Chapter 25
Winnie
I clutch the bottle of wine like it’s my security blanket and not just a moderately priced cabernet I picked up at the fancy grocery store near Lucky’s condo. My palms are sweating.
Which is ridiculous.
I am a grown woman.
I’ve met parents before.
But never his.
Lucky opens the door before I can knock. He’s barefoot, wearing jeans and a soft black Henley that I’m ninety percent sure exists just to test my ability to stay upright. He smiles slow and sweet the second he sees me.
“You brought wine.” He leans in to kiss me. “She’s going to love you already.”
“I googled Italian moms plus dinner etiquette and wine was the number one recommendation, so I’m hoping I pass.”
His laugh rumbles against me as he takes the bottle. “You’re gonna pass so hard, they’re gonna rename the curve after you.”
I step inside, greeted immediately by the smell of garlic and tomato and something buttery that hits like a hug to the face.
From the kitchen, a woman’s voice calls, “Tell me she brought wine. You said she was the smartest woman you know, next to me, of course. You didn’t lie, did you?”
“Ma,” Lucky groans as he shuts the door behind me. I only have a moment to take in his condo.
It’s sleek but lived-in—modern gray tones, leather couch, massive TV, and a dining table that looks suspiciously unused. There’s a Titans’ jersey framed on the wall, some vintage hockey gear on a shelf, and a houseplant in the corner that’s either thriving or fake.
The whole place smells like clean laundry and cologne, which honestly feels unfair. My place smells like bunny hay and dry-erase markers.
I spot a pair of sneakers kicked under the coffee table and a neatly stacked pile of books on the counter. Everything about it feels like him and I’m instantly at ease.
“She brought wine!” Lucky’s mother exclaims as she appears in the kitchen archway, a wooden spoon in hand and a towel slung handily over her shoulder.
She’s petite, round in the way that tells you her food will make you cry tears of joy, with short black hair and bold red glasses that match her lipstick. Her eyes are pinned on me—and she grins.
“Oh, she’s even prettier in person.” She lands a censuring look on Lucky. “I told you, didn’t I? TikTok never tells the full story.”
Lucky mutters under his breath and takes the wine into the kitchen. I offer my hand, but Rosa Branson bypasses it entirely and pulls me into a hug that leaves me gasping for air.
“I’m Rosa. You call me Rosa, not Mrs. Branson. Mrs. Branson was my mother-in-law, and she was terrifying.”
I laugh. “Deal.”
“Now come in, come in. I have dinner almost ready and your boyfriend here has been no help.”
“I was banned from the stove for snitching meatballs,” Lucky calls.
“He lies,” Rosa says over her shoulder as she pulls me into the kitchen. “I banned him because he said store-bought ricotta was fine.”
I stifle a laugh as she hands me a knife and gestures to a cutting board with romaine lettuce and cherry tomatoes. “You make the salad. I trust you.”
“I’ll try not to let you down.”
We fall into an easy rhythm—Rosa stirring sauce, me slicing vegetables, Lucky setting the table and swiping bites when he thinks we’re not looking.
Every now and then Rosa throws out a comment like, “He broke his arm in eighth grade showing off on a skateboard,” or “He once got detention for writing love poems in health class.”
Lucky groans, but I live for every second of it. This is the dirt I want—what his childhood was all about because it sure shaped him into the amazing man he is today.
“You never told me you wrote poetry,” I say, nudging him when he brushes past me with silverware.
He leans in close, whispers, “I’ll read you one after dinner. But only if you’re a very good girl.”
I blush hard and then realize by the smirk on his mother’s mouth, she heard it too, which makes me blush harder.
Dinner is unbelievable.
The lasagna is the best I’ve ever had. Gooey and rich and melts in your mouth. The meatballs are dense and full of flavor. The salad is, well, competent—I didn’t screw it up, which I consider a victory.
Rosa keeps the conversation flowing like a well-oiled machine, asking me about my family, my classroom, what book I’m reading, and how I’m coping with all the TikTok frenzy.
“You’re handling it better than I would,” she says frankly. “But then again, I’ve always said social media is just the devil with a better algorithm.”
Lucky snorts into his wineglass. “You posted six photos of your new basil plant last week.”
