Page 40 of Unlucky in Love
Taylor laughed and reached for the box of satin ribbon she kept under the counter. One roll had slipped free and tumbled into the open space where she usually tucked extra pastry boxes. She knelt to fish it out and saw something that was not ribbon at all.
A white envelope lay flat against the wood, edges smooth, her name on the front in that same careful handwriting.
Her heart pitched. For a moment, the café sounds drifted into a blur. She slid the envelope out and stood slowly, shielding it with her body like someone might snatch it from her hands.
“Is that what I think it is?” Jenna whispered, eyes going wide.
Taylor swallowed and slipped the edge of her thumb under the flap. Inside was a single card.
When the day felt loud with other people’s love, you made a quiet place for your own. Go there now, to the spot you kept only for yourself on Valentine’s Day. Come alone.
Beneath the words sat a tiny pressed violet, taped to the card with care.
Her breath caught. Her secret place. Not the fountain. Not the lookout. The little footbridge by the river where she used to sit every February fourteenth with a thermos of cocoa and a brownie from yesterday’s batch. She had watched the water slide under the wooden slats and told herself that not having flowers did not mean she was unworthy of them. No one knew she went there. Not Emma. Not anyone.
Except someone did.
Jenna leaned on the counter, chin in her hand, shameless. “So. Are you going to tell Ryan and let him be your terrifyingly handsome bodyguard again?”
Taylor traced the pressed violet with her fingertip. “It says to come alone.”
Jenna wrinkled her nose. “That sounds like the beginning of a horror movie.”
“It is a public park,” Taylor said, though her stomach did a small flip.
“Public parks are where raccoons live. And also men with trench coats in mystery novels.” Jenna pointed a frosting spatula at her. “Text Ryan. He will lurk at a respectful distance and pretend he is not lurking.”
Taylor stared at the note again. Come alone. The words sparked and stung in equal measure. The scavenger hunt had been tender and a little wild and sometimes a little scary, but always it had felt like someone had placed a hand at the small of her back and guided her forward. Part of her wanted to honor the instruction. The other part heard Ryan’s voice in her head listing every reason isolated places after sundown were a bad idea.
“Jenna,” she said quietly. “My secret place. How would anyone know?”
Jenna softened. “Maybe because he knows you. The way you think. Where you go when you need air. And maybe that should give you the biggest hint as to who your secret admirer is. Maybe he isn’t so secret after all.”
Taylor folded the card and slid it back into the envelope. The pressed violet felt fragile, like a truth she had not given herself permission to keep.
Taylor pulled her phone from her apron and typed, Deleted a second later. Typed again. Deleted. She tucked the phone away with a sigh.
“I will go before sunset,” she said. “There will be joggers.”
“I’ll watch the clock,” Jenna replied. “If you aren’t back in an hour, I am calling Emma, the mayor, and possibly the National Guard.”
“Please do not call the mayor.”
“We follow protocol in this house.”
The bell chimed again. Orders flowed. Taylor moved with muscle memory while the note throbbed like a pulse against her ribs. She boxed cookies, frosted cupcakes, laughed when Mr. Nelson declared himself the official taster of chocolate-dipped strawberries. She told herself she would tell Ryan afterward. She told herself this was hers for a moment. Not the town’s. Not her coworker’s. Not even Emma’s.
When the afternoon lull finally arrived, she pared the pastry case into neat airtight tubs, washed her hands, and hung her apron on its hook. The envelope went into her coat pocket. The pressed violet slid safely into the tiny notebook she kept for inventory notes that were not inventory notes at all.
Jenna watched her tie her scarf. “Text me when you get there.”
“I will.”
“And if you see anyone in a trench coat, throw a cookie at them and run.”
“I am not wasting cookies on criminals.”
“That’s my girl.”
