My Phony Valentine (Holidays with Hart, #1)

by Courtney Walsh

“HE is your boyfriend?” I squeeze the man’s arm, hoping he’ll take pity on a perfect, albeit crazy, stranger. Also hoping he doesn’t look like Gomez Addams or worse, Uncle Fester. “Yep.”

Definitely not a member of the Addams family. He’d be better suited as an honorary Hemsworth. A dark-haired Hemsworth.

He smiles at me and I feel it in my knees. They actually go weak for a moment, and I’m thankful for that beefy arm that seems to be holding me steady.

I’m almost certain my eyeballs just bugged out of my head and are now rolling around on the floor. He flashes that ultra-white smile at me.

Dallas slides his credit card into his wallet and tucks it in his back pocket. I wish I was that wallet right now.

His arm is back around my shoulder, pulling me closer into him. He smells like a forest and I want to get lost in the woods.

I’m a statue afraid if I move I’ll wake up from this pine-scented fantasy.

He smiles. I hear an angel getting its wings, I swear it.

I’m wholly unprepared for the zinger that shoots through me when he takes my hand in his. Is this lust? Am I going to have to repent? How many deadly sins am I committing?

“So you do know what sport I play.”

“I do, yes—but don’t ask me how to play. I’ll fall down just thinking about it.”

I can’t help but feel a little bit sorry for the man who has everything. Because that everything includes a whole lot of things I would never, ever want in my life.

If this is my brush with fame, I hope it’s over in the prescribed fifteen minutes.

I turn to walk the block to Poppy’s Kitchen when I see him. Dallas. He’s running, and he’s making it look easy. How anyone can make running look easy doesn’t make sense to me, but Dallas Burke sure does. His stride is long and easy, and his face is relaxed and all at once, I’m a smitten teenage superfan at a boy band concert.

“All right, Pops.” I make a face. “That nickname doesn’t have to stick. Unless you want me to call you Sugar Bear.” “I could get used to it.” He grins, then inhales a deep breath.

I know I should stay away from him. There’s just one problem. I don’t want to.

“I’m old, I’m not stupid. I have TikTok.” I laugh. I don’t even have TikTok.

Then, to his grandma, “Are you comfortable? I think you should sit in the living room.” He reaches out to help her and she smacks his hand away. “I think you should go sit in traffic.”

“You think she’s pretty?” “Yes, she’s beautif. . .” he blurts that out, and abruptly stops, caught.

I can’t help but smile. I lean toward him and whisper loudly, “I like your grandma.” With a shake of his head, he steps out of the room to take the call from his manager, and I try to concentrate on cooking and not on the fact that I feel like Alice discovering Wonderland for the first time.

Earlier, on the street, Poppy mentioned grace. From what I understand, grace is being forgiven for messing up—even when you don’t deserve it.

It’s not the kind of smile that would alert the paparazzi, but it’s the kind of smile that a person could hold onto. The kind that could make, say, a man in a tough spot hope that things could turn around again. Like an anchor. A safe space to land.

“Well, I’ll definitely be in while I’m here with Gram,” I say. She holds up a knife. “I haven’t scared you off?” “Okay, maybe I won’t come, psycho.”

Adulting is hard. Even at twenty-eight, I haven’t mastered it. There are moments when I don't want to be strong, or independent, or responsible. There are moments I want someone else to take the risk, or make the decision, or tell me what to do.

Is he going to pray? “Lord, thank you for—” he is, and I quickly close my eyes— “this meal and this company. Thank you for Gram, and I pray that you convict her about her poor interpersonal skills.” I hear another smack. “I ask that you bless this food, and bless the hands that made it.” Are famous people’s prayers on a fast track to God’s ears? If so, I’ll take it, Lord. “Bless our time and conversation, and,” he slightly pauses to clear his throat, “thank you for bringing Poppy into our lives.”

That brief, forty-five second prayer makes me see Dallas Burke in a totally different light. Not that I believe people like him don’t believe in God, but I really thought that people like him didn’t believe in God.

People don’t always let us become who we are. They try to keep us in the box of who we were.

“I’m paying you to perform a service.” I frown. “Wait, that came out wrong too.” I laugh. “You are determined to turn me into Julia Roberts, aren’t you?” He shakes his head with a smile. It’s shy. Almost embarrassed. And yet, somehow sexy.

His laugh is so honest, I want to bottle it up and take it home with me. I made Dallas Burke laugh.

That’s the danger of wanting to be loved—you start to see possibilities everywhere. Even where there are none.

Pretending to be dating might not be the difficult part of this whole arrangement. Not letting myself actually develop feelings for her is a bigger concern.

Twice, I’ve fallen asleep on the phone with him, and when I wake up in the middle of the night, I find the call still connected, even though we’re both asleep.

Sunday evening, I’m in pajamas and ready for bed by 8 p.m. At 8:15, there’s a knock at my door, so I do what I always do when someone knocks on my door—pretend I’m not home.

“You were hiding.” “I didn’t know it was you.” “Who’d you think it was?” “Girl Scouts.”

She’s standing in front of me in pajamas, with her dark hair in a bun on her head and not a stitch of makeup on, and she’s never looked more beautiful.

We both stand, and Dallas folds the afghan that was half-draped over both of us all night long. I hope it smells like him.

“You have this secret. It’s a big one from your past. Believe me, I know about trying to get out from under things from the past.”

“I’m ashamed of mine, and you’re ashamed of yours. And it kind of has this hold on you, like it’s made you a prisoner. You live fearing that someday it’ll come out.”

“The only way I know for something like that to lose its power is to shine a light on it. To speak it out loud. To call it what it is, and to own it. That way, it can’t torture you anymore.”

Vivid memories of our practice kiss roll through my mind like a slideshow I have no interest in turning off.

He squeezes my hand, then turns to go, leaving me standing in the entryway, watching like a lovesick teenager peering through the window at the boy she just porch-kissed.

I think about everything I now know about this man. This beautiful, good, kind, misjudged man, and I want to take the ten-year-old boy with the mismatched clothes and hold him and tell him everything is going to be okay.

I felt motivated in a way I’ve never felt before. Not to play this game, but to live life on purpose. With purpose.

I see his jaw twitching as he clearly tries to hold back his emotion. I want to run out there and hold him, to make sure he knows he doesn’t have to go through any of this alone. But I also know there are some storms we have to weather on our own.

I would trade just about anything to stay in this moment forever.

She watches me so intently I feel like she can see straight through my crap and right into my soul. Nobody else has even bothered to look before.

Now that I know what it feels like to have her cheering me on, not only on the rink, but in my life—I’m not sure I want to give it up.

“What made you change your mind?” He shrugs. “You.” The word is so simple, so honest, I want to bottle it up and save it. “Me?”

“I raised you so someone like her could find you.”

What are you doing here anyway?” He holds my gaze. “I came to support my best girl.”