An Acquired Taste (The Valentine Society)

Chapter Nineteen

I wake in my own bed to the smell of coffee. A breakfast tray rests on my nightstand. I must have slept through Ellen delivering it, though thankfully the coffee is still warm. I drink a third of it in one big gulp, and then nearly choke on it in surprise when I realize there’s a sealed letter underneath.

Who would send me a letter? Benjamin, maybe. As soon as I think of him, I feel a pang of guilt for not keeping in touch with him more. But as I tear the envelope open, I read the short message in seconds and realize it’s not from Benjamin at all.

“He would deliver a letter in his own house,” I mutter, but I can’t stop myself from grinning as I scan the short message again.

To my Valentine,

I would like to request your presence at tea. 12:00.

Sebastian

If anyone else had written this, I would assume they hated me and/or were planning on giving me a stern talking-to. But this is Sebastian. I’m beginning to understand that words aren’t his strong suit. And just the fact he sent me a letter has to be significant.

Especially because he requested tea. The other staff don’t usually meet for tea, so I assume it will just be the two of us. I had to practically beg to get him to dine with me in a room full of people. This has to be progress, especially due to how he took care of me last night. It still makes my stomach flutter to think about the way he carried me, his careful touch as he undid my sneakers, his slender fingers unclasping my bra…

I down the rest of my coffee and scramble out of bed only to almost collapse as my ankle gives out. Shit . I almost forgot about that, but now that I’m looking, I see that it’s still hideously swollen and angry-red. Still, I limp to my drawer and search for my sexiest lace set to wear to tea. Just in case.

* * *

After a long, warm bath, several changes of outfit, and careful consideration for my hair and makeup, I still find myself ready an hour early. Sitting and waiting seems impossible when I’m nearly bursting with nerves.

To keep myself busy, I grab my laptop and type up another entry to my diary-slash-blog. The more I write, the easier it gets. I’m finding my groove now, and it feels so good to pour out my thoughts and feelings rather than leaving them to rattle endlessly around my brain. Only after writing my slightly altered story of being stranded in the rain and rescued by Sebastian do I think to click over and check out how my online blog is doing so far.

I’m surprised at the amount of views and comments that have trickled in on my first couple of posts. It’s not blowing up the internet or anything, but people are reading it. Some have very strong opinions. There are valentine wannabes telling me how spoiled I am for complaining about my life when I have the best job in the universe, while others inform me I’m going to hell for my “unholy profession.” People on both ends of the spectrum go nuts about valentines, and of course there are also plenty of users declaring it “fake news” or “obviously a creative writing prompt by a twelve-year-old.” But I scroll through the fights in the comments, resist the urge to fling out some poop emojis in response, and laugh it off.

The personal messages have far more of an impact on me. There are heartfelt emails from other valentines—also anonymous—thanking me for telling my story and sharing their confessions.

Sometimes I feel like I’m nothing more than a toy to him, one confesses. I know he’ll replace me one day with a younger, fresher human. I wince in sympathy.

My patron promised she’d turn me, but I’m beginning to think it was a lie, another says. I shudder; at least I don’t have to worry about that .

Sometimes I think giving blood is an unhealthy addiction. Now, that one I can relate to…

Each message makes my chest ache. People are baring their hearts and souls to me, freed by the promise of anonymity and someone on the other side who understands what it feels like. I answer as many messages as I can manage without making myself late for my tea with Sebastian, post my next blog update, and shut my laptop.

* * *

I’m wearing my favorite dress, all bloodred lace with the lipstick to match, and aware of the scandalous lingerie beneath. When I step into the parlor, my eyes find Sebastian sitting and waiting for me, and my heart surges.

Then I see the stranger sitting beside him, and it drops straight down to my stomach.

“Amelia,” Sebastian says, looking up from the tea he’s pouring. “This—” He pauses as he sees me, eyes widening as he takes in my outfit, and spills some tea. He clears his throat and averts his gaze, and I suddenly feel horribly embarrassed. He must be embarrassed for me, dressed like this for what is clearly not the romantic tea I was expecting. “This is Dr. Bailey,” Sebastian says, recovering but still not looking at me. “She’s here to take a look at you… at your ankle.”

“How do you do?” Dr. Bailey is an elegant older woman, kindly and without a hint of judgment, but that doesn’t stop me from being mortified. My mouth seems to be glued shut, so I just hobble through an awkward curtsy and take a seat at the table. Sebastian slides over a cup of tea and a small plate of food, still without meeting my eyes. Seeing the food, including the types of iron boosters I usually take for blood giving, also just reminds me that he hasn’t asked for any of my blood in days.

I thought I felt a spark between us yesterday, but now I’m back to doubting everything again. This is torture.

“May I take a look?” the doctor asks.

“Of course.” I shed my slipper to prop my foot up on an ottoman, and Bailey scoots over to examine me with warm, careful hands. I try not to think about Sebastian’s cold fingers on my skin last night, and busy myself with my tea and biscuits, murmuring my answers to each question about tenderness and pain as she presses on and moves my ankle to test it.

“I believe it’s a mild sprain,” Dr. Bailey says eventually. “It’ll be swollen and tender for another day or two, so I recommend you rest as much as possible. You can use ice and ibuprofen to manage the pain and inflammation. I expect you’ll be back on your feet soon, but if the pain continues, feel free to call me again.”

I nod along, feeling a spark of mingled relief and new embarrassment. I never would’ve called in a doctor for such a mild issue. Years without health insurance made me pretty self-sufficient about these things. “Thanks very much,” I say. “Sorry you had to waste your time coming all the way out here.”

“It’s not a waste.” She smiles at me, finishes her tea, and shortly afterward bids us farewell to head back into town.

The room is silent once it’s just me and Sebastian. I dunk a cookie into my tea and swirl it around to avoid looking at him.

“You shouldn’t bother getting all dressed up like that while you’re injured,” Sebastian says.

My cookie crumbles in my suddenly tight grip. “Sorry?” I ask, glowering at him.

He looks taken aback at my expression. “I only… What I meant is… I want you to rest, is all.” A pause. “You look… it’s a nice dress.”

“Hm.” It would be more convincing if he didn’t sound like he was reciting sums, all stiff and awkward like the compliment is uncomfortable on his tongue. Deciding I don’t particularly care about impressing Sebastian right now, I lick the crumbs of the lost cookie off my finger. His eyes follow the motion, and he swallows.

“I’m afraid I’m doing this all wrong,” he says. “I hadn’t thought you’d be injured when I invited you to tea.”

I stare at him, curious enough that I forget my lingering irritation. “You mean you didn’t invite me here just for the doctor?”

“No,” he says. “I wrote the invitation yesterday. I was coming to your room to deliver it when I found that you were missing.”

“Oh…” I sit back in my chair and fold my arms over my chest. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

His mouth works for a few seconds before he manages to produce any words. Then his expression drops to my injured ankle, and he shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter now,” he says. “You should focus on resting.”

So cold. As if the intimate moment never happened last night. I frown down at my tea, and a moment later he gets up, eager to excuse myself.

Another thought occurs to me as I think again about that walk last night… and the grave I found, with the fresh roses. “Sebastian?”

He pauses. “Yes?”

I lift my eyes to meet his. “Who was Etta Langley?”

I’m looking right at him, so I see his facial expression freeze, then shutter, every hint of emotion hidden as suddenly as though he’s turned off a switch. He hesitates, and then says, “Never ask me that again.”

Then he turns and leaves me stunned and stung.