“Earth to Molly,” Mitch says, and I realize I’ve been holding the same cupcake for a full minute.
I suck in a nervous breath, willing the tears away. One cry on my favorite holiday is one too many, I’m not going to make it two. “Sorry.”
“You’re going to see him tonight, aren’t you?”
I shrug. “Maybe. If he shows up.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
I think about those few seconds when I hugged him, how he’d frozen like he didn’t know what to do with even a moment of physical contact. The way he’d said his ex cheated on him, like the words physically hurt. How he’d been so careful to keep me calm even though he clearly wanted nothing more than to escape that elevator.
“Then he doesn’t,” I say simply, lamely hiding my dismay at the very idea he won’t. “But I think he might.”
“Why would you think that if he told you no multiple times now?” Brent asks, genuinely curious now.
“Because he smiled,” I say with a smile of my own. I know it sounds ridiculous, but when you know a man for two years and he never smiles, when he finally does… A girl tends to get her hopes up. Just a little.
Mitch sighs, that long-suffering big brother sigh I know oh so well. “Molly…”
“Leave her be.” Brent glares at my brother, bumping him in the shoulder as he passes. Mitch huffs, returning to the cooled puff pastries that need to be glazed.
The phone rings and I’m thrown into another rush of customers and last-minute orders. Meanwhile, my mind won’tstop wandering off to a certain someone. And tonight, if he shows up, maybe we can—
“You may want to tone down the daydreaming, Molls,” Brent whispers, glancing over his shoulder toward the kitchen. “Your hopeful romantic aura is showing.”
I snort. “I don’t have a—”
“You do,” he confirms with a wink. “It’s cute, but historically leads to disappointment.”
Before I can protest, a customer from earlier returns, claiming to have been given the wrong order. As I take down the details and rush to find her order, I catch my reflection in the display case glass.
Brent may be onto something with the wistful look in my eye and my flushed cheeks, but even if I am a hopeful—not hopeless—romantic, on this Valentine’s Day, I don’t think that’s such a bad thing.
Pity Party
Luke
Theheavywoodendoorof Anchor Point Bar swings open and I spot my brother sitting at the bar. His coat thrown over the stool beside him, holding it for yours truly.
Jake’s already two beers deep, judging by the empty bottle next to his current one. He looks up when I approach, his sea-weathered face breaking into a grin.
“There he is. My favorite sunshine brother.”
I drop onto the stool. “I’ll leave.”
“No, you won’t.” He signals to Heather behind the bar. “Because you need alcohol to survive this hellhole of a holiday, and I’m buying.”
Heather approaches, already pulling a beer from the cooler. She’s worked here for years, knows our orders by heart. “Let me guess,” she says, setting the long-neck bottle in front ofme. “Another Valentine’s Day, another Harrison brother moping session?”
“We don’t mope,” Jake protests.
“Right.” She wipes down the bar, her expression flat. “Last year, you sat here for three hours complaining about your ex. The year before that, Luke literally growled at a couple who asked if they could share your table.”
“It was a two-person table.”
Heather shakes her head. “You men and your relationship drama, I swear. Either commit or don’t, but stop acting like love is some kind of terminal disease.”
She moves down the bar to help other customers, leaving us in relative peace. The place is busier than I expected.
