Worst Valentine's Day Ever: A Lonely Hearts Romance Anthology
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Worst Valentine’s Day Ever
A Lonely Hearts Romance Anthology
Kilby Blades
L.G. O’Connor
Eva Moore
R.L. Merrill
Marie Booth
Erin St. Charles
Preslaysa Williams
Ceri Grenelle
Averil Daye
Deb Lee
Daphne Masque
Copyright © 2019 by Luxe Publishing for the compiled body of work. Each individual story is copyright of its respective creator as indicated herein, and is reproduced here with permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between characters, situations, places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.
For permission requests and other inquiries, the publisher can be reached at: info@luxepress.net.
Contents
I. THE STORIES
“Perfect Odds” by L.G. O’Connor
“Love Ya, Baby” by Marie Booth
“Love it or Leave It” by Eva Moore
“Right Hand Man” by Kilby Blades
“A Wolf at the Wedding” by Erin St. Charles
“Valentine’s Day from Hell” by R.L. Merrill
“Cupid’s Revenge” by Preslaysa Williams
“Asking for a Friend” by Averil Daye
“Chasing the Night” by Deb Lee
“Definition of Love” by Ceri Grenelle
“Heartbreak in High Gear” by Daphne Masque
II. THE AUTHORS
L.G. O’Connor
Marie Booth
Eva Moore
Kilby Blades
Erin St. Charles
R.L. Merrill
Preslaysa Williams
Averil Daye
Deb Lee
Ceri Grenelle
Daphne Masque
Also in the “Worst Day Ever” Anthology Series
Part One
THE STORIES
“Perfect Odds” by L.G. O’Connor
Lucky in Love, Inc. Book #0.5
“He’s a famous surgeon. Good family…” Olivia Yu’s mother chattered on in rapid Mandarin, making another vain attempt at taking control of Olivia’s pathetic love life.
On today of all days, Olivia had even less patience for her mother’s guerilla dating tactics. She held her cell phone away from her ear, half listening, and shouldered open the glass door into her corner office at Lucky in Love, Inc.
Olivia cut off her mother’s diatribe. “Sorry, Mom. I have another call. It’s business. I’ll call you later.” She disconnected without a shred of guilt.
Her gaze zoomed in on the heart-shaped box of chocolates with a frosted red-and-black bow sitting on her keyboard.
Eyes narrowed at the chocolates, she approached the large bank of high-definition screens behind her desk that flashed a multitude of Vegas and offshore odds, spanning horse racing to sports games to a whole sector of niche betting, including theirs.
Her lips twitched up at the corners when she spotted the unconventional black velvet skull and cross bone pattern covering the shiny red box like some gothic love parody.
She snickered softly and dropped her backpack on the floor next to her desk.
Sebastian cleared his throat behind her.
Olivia hid the remnants of a smile and cast a glance over her shoulder at the guy with a blond ponytail and golden stubble covering his angular jaw. Arms crossed nonchalantly over his chest, he leaned against the jamb, wearing ragged jeans, a black Nine Inch Nails hoodie, and a shit-eating grin.
“’Morning, Bach…” Olivia smirked.
Business partner and best friend, he’d earned his nickname from an uncanny resemblance to 80s rock icon, Sebastian Bach. As good of a way as any to make the most of having the same first name as that British kid who saved Fantasia in The Neverending Story, or the lead singer of Skid Row. Too bad the guy standing in front of her didn’t believe in Luck Dragons and couldn’t sing worth shit.
But what he lacked in whimsy and vocal cords, he made up for in brains and eye candy, though she’d never confess to that last part. A healthy dose of ego came with all that pretty. And if it inflated any larger, he’d levitate like a balloon and slam head-first into their fifteen-foot ceiling.
Picking up the chocolates, she waved the box and said with more than a little sarcasm, “You shouldn’t have,” then tossed the gift on her desk. It landed with a thunk and slid to a halt halfway across the sleek Lucite surface. He knew how much she hated Valentine’s Day and the loss it represented.
Five years had passed since Marcus’s death, and every year since then she and Bach did this dance. Olivia wanted to suffer in silence and let the day pass, and Bach wouldn’t let her. Every year he took great pains to flaunt convention. Last year he’d chosen black roses with red, hand painted spiders.
The holiday’s irony wasn’t lost on her. For them, every day was Valentine’s Day in a business that made a crap ton of money betting on love. But the actual day, that represented something else entirely.
Sebastian strolled over and dropped his lean, muscled frame into one of her leather guest chairs. “Happy V-Day, Livvie.”
He knew better than to utter the actual V-word in her presence. Still, she couldn’t figure out whether it was the look in his eye, the bad-boy smirk, or the British accent that made that statement sound like he was referring to a venereal disease rather than a holiday.
