Page 10 of Cupid's Beau

I expect him to refuse. To retreat to his room or find another escape. Instead, he looks at the boxes, then at my mother’shopeful face, and something in him seems to soften.

“I can help.”

Inside, my mother has transformed the lobby into what looks like a Valentine’s Day bomb site. Paper hearts, ribbons, and fairy lights cover every surface.

“I thought we agreed on nothing too Valentiney,” I whisper as she hands Jack a string of lights.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She beams up at him. “Those would look lovely along the ceiling beam, don’t you think?”

He looks up, considering. Without a word, he reaches up - and of course he can reach the ceiling beam without a ladder, because apparently being unfairly tall is just another thing he has going for him.

I try not to stare at the strip of skin exposed as his shirt rides up. Try being the operative word. His running pants mold to his firm ass just as deliciously as they did earlier in the kitchen. And that patch of golden skin? Totally lickable.

“Here.” Jack glances down at me, startling me out of my ogling. “Can you hold the other end?”

I clear my throat. “Sure.”

We work in surprisingly comfortable silence, weaving lights through the old wooden beams. Every so often our hands brush, sending little sparks of electricity up my arm. And those mustbe completely one-sided, because Jack’s face remains perfectly stern.

“Perfect!” My mother claps her hands. “Now, the garland…”

“Ma,” I start to protest, but Jack’s already reaching for another box.

“It’s fine,” he says quietly. Just to me. “I don’t mind.”

My heart. Could this man be more perfect?

“The trick is,” my mother says, pulling out yards of garland, “to make it look effortless. Like Cupid himself swooped in and sprinkled hearts and flowers everywhere.”

“Right,” I mutter, untangling a particularly stubborn strand of lights.

Jack moves around us with unexpected grace for someone his size, reaching high spots, steadying the ladder when my mother insists on adjusting something. Every now and then, I catch him watching me with an unreadable expression.

“The Martins will love this,” my mother sighs happily. “You know they got engaged right there.” She points to a spot by the window. “Now about dinner,” she adds with suspicious casualness, “we’re having that thieboudienne Neneh mentioned last night…”

I nearly drop the heart I’m holding. “Mom, I don’t think-”

“What? I’m just saying, if Jack would like to join us again…”

I risk a glance at him, expecting to find the walls back up. Instead, he’s looking at the garland in his hands, the ghost ofsomething that might be a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. And my heart completely melts for this man, who must be going through his own shit, but sets it aside to help my crazy mom overly decorate her modest inn for Valentine’s.

“Thank you,” Jack finally replies. “I’d like that.”

I’m about to say something - most likely something embarrassing - when the front door chimes.

“Good morning!” A couple walks in, bundled against the cold. “We have a reservation under Martin?”

My mother practically glows. “Ah, the happy couple! Welcome back!”

As she rushes to check them in, I notice Jack taking a step back, then another. The easy atmosphere from moments ago evaporates as his public mask slides back into place.

“I should…” He gestures vaguely upstairs.

“Right. Of course.” I try to ignore the disappointment settling in my stomach. “Thanks for helping.”

He nods once, already turning away. But at the stairs, he pauses. “Seven again? For dinner?”

My heart does a ridiculous flip. And I just nod, smiling at him.

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