Val's Secret Valentine: Adeniyi Siblings, #3

By Christina Rose Andrews

Simple.

Uncomplicated.

Tranquil.

Esme Archer's life is all of those things until a good deed goes horribly right. Or wrong. Whoever thought that shoveling her neighbor's sidewalk would land her in so much trouble? Cupid has to be laughing at her.

Now she finds herself inexplicably tangled up in injured pro football player Val Adeniyi's life and heart. He's everything she could want in a guy: family-oriented, compassionate, built. Did she mention built? She should mention built. But even better than his admittedly fabulous good looks is his heart. He's the kind of guy she wants to spend her days curled up with and her nights curled around. And then there's his adorable ball of fluff kitten. She can't decide which one she wants to snuggle with first...

Unfortunately there's one tiny problem: he hasn't told anyone about her. Not his family. Not his teammates. No one. He claims it's for the best. But is the perfect man setting them both up for the perfect storm?

(Val's Secret Valentine is a standalone novella featuring a Black man and a biracial woman. It is complete and features a happy ending.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: RoseLark Publishing
• Release date: Jan 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386503972

Christina Rose Andrews

Christina Rose Andrews is actually two friends, Lark and Rose, writing underneath one penname.  A native of Colorado, Lark currently lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan. She is the mother to three fur babies: London, Shikamaru, and Pazu. She has an adorable godson and several very neglected plants. She graduated from East Grand Rapids High School. While at Central Michigan University, she initially studied Education and even made it to student teaching before realizing the career wasn’t for her. She graduated with a degree in “Do you want fries with that?” otherwise known as History and Earth Science. She’s a bit of Jack of all Trades, which is oddly useful when it comes to writing and gives her several real life analogues for characters and plots. In her spare time, she likes to help put on large fandom conventions and hang out with family and friends.  Rose is a New Yorker through and through. She is the proud parent of a well-mannered potted plant and the aunt to an adorable set of twins and a cute pit bull puppy. While most of her family went to Harvard, she bucked tradition and went to Haverford, where she received a degree in “How to be a Cult Leader” aka Religion and Psychology. After graduating, she pursued a master’s degree in Library Science at Pratt Institute. Currently, she works as a librarian in the suburbs of New York City. When she’s not on the train to work, she likes to read, play video games, and have tea. Because TEA!!! Lark and Rose met in an online writing community in 2009 and promptly had an argument.  After that, it was a long slippery slope into co-authorship.  They chose to write cross-cultural romance since it was something close to their hearts and it was damn near impossible to find stories featuring characters they wanted to see.  Both Lark and Rose are proponents for destigmatizing mental health, solving problems through conversation and listening, and creating real characters -- not caricatures.   ​They have presented at internationally recognized events.

Book preview

VAL'S SECRET VALENTINE

Christina Rose Andrews

Copyright © 2018 RoseLark Publishing

All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, 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 is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

This was previously published in the anthology Love Me Hard in 2018.

Acknowledgments/Dedication

Acknowledgments: A big thank you goes out to V.T. Charbonneau and Dana Kenzi for tearing this piece apart so that we could put it back together.

Dedicated to Amber: a great author who taught us about plotting and writing outside of our comfort zone.

Chapter One

oOo

The newly fallen snow squeaked and scrunched underneath Esme Archer’s boots as she climbed up the hill leading to the house she shared with three other people. The snow glittered like jewels in the noonday sun. She wished the camera on her phone could capture it, but she knew if she tried it’d just look overexposed and washed out. It was the kind of day which drove artists outside and writers to their keyboards. If she had an artistic bone in her body, she’d join them. As it was, Esme simply appreciated the rugged beauty of the Colorado Rockies and the gingerbread picturesque architecture of Breckenridge.

All around her echoed the sounds of winter: children playing, shovels scraping, snow blowers roaring. Underneath it all was the soft shushing noise of the wind blowing through the pines.

She loved it here.

Loved the thin, crisp mountain air. Loved the ever-changing gaggle of tourists and day-trippers. Loved the unpredictability and the stability. As a townie, she got to experience everything the place had to offer—from the shops to the food, and she still hadn’t uncovered all of Breck’s secrets.

But she wouldn’t get a chance to uncover more now. January was the height of ski season and the streets and slopes were filled with people anxious to experience the legendary powder. She wasn’t a huge fan of skiing—that’d been her ex’s bag—but that didn’t mean she hated the snow. She didn’t. She’d just much rather look at it than play in it.

