Page 11 of My Starry Valentine

But I’ve been down this road countless times, and I know hate-filled self-talk won’t get me anywhere. Instead, I need to focus on action. In this case, whipping up the best pizza Luna’s ever tasted. And finding a way to make my limited time with her unforgettable. If there’s anything my thirty-nine years onthis planet and near death have taught me, it’s the precious and fleeting nature of life.

In the kitchen, I pull the raised pizza dough out of the bread machine, cut it in half, and place one round on a floured breadboard for kneading. Working the rubbery stuff to the perfect consistency, I spread it out on a large pizza pan before poking holes in the crust, sprinkling it with Italian seasoning, and popping it into the oven to bake.

“You are not!” I look up at the sound of Luna’s silky voice, and a knot of desire lodges in my throat. I made an incalculably bad error by suggesting Luna borrow some of my clothes for after the shower. What else could I do, though?

The stunning brunette with snapping brown eyes swims in one of my olive-drab Marine sweatshirts that falls past her knees with sleeves hanging beyond her hands by several inches so she has to bunch up the ends. Coupled with gigantic, matching sweatpants rolled up a few times at the top and bottom, she swims in the layers. There’s one massive problem with all of this: she looks like mine…

Mine, mine, mine.

And I like it way too much. Swallowing hard, I try not to devour her with my eyes, all the time feeling akin to the big, bad wolf.

“Hi,” she says, blushing, and I realize how intently I’m staring.

Shaking my head and clearing my throat, I manage, “Am not what?”

“You are not making pizza from scratch.”

I look down at my hands buried in another round of white dough and my apron covered in flour, scrunching my forehead. “Uhh…yeah, I am. Is that a problem?”

“Not at all. My grandparents—who I grew up with—always had Saturday pizza night. And grandma insisted on making it from scratch, so this makes me feel right at home.”

“Except it’s Friday, not Saturday,” I reply, shrugging and looking at my watch.

“You’re right,” she says. “And it’s Valentine’s Day, to boot.”

A loud breath escapes my lungs, and I’m not entirely sure why. I guess because my body has decided to go all out and embarrass the heck out of me with my physical reactions around this woman. Fortunately, if she notices, she doesn’t let on.

“I’m sorry I don’t have flowers or chocolates for you,” I growl. “But you kind of caught me off guard with your arrival. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you fell straight from the sky or something…” I bite my tongue before calling herangel. Thank goodness for one last modicum of self-control.

Luna’s cheeks burn as she confesses, “I don’t have anything for you either because you didn’t even exist for me until an hour ago.”

I shrug, feeling the heat of her gaze on my face. It occurs to me that I’m not really hiding my bad side from her anymore. Yet, no worry lines streak her face. No disgust tightens the muscles of her visage.

Honestly, she acts like speaking to me and looking at my half-melted face is the most natural thing in the world. She acts like she sees me for who I am without judgment, and it’s dangerously addictive.

“If you’re okay with local brews and homemade pizza, we’ve got the makings of a decent Valentine’s Day. And we can stream movies, although by the looks of the weather, I may need to dust off the DVD player instead. But I’ve got enough old DVDs to get us by either way. You always have to be prepared for crazy weather up here. Maybe we can find something to watch thatgoes with the whole Valentine’s Day theme. That is unless I’m making you uncomfortable with the holiday talk?”

“Do I look uncomfortable?”

I stop kneading the dough, shifting my weight and staring at her long and hard. “Not one bit,” I whisper.

She doesn’t even flinch as she returns my gaze.

The air feels sucked out of the room, and I fight hard to play it cool. “I guess what I mean to say is if you’ve got a boyfriend or fiancé, I should stop while I’m ahead. You know?”

“I don’t have either,” she says matter-of-factly.

Thank God.

“And why not?” The question escapes my lips before I can stop myself. But I can’t help it. Luna not having a boyfriend is like the Earth having no gravitational pull.

She drops her head, her cheeks flushing. “Probably because most guys my age are pretty immature and unimpressive, especially compared to a guy like…” she stops abruptly, looking like the cat that swallowed the canary.

“Like?” I ask, wondering what she gets that I don’t. I feel like I’ve been left out of an inside joke or something.

“Like you.”

Is this woman trying to kill me? My heart performs a timpani solo that would make the Denver Symphony proud. I swallow hard, trying to give her a way out. “You’re a bad liar, Luna.”

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