My Reckless Valentine

by Olivia Dade

  She shrugged. “What’s the point of surviving if you don’t enjoy it?”

  “If you actually survive,” he emphasized, “the joy can come later.”

  “But what if that day never comes? What if you spend your life toiling joylessly for a future happiness that never arrives?” she asked.

  He paused. When she put it like that, he found it hard to argue her point. Then again . . .

  “Happiness won’t have a chance to arrive if you die of dehydration or an infected cut,” he declared, throwing up his hands in exasperation.

  “Let’s agree to disagree,” she suggested. “Again.”

  “Fine,” he muttered. “You incredibly contrary woman.”

  He greeted the end of this particular discussion with relief. Any more debates with Angie, and one of two things would happen. Either his brain would explode from acute frustration or he’d start to share her opinions. God help him. He lowered his head into his hands, scrubbing his face in an attempt to clear his head.

  She made a choked sound, and he glanced up.

  “Are you all r—” he began to ask. Then he saw the look on her face, and his words trailed to a halt. Was she laughing?

  Yes. No doubt about it. His infuriating colleague was desperately trying to hide her giggles. Her bountiful chest—not that his eyes naturally roved to that area, not at all—bounced up and down with her suppressed mirth. Even behind her glasses, her eyes twinkled mischievously. She sat back in her chair with every appearance of relaxation. No lines creased her forehead, and her cheeks glowed pink.

  In that moment, all his frustration vanished. God, he loved seeing her happy.

  “Are you playing me, Burrowes?” he demanded in feigned irritation. “Do you believe everything you just said, or are you yanking my chain?”

  “Do I have to choose one or the other? Can’t it be both?”

  He supposed that answered his question. Helpless to resist the sound of her mirth, he laughed too. Without thinking about it, he extended a hand across the table to touch hers as they chuckled together. Her skin felt like velvet beneath his hand, warm and supple against his fingertips. Like heaven. He traced the back of her hand with his thumb, his breath catching at the sensation.

  Her breath hitched too, and her laughter died. With a sudden jerk, she moved her hand away from his. The shock of loss arrowed through him, and his own smile disappeared.

  Jesus, what am I doing? We’re in public, and Angie is my subordinate.

  He took a quick glance around the room, making sure no one had seen the inappropriate contact. As far as he could tell, not a single soul was paying attention to them. But that was a stroke of pure luck. If he slipped up again, God only knew what the consequences might be. Sexual harassment training? Unemployment?

  Angie leaned over to pick up something from the floor, and he took the time to compose his face into an unruffled, professional mask.

  She’s just a coworker, he told himself. Nothing more than that, no matter what you want.

  “Need help?” he asked. “What are you looking for?”

  “No!” she said. “No help needed. I thought I’d dropped something, but maybe I didn’t. We can keep working.”

  When she sat back up, all traces of humor had left her face. Her countenance revealed politeness, but nothing more. He felt the loss of her smile—of her, the real Angie—as keenly as he’d felt the withdrawal of her hand. But what could he say? He had no right to demand the return of the warm, relaxed woman he’d met two days before and glimpsed again seconds ago. Just as she had no right to expect him to discard his professional demeanor.

  “What’s the next activity on the handout?” she asked. “Let’s make it our last one for the day. It’s getting late.”

  Does she have other plans for the night? Is she going out to dinner with her friends—or with another man? Maybe that blond guy from the meeting yesterday?

  After a valiant attempt at suppressing that thought, he scanned the page in front of him. “Minefield. We’re supposed to set up an obstacle course in the children’s storytime room. According to the instructions, we’ll take turns navigating the obstacles while blindfolded and silent. Our partner will guide us using only verbal instructions.”

  “Blindfolded? Really? Isn’t that a little kinky for the library?” Her expression warmed once more, the corners of her mouth creeping upward.

  He pointed to the handout. “That’s what the paper says.”

  “And in the storytime room, no less,” she said. “Pervy. Maybe Penny inspired them.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind,” she said, waving a hand in dismissal.

  He decided he’d rather not know. Leading the way to the door, he closed it behind them. They set out for the second floor, passing the Adult Information Desk along the way. Angie waved at a red-haired woman, whose jaw dropped when she saw Grant.

  “Him?” she mouthed to Angie in what she evidently believed was a discreet fashion. “You’re trust-building with him?”

  Angie merely smiled and kept moving.

  “What was that about?” Grant asked as they went down the stairs.

  “I’m not sure. That was my friend Helen. She’s probably just surprised I need to build trust with my new boss so quickly.” She kept her eyes on the steps below.

  Her voice was innocent. Too innocent. But unless he planned to call her a liar—which he didn’t—he needed to let it go.

  They came to the storytime room, which Grant opened with his master key.

  “Look at you with your fancy key,” she said. “Bet you won’t feel as special when I make you fall over an enormous stuffed orangutan.”

  “I’m surprised the room is locked.” He followed her inside, closing the door behind them. “We must be the first pair to do this exercise. Maybe everyone else is waiting until tomorrow.”

