At this point, my love life has all the spark of a wet match in a dark cave. I’m running on break room coffee and protein
bars, while my to-do list grows like a beanstalk on steroids. Last night’s emergency damage control meeting meant no groceries
and no laundry—so now my fridge is as empty as my dating prospects, and somewhere in my apartment, yesterday’s wash is developing
its own ecosystem. At least my mildewing laundry is getting some action.
Which is more than I can say for myself.
On my way out for the night, I’d passed Susan’s reception desk, where a chorus line of plush teddy bears clutching heart-shaped chocolates performed a silent vigil.
I’d snagged one of the foil-wrapped candies from the red bowl—hey, she put them out for a reason—and popped it in my mouth.
Gross. White chocolate. My luck kept getting worse.
And now here’s Gale Knight, with his two dimples, blocking my escape, and blissfully unaware of the chaos he’s created.
“No?” he echoes, eyes widening as if the word wasn’t in his vocabulary. “Why not?”
I could say: Because when you’re a woman in tech trying to build something from scratch—whether it’s groundbreaking software
or just your career—you don’t get the luxury of second chances. One misstep, one moment of weakness, and the sharks start
circling. They’re always there, waiting, watching for any hint that you can’t handle it, ready to tear away everything you’ve
built. And it’s not just about being careful anymore. It’s about survival. So sometimes I have to say no to things that look
perfect on paper but set off all my alarms. And you, Gale Knight? You’re like a lit match in a fireworks factory.
Instead I say, “Stop.” I smooth a hand down my frazzled ponytail, startled by the bite in my own voice but too wound up to
soften it. It’s either that or pop him right in his surprised Pikachu face. “I—you—I mean, come on . . .”
“I don’t want to upset you,” he says softly. “I just want to know how come.”
“Why do I owe you an explanation?” The words burst out before I can stop them, my finger jabbing toward his chest without
quite touching him. Maybe it’s because I’ve known him so long that I don’t bother sugarcoating it, unleash the truth come
hot and fast, fueled by bruised pride and that deep-down need to protect myself. “When I say no, that’s it. No. It’s not some
Oracle of Delphi puzzle for you to solve. It’s not up for debate, and it’s definitely not an invitation for you to sweet-talk
your way to a yes.”
His smile doesn’t budge, but something in his eyes shift. A flicker of . . . what? Guilt? Or is that just my imagination playing tricks? Either way, it’s too little, too late. I’ve got enough variables in this project without adding in one that’s already proved unstable.
“I’m serious.” I breathe for calm, trying to ignore that familiar pang of sympathy. He’s always bailed the moment anyone gets
close to the topic of his father, and yesterday was no different. “Unless you’ve got a time machine to undo your disappearing
act from yesterday, we’re done here. I know we go way back, but I’ve got work to do and I’m still doing damage control with
my team.”
What I don’t say is that I’m done with all of it—from my know-it-all boss whose interest in my opinions could fit into a thimble
to the office bros gunning for my job who think weekend mudding in oversized trucks makes them badass (newsflash: it doesn’t).
As for my ex? He just makes me feel stupid for wasting so much time on him.
But then here’s Gale, with his whole earnest puppy-dog face and even worse, this “I’m here for you” vibe. It’s disarming,
and I hate how it makes me wobble between wanting to tell him to go to hell and wanting something horrifyingly vulnerable,
like a hug.
“Hey.” His voice drops softer now, and something inside me melts a little. “At least let me take you to dinner. We can talk
about E.M.M.A., or not talk about it at all. Your choice.”
“Look . . .” I exhale, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I appreciate the offer, but—”
“But nothing,” he interrupts. “When’s the last time you had a decent meal that wasn’t microwaved? And tell the truth.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again. He’s got me there—my culinary highlights come straight from the Trader Joe’s
frozen aisle.
“Don’t forget, I know you.”
I scoff and cross my arms, grateful for the distraction from how my body’s humming like a live wire at his proximity.
“Harriet.” His eyes dance with that mix of confidence and self-mockery that threatens to do me in. “You’re a genius about
pretty much everything. But when it comes to good eats? I’m your food fortune teller. Your taste-testing guru.” He grins,
clearly enjoying himself. “And there’s this hole-in-the-wall diner I go to, Mama Rosa’s? They do breakfast round the clock.
