Page 50 of Not Your Valentine
TAYLOR: Don’t worry, it’s not a heart-shaped cake.
ME: Are you sure
TAYLOR: It’s a TRIPLE TIER heart-shaped cake.
I release a sound that’s an odd combination of a gasp and a laugh. I really hope he hasn’t ordered such a cake, but I don’t tell him that.
ME: Fine. See you tomorrow.
On Valentine’s Day, I wake up with a pit of dread in my stomach.
“This is it,” I say to Lucifer. “The day of doom.”
Last year, when I woke up on February fourteenth, I had no idea what would befall me. Could not have conceived of such horrors, even though I’m usually pretty good at, well, conceiving of horrors.
Though I know nothing quite so awful will happen this year, the feeling of dread persists.
After work, I most certainly do not spend half an hour picking out an outfit, and when Taylor asks to be buzzed in, I do not feel a burst of giddy excitement.
Okay, fine. Maybe a tiny, tiny bit, but nothing more.
Taylor is wearing a pink shirt and carrying a bouquet of something that’s…not flowers. No, it appears to be a bouquet of donuts.
I can’t help chuckling.
Some are glazed in pink and white; others are covered in chocolate ganache. Some are ring-shaped; a few are filled.
“That one’s yours.” I point to the lone heart-shaped one in the middle. It’s glazed in pink and coated with sprinkles.
“I know,” he says cheerfully.
“Thanks.” I set the bouquet aside and pull him down for a kiss. A kiss that goes on for longer than I intended.
Finally, he pulls back. “I should cook now. Before we get carried away.”
“Good idea. What are you making?”
“Risotto.”
“Isn’t that difficult?”
“It’s not too bad.”
Huh. As someone who’s used to tossing rice in the rice cooker and forgetting about it, the process of cooking risotto is kind of weird to me.
At Taylor’s insistence, I watch a show and eat a donut as he cooks. Yeah, eating a donut before dinner seems wrong, but it’s fucking Valentine’s Day, and besides, I have lots of them. I select one with chocolate ganache.
We sit down to dinner just after seven thirty. There’s shrimp risotto, green salad, and white wine. I take a picture of it. For posting online, of course.
“This looks amazing,” I tell Taylor. “Wow.”
It tastes good, too. Not, like, professional chef quality, but it’s a very good home-cooked meal.
“Speaking of Valentine’s Day,” he says, “you never told me why Charlie said ‘it’s not me, it’s you.’ You don’t have to explain if you don’t want. I’m just curious. But—”
“Because I’m cranky and have a bad attitude and don’t always smile when I should.”
He frowns. “I wouldn’t say that.”