He pointed to the discarded box, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement. “Come on! Open the damn thing. Those chocolates cost me a bloody fortune. I had special molds made and everything. Twelve different poison bottles.”
Olivia raised a brow and refused to break.
He rolled his eyes and relented with a hangdog look. “They’re your favorite. Dark chocolate with different liqueurs.”
Damn him for resorting to chocolate. He knew her too well.
Olivia smiled, ripped open the wrapping, and removed the lid. Twelve finely crafted confections sat encased in purple tufted satin. She offered the first to Bach.
He waggled his eyebrows and selected the one in the center. A bulbous container marked “Hemlock” in gothic script. She snatched the one that read, “Belladonna,” and bit into it. Her mouth filled with raspberry liquid and she let out a throaty moan.
A dimple dented Bach’s cheek when he smirked. “Did you just orgasm?”
“I might’ve,” she teased and gave him a wink. “Next time, bring coffee. We’ve got work to do.”
He chuckled. “Ingrate.”
Olivia blew him a kiss. “It’s nothing but love for you, baby.” Then she logged into the system. “Let me pull the latest entries…”
Trepidation and excitement filled her veins as she downloaded the p
otential matches for their next love intervention and Lucky in Love play for the bookies in Vegas.
They needed to win big to make up for an unexpected hiccup during their last intervention that had decimated their liquid cash reserves and ruined their perfect winning streak.
Sebastian slouched in the chair and cracked his knuckles. “How many submissions did we get?”
She pursed her lips and glanced at the file’s row count. “Over three hundred.” A healthy crop of heartfelt contest entries, stories of close friends or family members who deserved a second chance with the ‘one who got away.’ All for the cost of the ad and a $1,000 prize for the selected entry. Thank you, Facebook.
He let out a low whistle and plucked a bottle of “Arsenic” from the satin-lined box. “Nice. Spin them through the algo and see what pops out.”
“On it,” Olivia said, and fed the file through an algorithm they’d developed to validate the entries and scrape the web to build comprehensive profiles on each potential couple, including every data point and social profile in digital existence to predict compatibility and receptivity, before winnowing down the options and identifying couples most likely to succeed…or not.
Either way, they were guaranteed a percentage of the vig—a cut of the charges for taking the bets—from the bookmakers. But the real money and the risk came from betting on the right outcome.
God, she loved this business model.
She and Bach had come a long way since that night in business school when they’d cooked up the idea for Lucky In Love, Inc., and their One Who Got Away game. All because Bach posed the question, “What are the odds she’ll pick that bloke?” from his end of their ratty sofa where he sat playing online poker, while she indulged in a mindless night of television with her guilty pleasure, The Bachelorette.
His question triggered an all-nighter spent dissecting the elements of love and concluding that successful love matches boiled down to receptivity, attraction, compatibility, and opportunity. They believed that if they could engineer the opportunity and predict the rest, then they could manufacture love. Better yet, they could monetize the outcome.
All they needed was live data, a few proprietary algorithms, and a few really good bookmakers.
Fast forward three years, Lucky in Love, Inc. had a net worth close to $100 million. More than enough value to satisfy and entertain a pair of twenty-six-year-old Wharton MBA dropouts.
It had taken Olivia showing her traditional Chinese parents her bank balance after LIL’s first year in business for them to forgive her for ditching out on a Master’s degree program from one of the country’s top universities. Too bad that hadn’t stopped her mother from calling eight times a day and trying to fix her up with pedigreed Asian men. Nothing like a non-stop litany of “I want a grandson before you turn into old maid” in Mandarin to make your day.
Her computer screen lit with ten high-probability matches from the three hundred plus submissions.
Olivia slapped Sebastian’s hand as he reached for another chocolate and snatched the box from his grasp. “Hey! Pay attention and stop poaching my poison.”
His lips dropped into that pouty thing he did when he made fun of her. “Sorry, lamb chop.”
Insufferable wretch. Despite them both being vegan, he still enjoyed needling her with meat endearments.
“Wow, really?” she deadpanned. The profiles printed and she slid them across the desk. “Here you go, turnip, your turn to pick. Make it good.” They traded off, and she had selected the last pair.
He scoffed and scanned the dossiers on the ten couples while she checked her email.
Twenty minutes later, a wicked smile twisted his lips, and he tapped the paper with a fingertip. “This one.”
Olivia read their names aloud. “Tanya and Tate. Aww. They sound cute.” Their story had been submitted by Tate’s mother. Olivia sat back in her chair and started to read their dossier.
Tanya Gates, a flight attendant, and Tate Manning, a firefighter, had met in high school and were now both in their early thirties. Olivia’s gaze scanned their history and snagged on a connection to 9/11.
She swallowed hard and glared at Bach. Damn him, he’d picked them on purpose. He wanted her to invest. To care more than usual. To confront her demons. Blah, blah. God, she hated him sometimes.
