Maybe I am old-fashioned. It’s something I learned frommydad.
But she said she liked that.
I think about the valentine…the handwriting and the specific, intimate words that shined a spotlight on the dark places.
It's not her. It can't be her.
But god help me, I want it to be.
CHAPTER 4
SLOANE
It's Thursday, which means Cody made his morning mail run to the fire station about two hours ago…which means my third valentine is now sitting in Ike Thurman's cubby, waiting for those big, rough hands to slide it open.
Cody’s a junior at Deepwood Mountain High, a part-time post office employee, and my unknowing accomplice in what might be the most elaborate seduction attempt in Montana history…if I do say so myself.
It took some detective work to figure out the mail system for the fire station—a casual question to Tess about how local deliveries worked, a "coincidental" run-in with Cody early Tuesday morning as he was leaving for the the mail delivery. The kid was suspicious at first, but two weeks of free lunches and a promise to put in a good word with Tess about his perpetually late essays sealed the deal.
So far, he's delivered three valentines without a hitch.
Tuesday's was subtle—an introduction, a hint that someone was watching. Wednesday's got bolder, talking about the weight he carries, the loneliness I see beneath his composure.
But today's note?
Today's note is going to make Captain Ike Thurman sweat through his uniform.
I think about your hands, Captain. How they'd feel wrapped around my wrists, pinning me down while you take what you need.
I think about your voice. That deep rasp when you give orders. I wonder what it would sound like commanding me to sink to my knees.
I want to be good for you. I want to submit to the man who’s so much more than his unwavering strength. I want to call you Daddy and watch your control finally snap.
— Your Secret Valentine
God. I actually sent that...
…to the most respected man in this tiny town.
I'm either incredibly brave or completely unhinged.
The bell rings, signaling the end of my planning period, and I force myself to act like a normal human being who isn't fantasizing about a silver fox fire captain bending her over the desk.
It's going to be alongafternoon.
Practice is torture.
Not because of the drills or the cold February wind cutting across the field. Or because Mackenzie is still hogging the ball orbecause half the team seems more interested in gossiping about Valentine's Day celebrations than running plays.
It's torture because I can't stop checking the parking lot.
He won't be here for another hour at least.
But my eyes keep drifting to the entrance anyway, searching for that familiar truck, that broad-shouldered silhouette.
"Coach Sloane?"
I snap back to attention. Riley is standing in front of me, soccer ball tucked under her arm, head tilted with curiosity.