Rosa’s pancakes? One bite and you’ll be begging for more.”
“That’s not only a bold claim, it’s also an impossible one, seeing as I make the best pancakes in all of Austin.”
His eyebrows shoot up, intrigued. “Say what?”
“Yep. Banana ones. With a dash of cinnamon and nutmeg and a few secret ingredients.” I don’t mention that it’s also the only thing I can whip up from scratch that’s any good.
One of his dimples pops again. “Tell you what, if you’re that confident in your skills, then what’s to lose by going to Mama
Rosa’s and checking out the competition? Either they’re better and you can plot your revenge, or you win and get to feel smug.”
I throw up my hands. It’s annoyingly impossible to stay mad at him. “You’re relentless, you know that?”
“I hear it’s part of my charm.” His wink is as quick and bright as a firefly’s flash. My heart does a stupid little skip before
I can shut that down. Then his expression grows serious, and somehow that’s even worse. “And for real, I know I messed up
yesterday. But I want you to hear me: I believe in you and E.M.M.A. And I am asking for a second chance. I won’t fuck it up
this time.”
The raw honesty in his voice hits me harder than any winky flirts could. I try to remember all my reasons for keeping my distance,
but they’re getting fuzzy around the edges.
“Well . . .” I drag out the word, buying time while my better judgment wages war with my loneliness.
“I suppose deciding over dinner isn’t the worst thing ever.
And it is Valentine’s Day so it would be nice not to eat alone.
” I pause, frowning slightly, desperate to lighten the moment before I do something stupid like trust him.
“Although I don’t get why we bother with this whole holiday—it’s such a weird history. ”
Gale’s face twist could put a pretzel to shame. “It’s not just about chocolates and flowers and Cupid in diapers and stuff?”
“The day’s namesake is a guy who got brutally executed. Nothing says ‘be my valentine’ quite like a headless corpse, right?”
“Hold up.” I can practically see my own reflection inside his wide eyes. “You’re kidding, right?”
I forgot—here was the high school boy from my past who hated horror movies with a capital H. “Scout’s honor.” I rest my hands on my hips. “There were actually several early Christian martyrs named Valentine. But the
headliner—the OG Valentine—was a third-century Roman priest.”
“What did he do to get . . .” Gale drags a thick finger across his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Okay, remember how you used to love Star Wars?”
He nods, puzzled. “Still do. But I don’t—”
“Valentine was basically the Rebel Alliance of romance. Legend says he performed secret marriages for soldiers who were forbidden
by the state to tie the knot. Imagine it—clandestine ceremonies, star-crossed lovers, all with the threat of execution hanging
over their heads.”
“That does sound kinda romantic, though,” Gale points out. “Like he embodies that old song I would do anything for love but—”
“Yeah, don’t do that. Supposedly, before his death, he saved his jailer’s daughter and wrote her a letter signed ‘your Valentine.’
But here’s the kicker—all this romantic stuff wasn’t even associated with his feast day until much later, like in the Middle
Ages. Chaucer and other poets basically invented the love connection.”
“Wow.” Gale looks like someone just told him Chaucer was a new brand of energy drink, but he’s doing his best to hang in there. “So we’re celebrating a holiday based on rebels and decapitation. That’s pretty metal, doc.”
I actually laugh. “I guess so. And what’s with ‘doc’?”
“You know, you’re a doctor. And that’s cool.” His expression turns less playful and more thoughtful. “I know I keep saying
it, but I’m really impressed by how you know all this random stuff.”
I shrug, feeling a bit self-conscious. “I love to read. And I might have gone through a wee phase where I was obsessed with
debunking holiday myths.”
“That’s awesome,” Gale says, and I’m surprised by the sincerity in his voice.
I feel a warmth creeping into my cheeks and quickly look away. “Yeah, well, you too can obsessively scroll through Wikipedia.
It’s not hard.”
There’s a moment of silence, and when I glance over, he is fidgeting. He looks almost nervous as he asks, “So during dinner,
you’ll really think about that second chance? You won’t chop my head off?”