Unblinking, Bach sat, fingers tented and silent, waiting for her to finish. She pressed on and checked the probability charts. “Wow, their scores are through the roof for compatibility and receptivity,” she said, still irked at him but pleased with the numbers.
Bach gave a noncommittal nod.
Her gaze drifted to the inciting incident supplied by the algorithm that would create the opportunity to reunite Tanya and Tate. She shot Bach another hard look. “A faulty toaster? Really?” If artificial intelligence ever took over the world, they were all screwed.
Bach’s shit-eating grin returned as he leaned back in the chair, the front two legs hovering off the floor. “All it takes is one match. The guy’s a fireman, Livvie. Sometimes a spark isn’t enough, you need a flaaame.”
She chewed her lip to choke back an inappropriate laugh at his crazy eyes and fingers wiggling like an out-of-control brush fire. “You’re a sick fuck sometimes, Bach. Goes to show that video games do rot your brain.” He wrote the damn algo.
Bach righted the chair and gave a smug smile. “That’s why you fancy me.”
She glowered at him.
He blew out an exasperated breath. “Oh, come on! Lighten up.”
Her glower didn’t waver. “This is beyond risky. If we do this, no one gets hurt, and I mean no one.”
He rolled his eyes. “No one will get hurt, I promise.”
“How do you know that?”
This time, Bach wore the hard look. “Leave that to me. I wouldn’t have made it an option if we couldn’t control it.”
She relented with a heavy sigh. “All right, but this scenario is going to cost us on the back-end to fund a rebuild. It better pay off. Big.” What the algorithm suggested went beyond what they typically engineered, and she didn’t love it. They’d be playing with fire. Literally.
“If we do this right, Spiro and the lot will set high enough odds to cover it with just our cut of the vig. The offshore bets will be gravy. Set us right after last time. What could go wrong?” Unperturbed, he stretched his long limbs like a languorous cat and laced his fingers behind his head. His hoodie rose to expose smooth, taut abs above his low-slung jeans.
She forced her eyes away from his exposed skin and frowned. “Really? What could go wrong?” Did he seriously just ask her that?
Try as they might to engineer Fate—that wily bitch—on rare occasions she rebelled and threw them an X factor, an unexpected variable so ludicrous their algorithms couldn’t account for it.
He let out a breath and unlaced his fingers from behind his head. The hoodie dropped back into place. “No algorithm in the world could’ve predicted the guy’s dog would get bitten by a rabid fox and ruin the couple’s evening. The chances of something like that happening again are like one in a bajillion,” he said, punctuating his point with a dismissive hand wave and an overly dramatic stare heavenward.
She sulked, wanting to believe him. “That’s a bogus statistic.”
He huffed a laugh. “Maybe. Just let it go.”
Easier said than done. The rabid fox incident had happened during her play and landed them in their short-term financial crisis.
Clearly done with that topic, he wagged his eyebrows. “What do you say we can take some time off when this is done. A little R&R in the Florida Keys?”
Olivia hid her surprise behind an expressionless glance, though the thought of escaping frigid New York City in mid-February for hot weather sounded enticing. “Us? Together?”
His face fell into a defensive scowl, and he shrugged. “Yeah, why not? We can rent a house on the beach.”
That would be a first. She couldn’t deny something unexpected fluttered in
the pit of her stomach. She shook her head to clear it and mumbled, “OK. Maybe.” Then she remembered his slovenly ways and gave him the stink eye. “If we do, I’m not picking up your underwear off the floor.”
He laughed and flashed more dimple. “I dare you to stop yourself. You’re the most OCD person I know who doesn’t have OCD.”
She stuck out her tongue. “Ha, ha. And no parading around naked.” He’d been shameless when they were suite-mates in grad school. Probably because he had nothing to be ashamed of. She’d never quite gotten over that flash of full, uncut frontal.
His smile went from smug to amused. “Only if you ask nicely.”
She blew out a breath and circled back to their earlier topic before a full blush crested on her cheeks. “I’m worried about this play.”
He rocked forward and propped his elbows on her desk. All kidding gone, his stare turned earnest and his voice soothing, “This will pay off, Liv, and no one will get hurt. I promise.”
Olivia avoided his gaze and scanned the report in front of her. “Famous last words,” she mumbled and reluctantly stood down. “Fine. I guess giving someone the worst Valentine’s Day of their life is a small price to pay for finding true love. Get the team ready to deploy.” They had fifteen hours—until midnight—starting now, to set up the scenario and have it play out with the unsuspecting couple.
Olivia ran the data through a second algorithm, one that turned their targets into avatars to conceal their true identities and added additional attributes and dramatic elements to make the game interesting, as well as to mask the true probability of success. These were the results they provided to the bookmakers.