Midnight Valentine

32

He turns and looks at me, his eyes shining, the corners of his lips curved up. Batting his long lashes, he makes an innocent face and points at his chest.

“Yes, you.” I turn back to my omelet with a shake of my head, surprised to find myself smiling again. Am I beginning to enjoy his whiplash-causing mood changes? Now that would be a plot twist.

We eat. I wonder if he’s as aware of me as I am of him. Every little movement he makes registers in my brain, like a Richter scale tracking the magnitude of an earthquake. I’ve never met someone so contradictory. In my experience, men are generally much simpler creatures than women, but this particular man is more complex than a Rubik’s cube.

Or maybe he’s just nuts.

“I want to talk to you about something you emailed me,” I say casually to my plate.

Theo takes that as his cue to pull his statue impersonation again, but I was anticipating that reaction and don’t let it rattle me.

“You said you weren’t stable. Which, honestly, is obvious. I won’t pry into your personal life, but on one hand, you’re telling me to hire you, and on the other hand, you’re telling me you hear voices and see ghosts and have a history with drugs, legal and otherwise. Can you see how that would be problematic from a prospective client’s point of view?”

I wasn’t expecting an answer, so when I don’t get one, I keep right on talking.

“I like Coop, a lot. I hear great things about your company, your work ethic, and your talent. That book you brought with the computer images was incredible. And your competition is quickly eliminating itself. But you, Mr. Valentine, are worrisome. To be completely honest, I don’t know what to make of you. I don’t think I can trust you. And if we were to work together, trust is a nonnegotiable. You said we can never be friends, and I can accept that…but I won’t accept uncertainty about your ability to do your job. I have to know you’re going to be there, be professional, and be absolutely rock solid, regardless of whatever your personal issues are.”

I lift my head and look at him. He gazes back at me with a pained expression, his face pale.

“That house is more than just a house to me,” I tell him, my voice low but strong. “It’s a lifeline. It’s a kept promise. It’s probably the only thing I’ll ever love again. Do you understand?”

He stares deep into my eyes, long past the point of politeness. Then he sends me a text.

Yes. More than you’ll ever know.

I blow out a hard breath, because hello, enigmatic statement, sit right down and join the conversation. I get another text right on the heels of the first.

I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings with the

friend comment. The last thing I want to do

is hurt you. It’s just that being around you is hard.

I look up from my phone and into his eyes. My heart thumping, I demand, “Tell me why.”

He sits there beside me, breathing unevenly, wild-eyed and tense.

“Theo. You’re not getting the job unless you explain yourself. I’m done with this cloak-and-dagger routine.”

He looks down at the demolished remains of his omelet, as if for help. Then he briefly closes his eyes, thinks for a moment, and picks up his phone.

Because you’re so hideous.

Honestly, I’ve seen prettier faces at the zoo.

“Okay,” I say, irritated because I thought I was close to getting to the bottom of this incomprehensible situation. I toss my phone onto the table, where it lands with a clatter. “Good to know you think this is such a joke. It’s been interesting knowing you. Have a nice life.”

I push my chair back, ready to barge past him or climb over him if he won’t move, but he reaches out and touches the back of my hand with his fingertip.

Static electricity crackles over my skin, hot and sharp as a knife. I yank my hand away, suck in a startled breath, and stare at him, blinking in surprise.

His lips part, and I swear, I swear he’s about to speak. But then he exhales a sharp breath, angrily shakes his head, and reaches into his wallet. He throws money down on the table, leaps from his chair, and leaves me sitting alone, gaping after his retreating back as he strides off through the restaurant.

Several minutes later, another text comes through on my phone.

Because you make all my broken parts bleed.

When the waitress arrives with two plates of key lime pie, I’m sitting right where Theo left me, reading his text for the hundredth time.

* * *

The long walk home in the cold doesn’t clear my head or settle my nerves, and I’m still rattled when I open the front door of the house. I spend a few hours on the internet researching more contractors until I have a small list of new prospects. Feeling dejected when I can’t get through to the first two I try to call, I decide I’ll leave it until tomorrow.

I pass the rest of the afternoon in a funk, paying bills, doing laundry and other distracting busywork chores, until it’s time for bed. I get undressed and climb under the covers to the sound of my stomach growling. After the Strangest Breakfast Ever, I wasn’t in the mood to eat.

I make his broken parts bleed? What on earth am I supposed to do with that?

Nothing, answers my pragmatic side. Forget it. The man is a lost cause.

The problem with lost causes is that they’re so seductive to those who know what it is to be lost.

Around midnight, I’m staring at the ceiling in the dark, thinking about Mr. Mysterious, when I smell something burning.