Valentine's Day Collection (A Timeless Romance Anthology Book 19)

by Janette Rallison

  “But six hours of Colin Firth!” Beth interjected desperately, ignoring Whitney’s English major Shakespeare plea.

  “Five hours,” said Sam with a laugh as she made notes. “And he’s not in all of it.”

  “The A&E version has six episodes,” Beth countered.

  “That are each fifty minutes long,” Sam explained. “Which makes the whole movie five hours, not six.”

  MollyAnne lifted an eyebrow at Beth. “I’d think a Colin-Firth-as-Mister-Darcy aficionado would know that.”

  Beth harrumphed and slouched on the couch, joining Whitney with her arms folded in protest.

  Sam jotted down more notes. “I’m including the other Austens that Tara mentioned, plus the two Shakespeare adaptations for you, Whitney. Remember, none of this is final yet. I have to point out, though, that Heath Ledger is in 10 Things I Hate About You. Just saying.”

  “If we’re talking Heath Ledger, let’s add A Knight’s Tale,” Beth said. “Oh, and Can’t Buy Me Love. But that’s Patrick Dempsey.” She grinned.

  “Nice,” Whitney said. “Sam, add Serendipity.”

  Suggestions continued to fly at Sam as fast as she could write. They’d never watch the entire list, of course, but recording everyone’s suggestions was the first step in planning the marathon. The list provided backup ideas, which often proved necessary, as preferences inevitably shifted. Sam didn’t worry about tonight’s disagreements causing problems tomorrow. She’d seen plenty of marathons come and go, and somehow, almost like magic, whenever it was time to start a new movie, everyone could agree on what to watch next.

  “You’ve Got Mail,” Tara said suddenly. “I haven’t seen that in forever. And that other one with Tom Hanks. Written by the same woman. Shoot. What was it?”

  “I should remember,” Sam said. “It’s one of my parents’ favorites. I’ll check IMDB.” She reached for her phone on the couch’s armrest, but instead of launching the app, noticed an unread message. “Steve texted,” she said quietly.

  “What does it say?” Tara asked, scooting closer.

  With a laugh, Sam pulled the phone out of view from the others. “Let me read it first.”

  I have something to tell you. And something to ask you. Can we connect in the morning, say around nine? I need to see your face.

  Good thing she was already sitting; Sam nearly passed out before remembering to breathe. He might not be coming. He could just want to FaceTime from London.

  “What is it?” MollyAnne said.

  “Tell us,” Beth added.

  “Come on,” Whitney said, not to be left out of the conversation.

  “He has something to tell me. And something to...” Sam swallowed and licked her lips. “Something to ask me.”

  She waited out the exclamations of excitement before looking up from her phone and going on. “He wants to see me in the morning at nine.” Hearing the words leave her mouth, she felt blood drain from her face. “Holy crap. I can’t do breakfast in pajamas. I have to be showered and looking hot by nine. And I haven’t done laundry in a week. What was I thinking? I don’t have anything to wear.” Sam stood and paced the small room from the door to the kitchenette and back again, gripping her phone for dear life.

  “You were purposely not getting your hopes up,” Tara said. “Remember?”

  “Right,” Sam said, combing her hair with her free hand.

  Tara went on. “You said that if you washed your favorite outfits, you’d jinx Valentine’s, and he wouldn’t come for sure.”

  “I’m an idiot,” Sam said. “Now I have nothing cute to wear.” She paced some more, thinking aloud to process her thoughts and make an alternate plan. The marathon had flown right out of her head. “I have to do laundry— now. I’ll wear my red maxi skirt with that top you gave me, Tara. They look so good together. I need to wash both. And my good bra. I hope there’s enough time for it to air dry...” The corner of her thumbnail slipped between her teeth, and she gnawed it— an old habit from childhood that returned whenever she felt nervous. Except that when she was three, the habit was sucking her thumb instead.

  Tara stood and reached for Sam’s shoulders, stopping her frenetic pacing. Tara nodded toward Sam’s bullet journal, which lay abandoned on the couch. “I’ll finish marathon prep. You’ve taught me well, Master Jedi. As your Padawan, I’ll make you proud. I’ll even remember to play Wynn Rock’s YouTube channel between movies.”

