He's So Not My Valentine (Cataloochee Coffee Shop Romances, #2)

by Savannah Scott

Mornings always feel better. Middle-of-the-night crises shrink back to right-sized annoyances in the light of dawn.

And celebrating a day named after a man most people know very little about? I don’t know. It’s a bit far-fetched. Saint Valentine is the patron saint of lovers, epileptics and beekeepers. All dangerous things. None of which seem worthy of celebration every year with chocolates and roses and platitudes that are easily tossed off the following week like a bouquet of wilted flowers. “I’m not a fan of the day, true,” I admit. “But my customers love it. So … I’m obliging them by putting up some decorations and making a few themed treats.

People should come with nutritional labels, only instead of protein, fat and calories, the labels would say integrity, thoughtfulness, sense of humor. Things like that.

“Fine? They are so in love. It’s not merely fine. They have found true love. Out of all the people on earth, they have found the one they can confide in, the one they can dote on, the one they call their own. And, from what I see, they bring out the best in one another.

“You believe in that? In one person. A soulmate?” “Mmm. Not a soulmate, maybe. But definitely there are people we are destined to meet. Or maybe they are just the right fit. And when we meet that one, we know. And then we should do whatever it takes to pursue them and never let them forget what they mean to us. Because that kind of love is not always so common.”

Now, go and get ready for whatever plans you have. Be young while you can. Life keeps rolling by and one day you won’t be able to bend to tie your shoe without letting out some sort of noise or another. Now’s the time to grab up the fun.” I chuckle at Floyd’s odd version of a motivational talk.

“Good.” He smiles down at me. “It’s a date.” A date? A date, date? Or is that just a saying? Is he asking me out? Did I just say yes? I feel like a pilot when the plane’s instrument panel starts lighting up to say an engine failed … and the wing fell off … and we’re being bombarded by a rogue flock of pigeons. All the bells and lights are sounding and blinking at once: Mayday! Mayday!

The connection between us isn’t something simple or meaningless. You matter to me, Cher. I would not play with your heart. I absolutely would not kiss you if I thought it would send you into a whirlwind of regret.”

It could seem quick. It is quick. But we are older. We know our minds. We know our hearts. We have had the past six weeks to figure out whether what this is between us is real or just a passing fancy. We know now.