Page 13 of My Secret Valentine

“But what if it goes wrong?” Her voice trembles. “What if we try this and it falls apart and Maddie gets hurt? We can’t risk that.”

The front door slams downstairs, followed by the sound of running feet. “Daddy? Lainey? Look what I made at Emma's house!”

Maddie's voice echoes up the stairs, getting closer. Lainey steps back quickly, wiping at her eyes.

“I should go.” She gestures vaguely at the door.

“Lainey, wait.” I catch her hand. “Don't make any decisions yet. About the job. About us. Just wait.”

She looks at our joined hands, then back at me. “How long?”

“Give me until Friday. Let me prove to you that what we have here is worth more than a job in Seattle.”

“Daddy?” Maddie's voice is closer now.

Lainey squeezes my hand once before letting go. “Until Friday,” she agrees softly.

She slips out just as Maddie reaches the top of the stairs, paint-covered paper in hand. I watch her go, my hand still tingling from her touch.

Three days. I have three days to convince her to stay.

But as I turn to admire Maddie's artwork, a new text lights up my phone. From Margaret:Jenny's mother kept copies. They're going to the newspaper.

CHAPTER NINE

Lainey

TheHope Peak Gazettesits unopened on my bed, mocking me. The morning sun streams through my window, painting patterns on the crisp newspaper pages where I know our photos are displayed. I haven't looked yet. Can't bring myself to see how they've spun our story. Outside, the mountains are topped with fresh snow, pristine and untouched, making everything look clean and new. If only it were that simple.

My phone buzzes for the tenth time this morning. Emma again:Need that answer today. Boss is asking. Great benefits, creative environment, everything you dreamed about in college. Don't throw this away.

I silence the phone and pad downstairs in my sock feet, drawn by the smell of coffee and the sound of dishes clinking in the kitchen. The house feels different this morning, charged with possibility and fear in equal measure. It's barely seven but Steve always gets up super early to work. Except today he's not at his laptop. Today he's making pancakes while Maddie sits atthe counter, still in her unicorn pajamas, watching him with suspicious eyes.

“You never make pancakes,” she says as I enter, her dark hair a mess of tangles that will take forever to brush out. “Is something wrong?”

Steve looks up, catching my gaze. There are shadows under his eyes that suggest he slept about as well as I did. His sleeves are rolled up, flour dusting his forearms, and something about the domesticity of the scene makes my heart ache. “Nothing's wrong. Can't a dad make pancakes just because he wants to?”

“Mrs. Peterson says—” Maddie starts, but Steve cuts her off gently.

“How about we don't worry about what Mrs. Peterson says?” He flips a perfectly golden pancake onto her plate. “Extra chocolate chips, just how you like them. And look at this… I even remembered to cut them into triangles.”

“That's how Mom used to do it,” Maddie says softly, and the kitchen goes still for a moment. But then she smiles, a real smile that reaches her eyes. “But you made them better. Mom always burned the edges.”

Steve's laugh is surprised and a little watery. “She did, didn't she? Remember how she'd scrape off the burnt parts and say they were just extra crispy?”

“And then she'd put extra syrup to hide it.” Maddie giggles, then looks at me suddenly concerned. “Is it okay that we talk about Mom?”

I move to her side, running a gentle hand over her tangled hair. “Of course it is, sweetheart. Your mom will always be part of your family. Nothing will ever change that.”

Steve turns to me, spatula raised in question, his eyes soft with something that looks a lot like love.

“Yes, please,” I say softly, sliding onto the stool next to Maddie. “Though I think we all know why you're making pancakes.”

“Because we need to talk.” He sets a steaming mug of coffee in front of me – cream, no sugar, exactly how I like it. The mug is the one I've slowly claimed as mine over the past months, the blue one with a chip in the handle. “All of us.”

Maddie looks up from her pancakes, syrup dripping from her fork. “About the pictures in the newspaper?”

My heart stops. “You saw?”

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