The Girl Who Hates Valentine's Day
Description
Angela's world is turned upside down when she falls for Eric , a charming, mysterious man who sweeps her off her feet. Just as she's ready to take their relationship to the next level, an unexpected encounter with Mia, a colleague from work, exposes a shocking secret: Eric is Mia's ex. Torn between the man she thought she knew and the truths she's just uncovered, Angela must navigate the tangled web of lies, passion, and betrayal. Will Eric 's perfect image crumble, or is there more to his story than Angela ever imagined?
Chapter 1
Feb 13, 2025
“Jesus Christ.”
Angela Vasquez dodged another couple making out right in the middle of the sidewalk, nearly stepping into a puddle of something she didn’t even want to identify.
Heart-shaped balloons floated above her head like ghosts, and every shop window she passed was dripping in pink and red decorations.
Valentine’s Day.
She hated it.
Hated the cutesy couples, hated the overpriced chocolates, hated the whole ridiculous circus of it. And most of all, she hated being single.
Not that she wanted some grand love story. Hell no. She’d had enough of those crashing and burning to last a lifetime. But it would be nice, just once, to not spend February 14th glaring at happy couples like a bitter old woman at twenty-seven.
She yanked open the door to The Black Cat, her favorite bar, the one place where she could drown out the holiday nonsense.
It was dimly lit, smelled like whiskey and old leather, and most importantly—no goddamn Valentine’s decorations.
Sliding onto a barstool, she waved at the bartender. “Vodka soda. Strong.”
“You got it,” he said, already pouring. “Rough day?”
“Rough month,” she muttered, rubbing her temples.
The bartender chuckled, sliding the glass toward her. “You and every other single person in the city.”
Angela took a sip, the cold burn of vodka soothing her raw nerves. She exhaled and rolled her shoulders, finally relaxing. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be so bad. She’d get tipsy, maybe flirt with some guy who wouldn’t break her heart, and wake up tomorrow with a mild hangover and no regrets.
Perfect plan.
And then she felt it.
A prickling sensation at the back of her neck. Like someone was watching her.
She stiffened, gripping her glass tighter. Slowly, she turned.
Her breath caught.
Across the bar, leaning casually against the counter, was a man.
Tall. Dark. Unnervingly gorgeous.
His hair was black as ink, tousled just enough to look effortlessly sexy. His sharp jawline could cut glass, and those lips—good God, those lips—looked like they were meant for sin. But it was his eyes that really did it.
They were locked on her. Intense. Piercing.
Not in a sleazy, predatory way. Not in a casual, oh, I just noticed you way either.
No.
He was staring like he knew her.
Angela’s pulse jumped, an uneasy shiver crawling down her spine. But instead of looking away, the man pushed off the bar and started walking toward her.
Each step was slow. Deliberate. Confident.
She swallowed.
The stranger slid onto the stool next to her like he belonged there. Up close, he was even more devastating.
“Angela,” he said, his voice smooth as velvet.
Her stomach dropped. “Do I—do I know you?”
A small smile played at the corner of his lips. “Not yet.”
Her fingers tightened around her drink. “How do you know my name?”
He tilted his head slightly, studying her like she was the most interesting thing in the world. “I know a lot about you.”
Angela’s throat went dry. “Like what?”
He leaned in, just enough that she caught the scent of his cologne—dark, spicy, dangerously addictive.
“I know your birthday is in September,” he murmured. “I know you work in marketing, even though you hate it. I know you talk to your cat like he’s your therapist.”
Her pulse pounded.
Okay. What the hell?
“Who the fuck are you?” she whispered.
The man smiled again, slow and knowing. “Eric .”
She should have left right then.
Should have grabbed her drink, thrown it in his face, and walked out.
But she didn’t.
Because despite every rational bone in her body screaming run, there was another part of her—deep, dangerous, and hungry—that whispered, stay.
“Alright, Eric,” she said, forcing her voice to stay steady. “Are you a stalker, or just a really good guesser?”
“Does it scare you?” he asked, amusement flickering in his dark eyes.
Yes.
“No.”
He chuckled, and damn it, even that was sexy. “Good.”
Angela exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “Jesus, this is the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had.”
“Then let’s make it weirder.”
Before she could react, Eric reached forward, running a single finger down her arm.
A spark shot through her, hot and electric.
Angela sucked in a breath.
“What are you doing?”
His voice dropped, low and hypnotic. “You tell me.”
She should have pulled away.
Should have slapped his hand, should have demanded answers, should have done anything but what she did next.
Which was lean in.
Her lips brushed his.
It was barely a kiss, more of a ghost of one. But the second their mouths touched, the tension snapped like a live wire.
Eric growled softly, his hand tangling in her hair as he pulled her closer, deepening the kiss.
Angela melted.
Heat flooded her, scorching through her veins. His lips were firm, demanding, and when he bit her bottom lip just enough to send a jolt of pleasure straight to her core, she gasped against his mouth.
“Fuck,” she whispered.
Eric pulled back just enough to catch his breath, his forehead resting against hers, his skin slick with sweat and hunger. His breath came in ragged bursts, hot and heavy against her lips, and his eyes were dark pools of pure, unhinged lust.
“Come with me,” he growled, voice low and rough, like gravel drenched in whiskey.
Angela hesitated for exactly three fucking seconds—three seconds that felt like an eternity—before she grabbed his hand, her fingers trembling with need. They stumbled out of the bar, his grip tight, almost bruising, as he led her to his car. The moment the door slammed shut, they were on each other like animals, hands clawing, mouths devouring.
Eric’s fingers tangled in her hair, yanking her head back to expose the delicate curve of her neck. His lips crashed into hers, teeth scraping, tongues tangling in a desperate, filthy dance. She moaned into his mouth, the sound muffled but raw, and he swallowed it greedily.
They barely made it into the backseat. One second she was gasping against his lips, the next he was sliding his calloused hand up her thigh, pushing her dress up around her hips. His fingers found her soaked panties, and he groaned, a deep, guttural sound that sent shivers down her spine.
“Damn, you’re so wet.”
The Girl Who Hates Valentine's Day
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