  “Excellent,” Beth said. “That way, we’ll still have eye candy on the screen.”

  “And it’ll be a hot guy who’s real,” Whitney filled in. “Not some character from a movie.”

  “And someone we already know is a decent human being,” MollyAnne finished.

  They’d essentially recited Sam’s top reasons for keeping Wynn Rock videos playing in the background as she did dishes and homework. She must have seen each of the videos a hundred times, sometimes watching, always listening to Conner Wynn, whether he was on an outdoor adventure or giving an impassioned opinion on conserving nature, saving energy, or helping a charity. He really was the kind of person the world could use more of. Plus, as her friends had said, he was awfully easy on the eyes.

  Sam dropped her hand and looked around the room. “You guys won’t hate me if I skip out on you tomorrow? I don’t know how long I’ll be gone with Steve. I could miss the entire—”

  “What is there to be mad about?” Beth asked, talking over her. “Getting proposed to? Spending time with your fiancé, who has been out of the country for the better part of the last six months? Are you kidding? Of course we won’t be mad!”

  Whitney made a shooing gesture with both hands. “Go. We’ll be fine. Remember, we have Tara to take care of us, and you’ve trained her well.”

  MollyAnne leaned forward, chin resting on her palm. “But we do expect to hear every little detail after the fact, or that will make us mad. Deal?”

  An un-containable grin spread across Sam’s face. “Deal,” she said. “You guys, I can’t even...”

  “Go!” they all said.

  “Okay, I’ll start a couple of loads of laundry in the basement. I won’t be gone long. We can keep planning in just a few minutes.”

  Tara physically dragged her into their shared room, where they stuffed Sam’s laundry bag with the essentials— her red maxi skirt, along with any other darks she could find to wash with it. After all, she couldn’t very well wash just her skirt in a full load; that was wasteful of water, detergent, and electricity. She’d never be able to look Conner Wynn in the face again— or, she supposed, the screen. After adding some of Tara’s jeans and Sam’s red university sweatshirt into the top, the mesh bag ended up pretty full. A quick look in her dresser drawer, however, produced two quarters. She’d totally forgotten to pick up another roll.

  “Here,” Tara said, placing a full roll of quarters into her hand. “Pay me back later.”

  “You’re the best.” Sam gave Tara a quick hug and grabbed her room key, but before she could leave, MollyAnne appeared in the bedroom door.

  “Bad news, ladies.” She held out a piece of paper. “Katie just dropped this off.”

  What was their RA doing passing out fliers an hour before midnight? Tara took the paper and groaned, holding it out to Sam.

  Laundry room is closed for the weekend due to a frozen pipe bursting. Sorry for the inconvenience. Use the laundromat on Acorn Street until further notice.

  Sam slumped onto the end of her bed. “Now what?”

  “You go to the laundromat on Acorn,” Tara said. She held the paper over her shoulder for MollyAnne to take.

  “I think you’re forgetting a few small details,” Sam said. “Acorn is four blocks away. It’s winter. It’s late. And I don’t have a functional car.”

  “So?”

  “So I can’t walk dark, icy city streets by myself at this hour.” Sam hoped to have enough money saved in another month to either pay for a new transmission on her old beater car or buy a new-to-her used car. Until then..
.

  Tara went to her desk and returned a second later with something she clapped into Sam’s hand— car keys. “Take mine.”

  Sam’s fingers curved around both the keys and the roll of quarters. Her eyes grew misty. As excited as she was to be with Steve, she’d miss rooming with Tara. She stepped forward and gave her a big hug. “You’re the best, you know that?”

  “Pretty much,” Tara said, chuckling. She pulled away, looking a little emotional, too. “I learned from the actual best, though.” She tilted her head toward the door. “Now go wash that skirt.”

  Chapter Two

  Connor checked his phone yet again. Midnight was fast approaching, which meant that his social media rival, Trevor Knowles, would be posting the first challenge in his latest attempt to crown himself king of YouTube and Instagram.

