Eight
Byron
K issing Lyra MacLellan was either the smartest or stupidest thing I’ve ever done. The jury’s still out, but watching her work the room at her grandmother’s Valentine’s party is not helping my objectivity.
I can’t stop envisioning another kiss. This time in a dark corner of the room. Where all these prying eyes can’t see us.
Except there are no dark corners at this shindig, and Lyra is the hostess. She cannot be the mostess if I selfishly spirit her away. Doesn’t stop me from wishing I could though.
She’s lighting up the inn from the inside out, the true source of magic this inn needs. The partygoers respond to it as if Lyra has put a spell on them.
I definitely fall in the category.
Some of the Valentines were already delivered but not all, and she didn’t let on who might have one coming. It’s a brilliant strategy—the whole town came to see if they’d be a lucky recipient.
Every time she hands someone a long-lost Valentine, my lungs hitch as if I have a stake in this too. Well, don’t I? I want her plan to save the inn to work like you wouldn’t believe. If it does…
Well, then maybe I won’t have to be the bad guy who sells her grandmother’s legacy.
Maybe if she pulls a rabbit out of a hat and gets her father to agree she’s done enough to cancel the sale, it will be enough of a lead-in for me to finally tell her the truth. About everything. Then. Now. Basically, all the things that are simmering between us.
“You’re hovering.” Tabitha materializes beside me, making me jump. “Like a very sparkly thundercloud. The drycleaners give up?”
The glitter situation has reached epidemic proportions. Even my tie sparkles. “I’m embracing my inner cheerleader on pep rally day. Besides, it’s festive.”
“I’ll give you that. Are you here in some kind of professional capacity?”
I tip an imaginary hat. “Always.”
“Word of advice, you’d be a lot more convincing if you paid half as much attention to the inn as you are to Lyra.” She crosses her arms. “I know at least six places to hide a body in these mountains. Keep that in mind.”
“Only six? I would have expected more creativity from you.”
“Those are just the snow-on-the-ground locations.”
I shove my hands in my pockets, checking again for the Valentine I wrote a lifetime ago. The one I shamelessly plucked from the box when Lyra was distracted. The one that’s so explosive, I can’t risk Lyra finding it. If she reads the words, it would destroy whatever fragile bonds I’ve created with her.
My fingers close on empty air.
What?
I check my other pocket. Also empty.
Panic claws up my throat. What. Is. Happening?
The Valentine is gone . How is it gone? When was the last time I felt it? I can’t remember.
It has to be here somewhere. I just handed Mrs. Peterson’s Valentine to her granddaughter ten minutes ago. Which means the old box of cards is still on the front desk.
I scan the room, looking for any signs of cream-colored catastrophe. At least Lyra is occupied, surrounded by well-wishers near the fireplace. She catches my eye across the room and her smile curves higher. Just for me.
The memory of last night floods back—her fingers in my hair, her lips on mine, the way she chose to be in the moment. With me.
And that Valentine will blow it all up. The words inside create a narrative I can’t use as an asset if I can’t control how it’s delivered.
Before I can form a plan or get my heart rate under control or recall what air feels like in my lungs, Lyra appears in my path, her gaze on my face. Her concerned gaze.
And I don’t have time to school my expression.
“What’s going on?” Lyra steps closer, and everything else fades away. “You look a little—”
“Sparkly?” I laugh to dispel the tension. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.
“I was going to say tense.” Her fingers brush my sleeve. “This party could actually give me the momentum I need to get Dad to agree to keep the inn. You’re not having second thoughts about helping me, are you?”
“Never.” The word comes out raw.
Her smile could light up half of Colorado, and it warms me in places I thought I could survive being cold. I can’t. I have to figure out how to make this second chance happen. Which is exactly why I need to find that Valentine before—
“Valentine time.” She reaches past me for the box on the desk. “I need to do one more delivery round before the big finale.”
My heart stutters because what if someone put my Valentine back in the box? “I can help with that.”
“I want to do it and this is my party.” She pulls the box away from my grasping fingers, laughing. “Though I appreciate your newfound enthusiasm for Valentine delivery.”
“I just want to help.” I sound strangled. Probably because my tie is strangling me. “Make sure everything goes the way you want.”
