Not Another Valentine Story

LAUREN

Lauren leaned against the door to her apartment before going in. She clutched her keys in her hand and took a moment of silence for the night she could have had.

Sighing, she unlocked the door and went in, the open living space dimly lit and empty. She shed her jacket and kicked off her heels, ignoring the giggles that were coming from the left side of the room, from behind her roommate’s door.

At least someone’s having a good night, Lauren thought, smirking, then went to the fridge. She pulled some ice cream from the freezer and tucked it under her arm, bringing it and her purse to her room on the right side of the living space.

Her bedroom was her sanctuary. Well, her bed was, and that took up most of the room. It was high with plush comforters in different textures to feed her need for all things cozy.

A TV hung high on the plain beige wall, facing her bed, her light-colored wooden makeup dresser underneath it. Next to that stood the entrance to her small walk-through closet, packed to capacity with her clothing and leading to her bathroom.

Dropping her purse on the shag carpet, she eyed the clothes that were strewn over her usually tidy bed and floor. She’d spent the entire afternoon looking for the perfect dress, and now her sanctuary looked like it had been raided.

And it hadn’t even been worth it.

Lauren ignored it all and stepped into the closet, eager to take off her dress. As she passed the mirror, she stopped, her reflection triggering another crushed fantasy.

She couldn’t quite pull off this dress.

While the dress hugged her small frame in all the right places, her short stature clashed with its length. Instead of falling somewhere in the sexy zone between the knee and midthigh, the dress went below the knee, making her legs appear much shorter.

After making a mental note to get the hem tailored, she got into her pajamas, climbed into bed, and opened her laptop. Then she started scrolling through her task list.

Following her standard procedure of double-checking reservations and bookings the day before a client’s event, she sent out emails in between spoonfuls of ice cream.

She was going through the set list for the band and okaying all the songs they had put forward when her phone buzzed. Flicking her eyes to its screen, Lauren slouched when she saw it was a message from her dad.

Leave it to the curse to turn back around her improving night. It wouldn’t be a true Valentine’s Day, though, without crappy messages from her parents.

Her mom had already sent one earlier from Spain, on her third whirlwind romance since she divorced Dad. Lauren hadn’t read it. The last thing she wanted to hear about was whatever luxury item her mom’s new sugar daddy had bought her. That’s all her mom ever talked about.

She didn’t want to read this message from her dad either because she knew what it said too—he’d said it many times before. She already knew how the conversation would go.

He would say that he’d booked something for the event this weekend, even though she was fully capable of handling it, so she would tell him no, and he would do it anyway. And he’d frame it like he was doing her a favor, like she couldn’t do anything without him.

Yes, her father was wealthy and powerful. Yes, he was a socialite with connections in every industry. And yes, she’d accepted his help to pay for college. But Lauren wanted to build her event-planning business using her name alone, and he couldn’t—or didn’t want to—see that.

Despite her constant rejection of his money and network, he still saw her as a little girl who needed her daddy to walk her through life.

She wasn’t, and she’d spent her entire adult life trying to prove that, but he just wouldn’t let her. What he called helping, she called patronizing and overstepping. What he called checking in, she called overshadowing and smothering.

She wanted to distance her business from her father’s name, but the more he meddled, the more clients associated it with him, causing doubts to linger in her mind. Did clients want to hire her because of her skills or because he was attached to her name?

Even if he was doing this as a way to apologize for fucking the maid and breaking up his marriage to Lauren’s mom after thirty-five years, it was infuriating that he just wouldn’t listen when she told him to stop.

Lauren picked up her phone, and after reading about his latest meddling—this time booking a different venue—she held the spoon between her teeth so she could reply with both hands. She bit down on the spoon as she typed.

Lauren put her phone down, took a few calming breaths, and scooped some ice cream into her mouth before replying.

Lauren didn’t respond.

Of course he brought up that damn school play. She’d been meant to play Ariel, but on opening night, she’d vomited onstage. She’d had a stomach bug, not nerves or fear.

And her father never let her forget that she’d screwed up the part. That she’d failed that one time—though Lauren didn’t see it as a failure.

With a huff, she slammed her phone on her bedside table, grateful for its soft cover, then set the ice cream next to it. Seeking a much-needed distraction and a well-deserved release of tension, she grabbed her BOB from the drawer.

She didn’t want to think about her parents, work, or what day it was. She wanted to think about a certain dark-haired, green-eyed Sir who had stolen her breath and scrambled her usually focused thoughts.

So she turned her vibrator on, doing exactly that.