  For six months now, Connor had sidestepped Trevor’s attempts at driving competition between them. They didn’t have that much overlap in audience anyway. Connor made a comfortable living; he didn’t need to stroke his own ego by beating an arrogant chauvinist like Trevor Knowles. The guy dedicated his feed to showing what a great bachelor life he had: showing off his washboard abs, trips to sunny beaches, and more women— “babes” in Trevor-speak— than he knew what to do with.

  But this time, Connor had finally caved, because Trevor’s latest contest idea involved raising money for charity. The winner picked a charity that the loser had to donate five thousand dollars to. Connor had no idea what charity Trevor had in mind— if the guy had thought that far ahead, which he doubted. Connor had already picked the charity for Trevor to donate to: the local women’s shelter. The guy spent so much time objectifying women that the least Connor could do was make him help women like his mother— strong women who needed help fleeing abuse.

  Trevor would be posting the first task of the challenge a few minutes before midnight. Wanting to watch the video alone, Connor stepped onto the porch of the old house he’d rented with some roommates near campus. The glow of the porch light spilled golden onto unblemished snow.

  He checked his phone. Sure enough, he’d been tagged in a new post. For what had to be the hundredth time that day, Connor considered pulling out of the contest. It hadn’t started yet. Any hubbub over his canceling would settle down soon enough. His audience wasn’t the one clamoring for the competition. He’d happily give five grand to Trevor’s charity of choice. He only hoped it wouldn’t be something like a foundation that bought costumes for needy role-playing gamers or something equally pointless.

  His thumb hovered over the icon. In his gut, he knew he’d go through with the challenge. He’d made a commitment, and he didn’t renege on a promise. Plus, he really did want to raise money for the local battered women’s shelter. He planned to match Trevor’s donation, making it ten thousand total. And Connor could encourage his audience to donate as well.

  He remembered all too well living in a shelter as a kid, after his mother had taken him and his brother and fled from his dad with little more than the clothes on their backs. She’d passed away three years ago from breast cancer. That was another charity he’d considered. In the end, though, he knew that he literally owed his life to that shelter and to the volunteers who’d helped his mother stand on her own two feet again after she’d taken him and his little brother there. A few years later, his father was convicted of killing a girlfriend and would spend the rest of his life in prison. Connor had no doubt that if his mother hadn’t acted, she would have been the woman he killed, and Connor and his brother would have been split up in foster care— if not dead.

  You’re stalling, he thought. He pulled his focus to his phone. He needed to watch the video introducing the contest, which Trevor had dubbed, “The Ultimate Bachelor Challenge,” because supposedly it would prove which of them was the “real” man.

  But before Connor could tap the icon, he heard the sound of spinning car wheels, followed by a door slamming and a voice saying, “Crap. Crap, crap, crap!”

  Wondering if someone needed help, he stepped off the porch and walked toward the street. Two houses down, an old sedan had run into a bank of snow left by a snowplow. He knew from experience that the snow was likely several feet thick and about as hard as concrete. That car was definitely stuck. The car beeped and flashed its lights as it was locked. Soon after, the figure of a woman appeared, lugging a laundry bag over one shoulder. She slowly picked her way along the icy road. He glanced to his left, toward the laundromat down the hill. That’s where she had to be headed. But at midnight? In the winter? Alone?

  “Hey, you okay?” Connor called, hoping to help.

  She let out a high-pitched yelp, clearly startled by his presence. She slipped, dropping the bag and catching her balance on a mailbox. Her boots went in opposite directions as she held on and regained her footing. She didn’t respond to him except for glancing his way with wide, worried eyes.

  Crap, he thought, echoing her own exclamation. He hadn’t meant to scare her. Mom taught you better than that.

  He retreated slowly and headed for the house so she’d know he wasn’t some creep who followed random women in the middle of the night. Once inside, he closed the door, turned out the living room lights, and stood at the edge of the living room window so he could make sure she was okay. The woman— a university student, he guessed, based on her age and the direction she’d come from— picked up the bag, still holding onto the mailbox, then carefully let go and walked, one tiny, quick step at a time, as if trying to hurry but knowing that bigger steps would mean another fall.

  Before she disappeared down the slope of the hill, she paused and looked over her shoulder at the house. Connor moved into the shadows of the living room, hoping she hadn’t seen him, or she might be spooked after all.

