Page 4 of Rules Of Engagement: St. Louis (In The Heart of A Valentine #17)

Chapter

One

CHRISTIAN

Present Day

Forest Park stretched before me in the pre-dawn darkness, empty except for the occasional streetlight casting long shadows across the jogging path. My Nike Zoom Alphaflys sprang forward against the pavement, while I remained focused on my speed as adrenaline pushed me past my limits.

Mile three. My GPS watch glowed against my wrist, these numbers took me further, faster than they did earlier in the week.

The St. Louis Stretch was in a few months, and training had become my sanctuary.

But even here, my mind strayed to the Davidson deal I’d been working so hard to solidify for my client.

Forty-seven million dollars was on the table, and in the high-rise of a St. Louis boardroom, top executives were deciding whether to accept the terms I’d spent six months crafting. Every clause, every contingency, and every seemingly minor detail had been negotiated.

My black Under Armour compression shirt moved with my body like a second skin, designed for performance but feeling more like armor this week.

The burn in my calves was the signal that I’d gone too far on this run, but if this was the marathon, slowing would mean losing, stopping would mean quitting, and with that in mind, I pushed harder, legs pumping as I hit the incline near the boathouse.

The path curved ahead, and I knew every crack in the asphalt, and every root that had pushed through to create an obstacle. This was my domain at this hour—before the city woke up and demanded pieces of me I wasn’t always ready to give.

The earbuds I wore played nothing but the sound of my own breathing and footsteps.

Music would have been a distraction, and distraction was a luxury I couldn’t afford.

Not today with everything riding on a phone call that would either validate six months of my life or send me back to the drawing board.

My father’s voice echoed in my head as I rounded the next bend:

“Valentines don’t accept defeat, Son. We find another way.”

That was easier said than done, especially from a man who built his career on making people laugh. It was harder to live by when you were staring down opposing counsel who seemed determined to nickel and dime your client into submission.

Mile four. The GPS watch beeped, and I glanced at the time: seven minutes, twelve seconds. Not my best pace, but consistent. Consistency mattered more than speed in marathon training.

I thought about Dexter Davidson, my client, and the way his jaw had tightened when Lumina Entertainment’s initial offer came in thirty percent below market value.

Twenty-three years in professional baseball, and they wanted to lowball him on what could be his final endorsement deal. But not on my watch.

The compression shorts I wore kept everything locked in place as I increased my pace, pushing through the fatigue that always hit around mile four and a half.

This was where most runners gave up, where the body started sending signals that it was time to stop.

But marathon training made me push through those signals and find the place beyond comfort where real progress lived.

My phone sat secured in the armband against my bicep, silent for now but ready to deliver the verdict that would determine whether I would spend the weekend celebrating or strategizing our next move. Lumina had until nine AM to respond. After that, we’d withdraw the offer and explore other options.

Sweat began to bead on my forehead even with the early morning cool temperature flying around me.

I hit mile five and quicker than I’d hit mile four, which meant I was in my zone. I started running marathons three years ago, needing an outlet from my daily negotiations while wanting to make a difference in the world.

The path ahead stretched into darkness, lit by strategically placed lamps that created pools of yellow light every fifty yards. I’d run this route hundreds of times, but it never felt routine.

My watch showed 6:15 AM. Two hours and forty-five minutes until Lumina’s deadline. I tried to push the thought away, to focus on form and breathing, but the Davidson deal had been living in my head for weeks now.

Dexter deserved better. He had three World Series rings, and a batting average that would earn him a spot in Jamestown, and they wanted to treat him like a rookie looking for his first break.

The disrespect had been personal for me because it was insulting and came across systematically flawed against my client.

Mile six approached, and I could feel my body settling into the zone. My breathing remained steady. In through the nose, out through the mouth, just like my college track coach had drilled into me fifteen years ago. The lesson had become part of my DNA.

My mind drifted between my run and the Davidson deal. My preparation had been flawless. Every contract clause had been researched, every precedent studied, every possible objection anticipated and countered. If Lumina rejected our terms, it wouldn’t be because I hadn’t done my job.

The GPS watch beeped again. Mile six complete in six minutes, fifty-eight seconds. My best split of the morning.

I could see the next landmark ahead—the sculpture garden that marked the halfway point of my usual route. From there, I’d loop back toward the parking area, completing my eight-mile circuit just as the sun began to rise.

But first, I had to push through the mental wall that always appeared around mile six and a half, where my mind started bargaining with my body, suggesting that seven miles would be sufficient, and eight was unnecessary punishment.

My phone buzzed against my arm, and I stopped so abruptly that my momentum nearly made me stumble. Heart pounding from more than just physical exertion, I pulled the device from its armband and checked the display.

Unknown number. 314 area code.

St. Louis.

I swiped to answer. “Christian Valentine.”

“Mr. Valentine, this is Braden Harrison from Lumina Entertainment. I apologize for calling so early.”

I closed my eyes, bracing for impact. “Not a problem, Braden. What’s the verdict?”

“The verdict is that Dexter Davidson is about to become a very wealthy man. We’re accepting your terms. All of them.”

I had to sit down on the nearest bench before my legs gave out. We’d won.

“Braden, that’s good news. I can’t tell you how pleased I am to hear that.”

“Your client drove a hard bargain, Counselor, but he earned every penny of that forty-seven million. I’ll have our legal team prepare the acceptance documents this afternoon.”

“I’ll have the final contracts ready for signature by the close of business today.”