Esme shot a grateful prayer to whoever might be listening that she only had to walk three blocks to get to the studio where she worked as a yoga instructor. That meant she didn’t have to dig her car out. Besides, finding parking along Main Street was a hassle in the off-season, let alone now. No, it was definitely easier to walk even in the snow and cold.

From up ahead, a muffled curse filtered down to her. Followed closely by another. And another.

Someone is having a bad day.

When she reached the top of the hill, the voice coalesced into a man’s. Her across-the-street neighbor. At least she assumed it was her neighbor, she’d never actually met the guy despite living here for three years. It was like he was a ghost or a phantom. The only evidence until now that he existed were tire tracks leading into the attached garage.

The man swearing out in front was decidedly real. And pissed off.

The first thing she noticed was he was wearing cargo shorts. Typically his clothing wouldn’t be noteworthy, but it was January, and the temperature was hovering near single digits. The second thing she noticed was his size. He was a big man, muscular, with dark brown skin and an immaculately barbered fade haircut. The third thing she noticed was the cast on his leg. The man balanced on one foot struggling with a snow shovel, his right leg encased in a gray brace which disappeared up into the cargo shorts and extended all the way down to mid-calf. He was wearing moon boots which—unless you were a small child—were the worst possible kind of winter boots imaginable. Even her battered hiking boots with their worn treads were better. Which wasn’t saying much.

Shifting her backpack, she considered going over and offering to help, but something stopped her. The guy would probably refuse out of a misguided sense of chivalry or worse, misogyny. Better not to give him a choice. Instead, she slipped around to the side door of her house, stamping her feet before she entered to rid her boots of the clinging snow.

Hey, May, her roommate Jenn greeted around a mouthful of Captain Crunch. Did you see there’s someone actually living at the porn house?

I wish you wouldn’t call it that.

Dude. All we see are hot built guys and the landscaping and maid services. It’s not even owned by a person! It’s totally a porn house.

Can I say, yet again, how creepy it is that you looked up who owned the house?

It’s public record, and I was curious. It’s not like I broke any laws. And seriously, what else could Thespian Enterprises be but porn?

Esme didn’t bother answering. They’d had this discussion before. It wasn’t worth the fight.

Jenn pushed her bleach-blonde hair behind one ear, revealing a line of studs and hoops. I wonder how he got the cast. She peeked out the window. Think he got it falling out of bed?

Shrugging, Esme didn’t grace the question with an answer. Who cared how he got it? He was hurt. He needed help. She set her backpack by the front door. She grabbed the shovel they kept on a mat just inside in case they needed to shovel their way out and couldn’t get to the detached garage. Time to put some more karma in the plus column.

Where you going?

I’m going to go help our neighbor. She stepped outside before she could get into yet another argument about being too nice. Jenn had opinions and never helped anyone unless they helped her first. She wasn’t a bad roommate, but Esme felt sorry for her friends.

Esme pulled her hat down around her ears, wishing she hadn’t shaved her hair off a month ago. But she was sick of paying to relax it and wanted to try a more natural look. Besides, she rocked the pixie cut. The hair complemented her eclectic style and tiny frame. She might keep it short.

The man didn’t even look up as she crossed the street, shovel in hand. That was fine. She wasn’t doing this to get his attention. She was doing it because it was the neighborly thing to do. Her parents would be so proud. They’d probably say that verbatim when she talked to them later.

Placing the shovel like a plow, she rested the handle against one hip and pushed the heavy snow out of the way. At the edge of the driveway, she kicked the blade off to the side so she didn’t strain her back and arms. It was a trick she’d learned growing up in Utah with several older siblings and parents who instigated competitions to see who could shovel the driveway the fastest. Whatever worked, right? Bit by bit, the concrete underneath was revealed.

On her fourth pass, she heard someone say, Hey.

Pausing, she looked over to see the man watching her, his arms resting on top of the handle of his shovel. Hey yourself, she said, putting on a friendly smile, a real one, not the one she saved for clients or overly annoying guys.

Not that I don’t appreciate the help, but I had it covered. The tone of his voice conveyed annoyance and gratitude in the same breath.

I know you did, she said, her mouth twitching. But I could use the exercise. If he was going to lie about not needing the help, she was going to lie about needing the exercise.

One thick eyebrow shot up as his eyes narrowed.

She just shot him a beatific grin and returned to her work. When she glanced over to him on her next pass, she noted he was still standing there, slightly hunched over, his face contorted with pain. She resisted