  He flipped the light switch beside the door and glanced around the room. Various toys and stuffed animals sat neatly around the edges of the large, airy space. Colorful posters of popular children’s book characters covered the walls, and the floor beneath his feet felt oddly squishy. A wall of tinted windows looked out onto the sidewalk in front of the library, providing light for the room even without the overhead fluorescent bulbs. He closed the shades, deciding the general public didn’t need to see either one of them sightlessly wandering the room. Speaking of which . . .

  On the seat of the large chair in the front lay a long, black strip of fabric. For them to blindfold themselves. In front of each other. They stood alone in a quiet room with the shades drawn and the door closed. When he looked down, he saw that a cushiony mat covered the floor. The source of the squishiness, obviously. He imagined it might feel soft on bare skin. The door could easily lock, should one of them choose to do so.

  He avoided glancing at Angie as his heart began to race. The innocent piece of cloth suddenly seemed—well, suggestive. Even dirty.

  “What, no tickle-whips or riding crops? The library really needs to expand its collection of BDSM gear,” Angie said. “Which reminds me. What’s your safe word, Grant?”

  He nearly swallowed his tongue. “Uh . . .”

  “Kidding. We won’t need safe words until the second day of trust-building. You know, for the nipple clamps exercise.”

  After that, thank God, she stopped talking for a minute. They set up various stuffed animals as obstacles, tacitly agreeing that their minefield would feature fluffy mines in case of navigational failure. When the room stood ready for use, they looked at each other.

  “Who first?” he asked, not sure what answer he wanted her to give.

  “What the hell?” she finally said. “I’ll do it. Hand me the blindfold, Grant.”

  She placed her glasses on a nearby table, laid the cloth in front of her eyes, and began to tie a bow at the back of her head. “Ouch!” she exclaimed. “Caught my goddamn hair.”

  Her second attempt ended the same way. After the third try left her rubbing her head and m
uttering obscenities, he took over.

  “Turn around,” he ordered.

  His fingers brushed her warm cheeks and forehead as he placed the blindfold over her eyes. He drew the cloth back behind her head with gentle pressure, and then tied a loose knot. Her hair lay silky and cool beneath his hand. It invited exploration—a stroke down its length, the delving of his fingers through its depths, or the firm grip of a handful in his fist. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind her whose bed she was sharing.

  Not that he’d ever tugged a woman’s hair in the heat of passion before. The thought had never occurred to him with previous lovers. Not once. Angie seemed to inspire all sorts of newfound urges, though. Not to mention bafflingly intransigent erections.

  When he finished tying the blindfold, he placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him.

  Fuck. The sight of her with the cloth over her eyes nearly brought him to his knees, awakening something visceral deep inside. So deep his logic couldn’t reach it. He’d never experimented with props in bed, but with Angie . . . Christ, the thought of seeing her blindfolded and flat on her back beneath him made him grateful she couldn’t see his face. Or his pants. And when the image of holding her arms above her head as he pushed inside her flashed through his brain, he could barely suppress a groan.

  “Grant?” she asked, her face flushed. “Is everything all right?”

  “Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’ll turn you in the direction of the obstacles and talk you through the course.”

  He forced himself to let her go when she was facing the right way, even though his fingers lingered a few seconds longer than necessary.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “Ready,” he affirmed.

  She took a step away from him, her stride uncharacteristically tentative. Her arms stretched out at her sides, helping her to keep her balance. Above the black cloth, he could see her forehead furrow.

  “Trust me,” he told her. “I won’t let you fall.”

  And he didn’t. Keeping his voice calm and his instructions clear, he guided her through the obstacles. When she reached the other end of the room, he made sure she stopped before hitting the wall and told her she could remove the blindfold.

  She untied the knot and let the cloth drop. Turning in his direction, she searched for him across the room with an unfocused stare. When her eyes finally found his shape, her smile dazzled him.

  He hurried over with her glasses, not wanting her to trip. Her fingers brushed his as she took the glasses from his hand, and he stiffened to stop from shuddering.

  She slid the purple frames onto her nose. “Thanks for these. It’d be ironic to fall when I wasn’t wearing a damn blindfold.” She considered him with her newly sharp gaze. “Your turn.”

  He wrapped the blindfold around his own head, uncaring if he pulled out a chunk or two of hair. If he felt her fingers against his scalp in his personal darkness, he wouldn’t be able to stand it any longer. He’d have to touch her. Hold her.

  Oh, who was he kidding? Fuck her. Fuck her until she moaned like she had the night they’d met, with his cock buried deep, his teeth on her shoulder, and his thumb pressing her clitoris. Jesus, she’d felt so incredibly hot around him as she’d trembled and arched into his body. The sensation of her pussy clamping around him as she came—he couldn’t forget it. Didn’t want to.

  Thank God she couldn’t see his eyes anymore. If he looked at her, she’d know right away where his traitorous mind had roamed. He couldn’t hide it. Wasn’t sure if he even wanted to anymore.

  He tried to think professional thoughts as she turned him toward the obstacles, but even reminding himself of why he needed this job didn’t erase his desire. And when he forged his path through the minefield, the darkness made her voice brush up against him like trailing fingers. Following her orders became unexpectedly charged. Erotic. It made him wonder how it would feel to give her total control over him. To have her fist in his hair, pulling until he acknowledged her mastery of his body. Making him submit.