  Good guys, he remembered his mother telling him and his brother, Jacob, could help ease women’s fears by consciously not appearing threatening. She’d given examples like walking on the other side of the street so a woman didn’t need to worry whether a man was following her.

  Mom would smack me on the forehead if she could see me now.

  The young woman passed beneath a street lamp. Her hair seemed to glow from a streetlamp breaking through her hair, lighting it into a deep copper flame. He’d always been partial to redheads. He smiled at that, wishing they could have met under other circumstances. He couldn’t exactly chase her down now and ask her out. She’d probably call 911 or pull a can of pepper spray. But as she disappeared into the darkness, he noticed something bright red in the snow— very different from the gorgeous shade of her hair. Something had fallen out of her laundry bag.

  He slipped out the door and hurried over to the blob in the road— a University of Utah sweatshirt. He picked it up and shook off the powdery snow, rescuing it from getting soaked. The edge of the collar was worn in spots, as were the cuffs on the sleeves. The white logo had faded somewhat. The shirt had obviously been worn and well-loved. She’d miss it.

  He turned in the direction she’d walked. I could catch her and return it.

  To his credit, he restrained the instinct to yell to her. She’d likely slip and fall again, maybe hurting herself— and then she’d call the cops on him. Maybe he could leave it on the hood of her car. No. It’d end up sopping wet— maybe stolen.

  Slinging the sweatshirt over one shoulder, he headed for the house. He’d figure out what to do with it later. First, though, he needed to bite the bullet by finding out the first task of The Ultimate Bachelor Challenge. Whatever it was, he had to beat Trevor. As soon as Connor got inside and clicked the door shut behind him, his phone squawked with the barnyard noises he’d assigned to Trevor’s number. Connor reluctantly checked the text.

  Challenge #1 is live. May the best man win.

  Connor wished he’d insisted on more ground rules, including having an impartial third party select the challenges. But Trevor had insisted publicly that his assistant, Johnny, would create the challenges in secret, and that Trevor wouldn’t know them
until each one was announced live. Tired of arguing with Trevor, and glad he’d agreed to the charity donation aspect, Connor had relented.

  On the up side, the challenges would significantly increase Connor’s audience, which, he hoped, might turn into increased donations for the shelter. Yet he dreaded the possibility of the tasks reflecting Trevor’s personality, like taking selfies kissing strange women. Rather, chicks or babes.

  To keep my integrity, I’ll have to be creative, he thought.

  His phone mooed, clucked, and baa-ed again with a second text from Trevor.

  Chicken? A fitting text, considering the barnyard noises that accompanied it. Another text followed.

  You backing out?

  Connor quickly typed a reply before Trevor could turn his taunting to social media. Game on. Prepare to lose.

  He sent the text and then panicked— what if the first task was something horrible that he couldn’t bear to do?

  Here goes nothing. Connor played the video.

  Trevor wore his trademark fedora. “Hey, there! It’s Trevor Knowles from The Trevor Dudes. Right now it’s just past midnight, so it’s officially Valentine’s Day. And you know what that means...” He let an air horn rip in one hand and threw confetti with the other. “It’s time for The Ultimate Bachelor Challenge! That’s right, Fellow Trevor Dudes! For the next twenty-four hours, I’ll be facing off virtually with Connor Wynn, the guy you might know as the host of Wynn Rocks. The two of us will be posting updates right here on Instagram and on YouTube. Be sure to follow the official Ultimate Bachelor hashtag so you don’t miss a thing!”

  He made a hashtag symbol with his fingers.

  “A new task will be announced every two hours, right here on my feed. So keep your eyes peeled on the even hours: the next task will go live at two o’clock, then four o’clock, and so on. Each successfully completed task earns the bachelor two hundred points. But the first bachelor to post proof of completion earns an additional hundred points. At the end, we’ll tally up likes, shares, thumbs-up, follows, and all of that, throw the numbers into a fancy algorithm, and we’ll know the winner.” He nodded and rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Simple, right? My good friend Johnny here came up with the tasks. They’re known only to him. I haven’t seen any of them. Right, Johnny?”