Mad Valentine: A Bad Boy Romance (Mad Valentine Trilogy Book 1) Read Free Page B

suddenly felt fluttery.
    “Um, so I brought a profile piece that I wrote. I write creative non-fiction usually. Essays and things like that. That’s what I like to write. Mostly.” I bumbled along, desperately wishing I didn’t feel so silly and aflutter.
    “Are you a journalist, Ellen?”
    I felt my face heat up at the sound of him saying my name. Oh, my god. Why am I blushing? Get a grip!
    “Something like that. So how about you? What do you like to write?”
    There was a slight hesitation before he answered, his voice deep and gruff. “This and that. I read a lot of fiction, but I don’t think I could ever write a story as well as I’d like to.”
    “I don’t write anything as well as I’d like to,” I admitted. “So you write short stories, then? Or novels? Or maybe plays?”
    “I’ve written short stories. But not often.”
    “Well, what then? Please don’t tell me you’re a poet,” I said, grinning. “Poets are so cheesy they make me cringe.”
    Victor blinked. “Well…I’m a poet.”
    In my mind’s eye, my astral body flew up to the heavens and shook its fists at the gods. Why was I always saying the exact wrong thing to this guy?
    “Oh,” I said with a strained smile. “Poets are nice.”
    Victor laughed. The sound of it was husky and lit a fire deep inside me.
    “Don’t panic, I’m not really a poet. I just write songs. For a band. I don’t know, it’s dumb but I do it because I don’t have time to write much else.”
    “You’re in a band?”
    “No, I’m not in it,” he said, unperturbed. “I just write the lyrics. I don’t sing.”
    “But your voice is so soft and deep and—” I blurted out, and then I felt myself blushing. Again.
    “I can’t carry a tune,” he said, and although his face was still placid, a twinkle in his eyes made me think he was enjoying watching me blush.

V. Song
    “You’re turning red,” he said, still watching me.
    “Am I? Really? Well, it’s sunny in this corner, and I’m pretty warm…”
    “Give me your paper,” he said, reaching over and taking my printout. “Close your eyes.”
    My heart was pounding in my chest. I didn’t know why. But I swallowed hard and closed my eyes.
    Victor began reading, his voice penetrating into unexplored parts of me. I’d never really heard someone read my work out loud before, unless it was to clarify a messy passage or to ask me what something meant. I licked my lips as I softened to the sound of his voice. He read well, and faithfully; he took the assignment seriously. He read with a respect for Ida, the librarian who was profiled. He seemed to get inside the piece and to feel it. I didn’t know if it was him reading well or if I had actually written well, but the piece was lyrical, and it evoked poignant feelings in me.
    I exhaled when he was done and opened my eyes. He was looking at me intently, studying me almost. I raised my eyebrows.
    “Wow,” I said. “You’re a good reader.”
    “You’re a better writer,” he replied. My face flushed afresh.
    “Okay, it’s your turn,” I said. I opened my hand, palm up. “Fork it over.”
    He coolly handed me the paper.
    “Close your eyes.” He obeyed. I enjoyed bossing him around a little bit, and I smiled as I looked at his dark lashes. He looked vulnerable like that with his eyes closed, and yet so strong and self-contained.
    I looked at the paper. Written on it, in neat handwriting, was something that did indeed look like song lyrics. I took a deep breath before I started. I vaguely got the feeling we were about to do something intimate together.
    I blinked when I finished reading, not knowing what to say. I didn’t know how to assess poetry—was it good? I had no way of knowing. All I knew was that it left an indelible impression on me, like a red-hot brand. The twenty lines or so that Victor had written were enigmatic and haunting—it told the story of a man riding the bus. One day, he falls in love with the reflection of the bus