“It already is.” She peers into the depths. “Look how few are left. I can’t believe how many people showed up. How many connections we’ve made.”
The opportune time to tell her the truth unfolds before me. I can see it happening in slow motion. But every time I open my mouth to confess, the words stick in my throat.
There’s still a possibility that Lyra doesn’t want that second chance. That I’ll tell her and she’ll laugh at the idea that I really thought she’d ever trust me again. All she could talk about last night was having fun.
And then I’ll have ruined her relationship with her father for nothing.
As I stand there waffling, she starts sorting through the remaining Valentines.
“What’s this?” she says.
The room revolves once as she pulls out a cream-colored envelope addressed to her.
“It has my name on it.” She turns it over. “Byron, this is your handwriting.”
“Lyra—”
“You wrote me a Valentine?” Her voice goes soft with wonder, and my stomach turns itself inside out as I register that she’s pleased . Because she thinks I wrote it tonight.
Against all odds, this situation can actually get worse.
I reach for the envelope but she’s already breaking the seal. It makes a sound in my head as if we’ve been dropped into a horror movie right when the character unknowingly sets loose a cadre of demons.
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but watch as she unfolds the paper inside.
Her eyes widen as she starts to read. “Dear Lyra, there’s something I need to tell you.”
She recites the poem I wrote over a decade ago. Words about stars and forever and a future I thought we could have. Words that will lead to questions I don’t know how to answer.
“Wait.” I try to catch her hand. “Let me explain.”
But she’s already scanning down the page, and I see the moment everything clicks. Her fingers tighten on the paper, knuckles white.
“This is dated the day we broke up. Over ten years ago .”
“Actually, I wrote it the day before that.” The words slip out before I can stop them. Brilliant legal mind at work here, folks.
Her eyes snap to mine. “You wrote this the day before you told me you didn’t feel the same way about me? The day before you said we were too young to know what we wanted?”
This would be an excellent time to come up with a calm, reasonable explanation about her father. About impossible choices and ultimatums. About spending the last decade trying to become someone worthy of a second chance.
Instead, I say, “I can explain.”
“Can you?” She holds up the Valentine. “Because from where I’m standing, you had two very different stories going on. Which was the lie, Byron? This?” She shakes the paper. “Or what you said when you broke my heart?”
The crowd around us has gone quiet. Or maybe that’s just the blood rushing in my ears creating this resounding silence.
“Neither.” My voice cracks. “Both. It’s complicated.”
“Complicated.” She lets out a laugh that contains zero humor. “You know what’s not complicated? The fact that you kept this from me. Again. Even after last night.”
She touches the pendant at her throat and my chest caves in.
“That’s why I wanted to tell you first. Why I was trying to—”
“To what? Keep more secrets? Control the narrative?”
Of course she’d pick that exact phrase. Because it’s what I do.
“I know how it looks.” I scrub a hand over my face. “Like I chose his money over you.”
Oh, boy, I’m leading the witness—myself—right off a cliff. I really don’t know how I passed the bar at this point.
“Didn’t you?” Her eyes are bright with unshed tears. “Breaking my heart was just an unfortunate side effect of getting your free law degree. Isn’t that what happened?”
It is. But it’s not what I meant to happen. Or for it to sound so cold. “No. Lyra—”
“All this time I thought you didn’t feel what I felt. That I misunderstood .” She lets out a shaky breath. “But really, you just got a better offer. I was the trade-off for your future.”
The truth lodges in my chest like broken glass. Because I did choose my future—our future, I thought. The responsible path. The one that gave me time to become someone her father would respect. Someone worthy of a MacLellan.
What I never calculated was the cost. Not just to her, but to both of us.
“I thought I was doing the right thing.” My voice scrapes across my raw throat. “Your father said you deserved better than some kid who couldn’t even afford college. And he was right.”
She buries her face in her hands. Crying. Because of me and what I just told her.
I take a step forward to comfort her, if she’ll let me, and then she lifts her head. No tears. She’s laughing. Bitterly.
“I should have known Laird MacLellan would make an appearance in this debacle. He warned you away, didn’t he.”
It’s not a question and I don’t dare answer it. She figures it out on her own, nodding once as fire spits from her gaze.
“That wasn’t your choice to make.” She gestures around the crowded inn. “And now you’re back, helping him take the last piece of my grandmother I have left. Still loyal to Lachlan MacLellan, no matter who it hurts.”
