Be My Valentine: Short Story Collection

Be My Valentine: Short Story Collection
Brigid Coady

Nikki Moore

Teresa F. Morgan

“Happiness is our honeymoon, no matter what may come next.And to think that I almost gave it all up…”Fall in love with three fabulous new authors – Nikki Moore, Brigid Coady and Teresa F Morgan – and these gorgeously poignant short stories about love in all its forms.Go on, treat yourself this Valentine’s Day!Praise for Brigid Coady:'Poignant, funny, realistic yet romantic… I loved them.' – Katie Fforde‘A little literary canapé – one delicious bite and it’s gone but it certainly left me wanting more.’ – One More PagePraise for Teresa Morgan:‘A perfect read for anyone who has their head in the clouds for love.’ – Pajama Book Girl‘This book encompasses all the elements of a truly fantastic chick-lit novel.’ – Cosmochicklitan

Be My Valentine

Nikki Moore Teresa F. Morgan Brigid Coady

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

Contents

About the Authors (#u50715fc4-0dfc-5e5a-be71-7508262838ae)

The Love Letter (#ud8812dbd-fb43-525d-9e84-9a306c3a7381)

A Day in the Life … (#u6d53abe5-f1ef-5da7-96e6-e8ded0acafef)

Love Will Find You (#litres_trial_promo)

Storm in a Coffee Cup (#litres_trial_promo)

Half a Heart (#litres_trial_promo)

About HarperImpulse (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Authors (#u91220244-7e08-55dd-82d4-e8cec3de13e3)

Nikki Moore

I've loved writing and reading since forever, and discovered the romance genre in my teens, so I'm absolutely delighted to join the HarperImpulse team!

A finalist in writing competitions since 2010, including Novelicious Undiscovered 2012, I'm a member of the fantastic Romantic Novelists’ Association.

You can find me on Twitter @NikkiMoore_Auth to chat about love, life and writing – please get in touch!

Teresa F. Morgan

I live in sunny Weston-super-Mare, trying to hold onto my Surrey accent where I was born and bred.

For years I persevered with boring jobs, until my two boys joined my nest. In an attempt to find something to work around them, and to ensure I never endured full time boredom again, I found writing.

Brigid Coady

I was born in the UK but raised round the world and spent most of my childhood with my nose in a book. I’m now a non-practicing engineer who works in project management. I write romance and young adult stories. I’ve been a voice-over and radio continuity artist. I love country music and used to have my own radio show. My boyfriend says I have an unhealthy obsession with Kenny Chesney.

The Love Letter (#u91220244-7e08-55dd-82d4-e8cec3de13e3)

By Nikki Moore

He couldn't do this any more. Couldn't be with Lila like this - it was wrong. It was time they had The Talk.

Jake clutched the tattered heavy cream paper of the letter, fighting back the lump in his throat as he gazed at the setting sun casting shimmering rays on the turquoise sea. When it had first happened, time and again he’d unfolded and refolded the pages, repeatedly reading his wife’s words. Soaked them up as if to absorb them into himself. As if keeping her voice tangible would somehow keep her alive.

Guilt scorched through him. The letter had been tucked away for almost three years now, neglected. The grief counsellor had advised that at some point he must move forward, not linger on it. So after eighteen months he'd finally taken the advice. And it felt like her voice had faded. That he'd forgotten.

He ran a hand through his short blond hair. The truth was, he felt guilty about everything. Why couldn't he have helped Shelley, done more? Why should he be here, when she wasn't? Why should he get to breathe in the briny air, turn his face toward the warmth and light of the sun, appreciate the vibrant blue and red hues of the flowers spilling from balconies in the narrow paved streets of the sleepy Greek village his grandfather's villa nestled in? Why should he get to feel love and hold hands and laugh with someone?

He let out a slow breath, broad chest expanding beneath the black polo shirt Lila said suited him, made him look sexy. Only twenty-seven years old, he felt at least a hundred with the regret that weighed him down. Still, at least Shelley's letter had always been in his wallet, her words carried against his heart.

But now it was time; the right moment to face his wife's slanting script and large loops again, the generous lines of hearts and kisses. The right moment to crystallise her voice.

Jake glanced self-consciously at the apartment behind him. Lila was showering and dressing for dinner after their day on the small sandy beach, aware that he needed to discuss something serious with her. It'd take her at least another ten minutes to get ready.

The crashing of waves on the pebbled beach sounded like a heartbeat as he raised the wine glass – full of Shelley's favourite Chardonnay ‒ to toast it at the sunset. He shook open the letter, a sad smile curling his mouth.

Dear Jake,

To me, happiness is powdery white sand sloping down into endless blue sea, waves lapping on the shore. Happiness is the bright sun heating our faces and tanning our bodies, the air heavy with humidity that makes a midday nap seem like the best idea in the world.

Happiness is pineapple-scented sun cream that makes our skin glide and slide as we spoon together in a hammock under the coconut trees that provide welcome shade.

Happiness is our honeymoon, no matter what may come next.

And to think that I almost gave it all up …

We’d been together for what felt like a lifetime when you proposed, though in real terms it had only been six years. I suppose it felt longer because we’d met at the start of secondary school and had been friends for most of the intervening time, until discovering each other in an entirely different way on my fifteenth birthday.

I still remember that first day when you introduced yourself as I helped my mum and new step-dad unload another bulky box from the van, sullen at being transplanted three hundred miles across the country. I’d been torn away from everything and everyone I loved and was in no hurry to meet anyone new. I needed time to brood and to mope. Of course I didn’t think of it that way then but looking back that was the truth of it.

You were a skinny fair haired thing covered in freckles, a year older than me, determined to try and help a new neighbour out.

It took three months to wear me down, three months of turning up on my doorstep every morning to walk me to school, no matter what the weather, for us to become firm friends. You would talk and talk and talk all the way, telling me about the teachers who would give extensions, and the ones who would hand out detentions, the kids to avoid, the short cuts to use, the gossip in the year eight playground. Your reward was usually the silent treatment, but by the school gates I’d be smiling.

Within a year we were best friends. You were the person I confided in when things got rough at home, my mum’s optimism at her new marriage quickly fading to be replaced by disillusionment as angry shouting matches and tense silences became the norm. I gave you a unique perspective into girls’ minds, coached you through who the girls in my year fancied, sometimes you, though I didn’t understand it.

You grew up, filled out, but not before I did. Yes I teased you when I had curves and you were shooting up into a tall lanky beanpole with no muscles to speak of, but things changed quickly. Your muscles appeared, your voice deepened and when you were bed bound with mono for six weeks I missed you like mad. I missed your smile, your chatter, your laugh, the hundred tiny ways that you comforted me, though I’d never realised it.

Then you rescued me from that octopus classmate at my year ten disco. You should have been at home revising for your exams but instead were looking out for me, hanging around the school hall in the summer air, knowing that the back of the bike sheds was the place used for furtive snogging.