“Excellent. Congratulations, Mr. Valentine. This has been a pleasure, even when you were making my life difficult.”

I laughed. “The feeling is mutual, Braden.”

After ending the call, I sat on the bench for several minutes, watching the sky begin to lighten in the east. Forty-seven million dollars. Not the biggest deal of my career, but it was substantial none the less, and I was sitting alone in Forest Park at dawn.

I was processing the magnitude of what had just happened when my phone rang again. This time, the caller ID brought a smile to my face, my brother, Dr. Elijah Valentine.

“Tell me you’re not already cutting into someone’s brain at this ungodly hour,” I said by way of greeting.

“Surgery doesn’t start until eight, which gives me time to check on my big brother’s mental health. How’s the self-inflicted torture session going?”

“It just got a lot better. Davidson deal closed. Forty-seven million.”

Silence stretched across the connection, then: “Jesus Christ, Christian.”

“Pretty sure the good doctor isn’t supposed to take the Lord’s name in vain.”

“Pretty sure the good doctor is allowed to be proud of his big brother.” I could hear the grin in Elijah’s voice. “Forty- seven million? You’ve been on a high run with these contract negotiations.”

“It’s a good day to be a Valentine.”

“It’s a great day to be you. You know what this calls for, don’t you?”

I stood from the bench and started walking back toward my car. “Sleep? I’ve been up since four-thirty.”

“It calls for celebration. Meet me and Xander at North River Billard in two hours. We’re buying you drinks until you forget your own name.”

North River Billiard was an upscale pool hall in St. Louis County where the Brandy was top-shelf, and the privacy was guaranteed. We’d been going there since our early twenties, back when none of us should’ve been there in the first place.

“Two hours? The sun isn’t even up, and you have surgery at eight.”

“I have two surgeries this morning then I’m done.”

“As much as I know you mean well, your day never ends that early.”

“Are you trying to get out of this celebration?”

“Not at all. We’ll meet up soon. Check your calendar then add me to it.”

“Being responsible as always,” he chuckled. “Alright. But answer your phone.”

“I always do.”

“Not always.”

“I love you, brother.”

“I love you, too.”

I entered the bank of elevators with a smile on my face.

Through the glass walls, St. Louis spread out below, a city waking up to take the day by storm.

If I knew Dexter Davidson’s routine well enough, and I did, he was most likely drinking his coffee, unaware that his net worth had just increased by forty-seven million dollars.

My penthouse hadn’t changed since I’d left for morning practice, yet when I stepped inside, the energy, atmosphere, and aura had shifted.

It became apparent that it was simply the good news of my win that made me feel the shift.

I was proud of myself and Dexter. He could’ve told me to give in to one of the opposing counsel’s demands at any time if he thought we didn’t have a chance.

But his belief in himself and me kept me tethered.

My brother was right, it was time to celebrate.

The shower in my master bathroom was a work of art—Italian marble, rainfall showerhead, and enough space for three people. I cranked the temperature up and let the hot water wash away the sweat and stress of the morning run.

Standing under the stream, I thought about the loved ones in my life.

My father would be proud, though he’d probably make a joke about lawyers finally being good for something. My mother would give me a compliment that sounded more like a sermon with a deep heart-felt message when she was done. Those always replenished me, just like a prayer did.

I soaped my body, washed, then dried off and moved to my walk-in closet, knowing there was someone else I wanted to share this victory with. Someone whose opinion mattered more than it should, considering the nature of our arrangement.

I pushed the thought away and focused on getting dressed. I was starting the day on a high, and I would carry that with me regardless to the absence of the one person I wanted but couldn’t have.

My closet held enough clothing to fill two master bedrooms, but I knew what I wanted. A navy cashmere V-neck that fit my chest and shoulders without being tight, khaki trousers that had been tailored to perfection, and the Rolex Submariner my father had given me when I made partner.

The look was effortless wealth—expensive without being flashy, confident without being arrogant. I considered myself a person who carried the manner of a man who had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.

I grabbed my phone and dialed Dexter. “Meet me at North River Billiard in one hour.” I ended the call without giving him a chance to respond and dialed Dahlia, my personal assistant.

“Mr. Valentine, I’ve already got the Davidson deal documents pulled up and ready to send out, just say when.”

“How did you know I would need them sent out today?”

“What kind of assistant would I be if I wasn’t on top of things?”

I smirked. “You’re the best.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“Prepare them all and send them over.”

“Anything else I can be on top of?”

I squinted, wondering about this type of questioning. “That’s it for now. Thank you, Dahlia.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Valentine.”

I ended the call and by the time I left the penthouse, the sun had risen fully. It was going to be a beautiful day.

North River Billiard occupied the top floor of a restored brick building in St Louis County, hidden behind a door marked only with a small brass nameplate. You had to know about this place mostly through word of mouth to find it. Membership was selective and discretion was guaranteed.

The elevator opened directly into the main hall, revealing rich mahogany paneling, leather seating areas, and twelve regulation pool tables arranged in a specific architectural design.

I was sitting at a private corner section when I spotted Dexter. He moved through the space, with hope filling his eyes. I grinned and stood as he approached.

“This has to be good news, right?” he asked.

I glanced down at the short glasses of Remy Martin Cognac Louis XIII. At four thousand dollars a bottle with a smooth expensive taste it had become my signature celebration drink. Following my glance, Dexter grabbed my shoulders, his eyes wide.

“Don’t play games with me.”

I guffawed, grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Congratulations, Dexter, we got everything we asked for.”