Each word burrows into my skin like shrapnel. Because she’s not just talking about the inn anymore. She’s talking about choices. About who I’m choosing to be.
And claiming that I’m operating out of a sense of loyalty isn’t cutting it anymore.
I’ve been so focused on protecting everyone. Lachlan’s interests. Lyra’s heart. My own place in their world. The irony is, I managed to destroy all of it anyway.
“You’re right.” Two simple words, but they break something inside. “I’ve been so busy trying to prove myself worthy of you. Worthy of being in your father’s realm. I thought that was the right thing to do.”
“Don’t.” She backs away, shaking her head. “Don’t try to turn this into some noble—”
“It’s not noble. It’s the truth. I let your father make my choices because I was afraid I wasn’t good enough. And because I owe him, I let him control me.” I gesture to the Valentine still crushed in her fist. “But I wrote those words, Lyra. I meant them. I still do.”
My hope is that it means something to her .
“And that’s supposed to make everything okay?” Her voice cracks. “You’re still here to sell my inn. Still following his orders.”
“No.” The certainty in my voice surprises us both. “I’m not selling it.”
She stills. “What?”
“I’ll withdraw from the sale tomorrow. Find a way to help you keep the inn if that’s what you want.” What am I doing? I loosen my tie because suddenly I can’t breathe. “But I need you to know that I love you—”
“Save it.” She tosses the Valentine onto the desk between us. “You’ve presented your case, counselor. The jury has not been swayed.”
She turns away, but not before I see the tears she’s fighting. Around us, the party seems to hold its breath. Or maybe that’s just how it feels when your whole world implodes.
Someone turns up the music—probably Tabitha running interference—but it’s too late. The damage is done. History repeats itself with the worst possible twist as I watch Lyra walk away from me.
Ten years ago, I did the walking. When I chose security over courage. When I chose to believe Lachlan instead of believing in Lyra’s love.
The Valentine sits on the desk like a bomb that’s already gone off. I could have diffused it if I’d just been honest from the start. Then and now.
But I wasn’t. Because the truth is, I’m still that scared kid from the wrong side of town, trying to prove I belong in Lyra MacLellan’s world.
And I just proved exactly why I don’t.
“You really screwed up.” Tabitha appears beside me, scooping up the Valentine. Her earlier threats are notably absent, replaced by something that sounds suspiciously like pity.
I don’t even have the energy to be mortified that she’s reading my teenage declaration of love. “Are you thinking of those six places you know of to hide a body in these mountains?”
“I actually just thought of a seventh that would be perfect for you.” She tucks the Valentine back in the box. “But you going away permanently isn’t going to fix this. It’ll just make me feel better.”
“Nothing’s going to fix this.”
“Maybe not. But you know what definitely won’t? Standing here feeling sorry for yourself while she’s upstairs thinking every good thing between you was a lie.”
Her words hit like a shot of whiskey—burning all the way down but clearing my head.
Around me, the party continues. Couples dance. One of Tabitha’s aunts dabs at her eyes, still clutching her Valentine. Victoria Campbell is smiling through her tears, holding her long-lost love letter.
This party—Valentine’s Day as a whole—is about people taking risks with their hearts by giving them to someone else. While I stand here letting the woman who already has mine slip away. Again.
The thing about being a lawyer is that you learn to look at things from every angle. To weigh the evidence. Calculate the odds. It’s a cold business.
I’m tired of being cold.
“You want to know the most ironic part of all of this?” I’m about to crack under the pressure of that irony. “I gave up my future with Lyra so she could have everything she deserved, all the wealth and privilege that comes with being a MacLellan. So she could inherit her father’s legacy. And she doesn’t want the resort. She wants this inn.”
“You’re talking to the wrong woman.” Tabitha shoves the Valentine against my chest. “Tell her . Before you both spend another decade believing the lies.”
“She won’t listen.”
“Then make her listen.” She gives me a look that could strip paint. “She never fell out of love with you. Are you really going to make her suffer for another minute when you’ve already lost ten years?”
No. No, I’m not.
Even if she never forgives me, she deserves to know that every choice I made—right or wrong—came from loving her too much, not too little.
Time to fight for what matters.