  He traversed the course in a slightly hunched position, keeping his back to her voice as much as possible. When his hands touched the far wall, he braced his arms against the cool brick, letting his head drop to his chest. His breath came heavily, as if he’d sprinted across the room, not walked it at a deliberate pace.

  She touched his shoulder, and he nearly moaned. “Grant?”

  He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Seeming to understand, she retreated across the room without another word.

  Slowly, he brought himself back under control. Rational thought returned, and it occurred to him: For all of their differences, neither one of them had let the other fall during this exercise. From what he could tell, neither of them had even come close to a single obstacle. She’d followed his directions without hesitation, just as he had hers.

  Almost as if they trusted each other implicitly. Almost as if they belonged together.

  The thought warmed him, but it also sent a sharp pang through his chest. What a waste. All the potential of what he and Angie could become—set aside. For a job.

  A job you need, he reminded himself. A job your family needs.

  When they returned to the meeting room and packed up their belongings for the day, he realized they hadn’t ever returned to the eye contact exercise from before lunch. He decided not to press the issue. Much as he wanted an excuse to gaze at her without either interruption or accusations of professional impropriety, he didn’t know if he could restrain himself. After sixty seconds of eye contact, the temptation to leap across the table and tackle her to the floor might prove too much. Angie tempted him beyond reason. Literally. It was the only explanation he had for making love to a virtual stranger and continuing to moon over her even after finding out she was his subordinate.

  A reasonable man wouldn’t stand in the library parking lot and gaze at the taillights of Angie’s car, unable to move until the last speck of her had disappeared into the distance.

  A reasonable man wouldn’t look forward to experiencing this exact same pain again tomorrow. God help them both.

  His car’s headlights pierced the darkness of the rural highway, lighting Grant’s path as he drove to his parents’ house. For safety’s sake, he was keeping a low speed and watching the turns. Otherwise, though, he was trying his best to ignore this particular stretch of pavement.

  He’d met Angie along this road only two days ago. And he certainly didn’t need another reminder of everything he’d set aside in favor of professional responsibility and filial duty.

  Instead, he needed to focus on the various tasks he meant to complete tonight. Replacing any burned-out lights around the house. Spackling and repainting a patch of the kitchen wall, which Dad—flailing in an effort not to fall—had inadvertently gouged last week with a spoon. Investigating the odd growling noise his parents’ microwave kept making.

  Fixing the latter, Grant suspected, would prove well beyond his limited handyman abilities. So he’d need to call the manufacturer and set up a service call, making sure to give his own credit card as payment.

  See? There are plenty of things to think about other than Angie, he told himself. You don’t need to dwell on your lone night together or how much you wanted her today. You certainly don’t need to feel that weird ache in your chest whenever you picture her face.

  He almost believed it. At least until the next time his thoughts returned to her, approximately two seconds later. Then he had to lift a hand from the steering wheel to rub that tightness out of his chest once again.

  When his cell unexpectedly rang, he jumped a little bit. He grabbed the phone, taking a quick glance at the screen. The number for his parents’ landline appeared on the display, and he sighed. He hated to ignore the call, but he was driving along a dark road and didn’t want the distraction of a conversation. Besides, he’d be at their house in less than five minutes.

  He didn’t need to pull over. The call couldn’t be that urgent
, could it?

  But as soon as he arrived and heard the sound of his mother crying through the front door, he knew he’d made yet another mistake. Without bothering to knock, he fumbled for his keys, let himself into the house, and ran inside.

  It didn’t take long to discover the source of her distress. His father was crumpled on the floor only ten feet to the right of the door, in front of his favorite recliner. Edward was awake and moving, but he didn’t seem able to get up. Patricia, his wife of almost forty years, knelt beside him, tears streaming down her face and splattering her glasses.

  Grant dropped to his own knees by the recliner. “Dad? Are you okay?”

  “Son.” Edward’s voice sounded weak, as it often did when he had a bad day. He blinked up at Grant. “I’m fine. See to your mother.”

  The grief-stricken frustration on his mother’s face and the absence of any walker nearby told Grant the whole story, even before Patricia said a word. His father, impatient with his slow recovery, had tried to move around the house without proper support again. And he’d fallen, just as he had every other time he’d done the same thing.

  Once down on the floor, he couldn’t get back up. And as strong as his wife was, she couldn’t get him up either. Like Grant, Edward was a tall man. Not as strong as he once was, but still heavy.

  He couldn’t seem to accept his ongoing weakness. Which Grant understood, since he too had trouble reconciling the helpless man on the floor in front of him with the stalwart father he’d had until such a short time ago. But for the sake of everyone, Edward needed to start using his walker until he regained full mobility. Like it or not. Because otherwise, he was going to injure himself seriously one of these days.

  Maybe he had already.

  Putting a supportive arm around his mother’s shoulders, Grant laid a gentle hand on his father’s arm. “Does it hurt anywhere? Did you break something?”

  “No. I just can’t seem to sit up.” Edward’s mouth twisted. “I told your mother not to call you. I figured I could just rest here until you came.”