“That basil is thriving,” Rosa replies primly.
“Tell me how you make it thrive,” I ask. “My green thumb is decidedly yellow.”
Rosa launches into a detailed explanation that involves crushed eggshells, talking to the plant every morning, and something called “companion planting,” which sounds suspiciously like matchmaking for herbs.
Lucky shoots me a grin. “She’s been trying to set that basil up with the oregano for weeks.”
I stifle a laugh, already half in love with this woman and her overachieving kitchen garden.
Rosa leans forward, fork poised in the air, and gives Lucky a look that instantly makes him wary.
“Okay,” she says. “Now I have a question.”
Lucky groans. “Please tell me it’s about the basil.”
“No,” she says sweetly. “It’s about this woman sitting next to you.”
My stomach tightens a little, but I smile as I glance over at Lucky. He looks mildly horrified.
Rosa keeps going, undeterred. “I think your TikTok meet-cute was charming. Just charming. But clearly, it’s more than that.
I can see it in the way you look at her—and the way she looks at you.
” She gestures with her fork, dangerous enough to rival a sword.
“That’s not algorithm chemistry, that’s real. ”
Lucky shifts in his chair, dragging a hand down his face. “Ma—”
“I’m Italian, Matteo. I’m allowed to be nosy. It’s in the blood.”
He exhales and shoots me a quick, sheepish glance. “Sorry. She does this.”
I shrug, cheeks warming. “It’s okay. I… don’t mind.”
Rosa smiles like she’s won a small war. “Excellent. So, tell me, my sweet boy, what’s really going on here? It’s real, right?”
My eyes snap to Lucky. I mean… he’s been pretty clear how he feels, but I want to know what he says to his mother.
He sets his wineglass down. “While it might have started as a goofy TikTok thing, me being clever and charming her with adorable videos, it’s become a lot more.”
“How so?” Rosa prods.
“Somewhere in the middle of all that, it stopped being about posts and stitches and likes.” His eyes drift to me and I’m completely lost to him. “It became about her. Winnie.”
My heart lodges in my throat and Rosa lets out a dreamy sigh and mutters something in Italian. Lucky says he doesn’t know the language too well, mostly curse words and such, so he’ll be no help in translating.
But that’s not what’s important.
It’s time for me to step up to the plate and let him know how I feel.
Yes, his nosy Italian mom whom I already adore is sitting at the table with us, but suddenly it’s like there’s no one else in the room.
“You’ve made all of this feel different.
Like maybe it’s okay to let someone really see me.
And it turns out I like being seen by you. ”
Rosa makes a soft, sentimental sound, and I’m pretty sure she’s dabbing her eye with a napkin.
Lucky glances at her, exasperated but smiling. “Can we eat dessert now, or do I have to bare my soul again first?”
She waves her hand. “No, no. That was perfect. Ten out of ten. You may have dessert.”
I don’t say anything right away because I’m still trying to catch my breath. But then his hand brushes mine under the table, and I lace my fingers with his.
He squeezes once. Like a promise.
How is this my life?
Lucky Branson—TikTok hotshot, pro hockey star, absurdly good with his mouth—just told his mom that I mean something to him.
And I believe him.
After dinner we play a few hands of UNO and it’s the type of normality that I’ve been craving in my fantasy relationship.
His mother is staying the night, so I am not, even though Lucky invited me.
That I’m not comfortable with. So after lots of hugs from Rosa—and a to-go bag with five pounds of leftover lasagna—Lucky walks me down to my car in the parking garage.
The night air is cool, the kind of early spring chill that carries a bite under the warmth. Our footsteps echo in tandem.
“She does that, you know,” Lucky says finally, hand squeezing mine. “Puts people on the spot like it’s nothing. She’s been doing it since I was old enough to form full sentences.”
I glance over at him. “I found it charming.”
He stops walking and turns to face me, eyes soft and sure in the dim light. “I meant every word of it, Win.”
God, that look.
“I know,” I say, stepping in closer, wrapping my hands lightly around his forearms. “And I meant what I said too. This is real and I adored your mom’s nosiness. She loves you very much.”
Lucky grins, one of those slow, lopsided ones that feels like sunlight. “Yeah. She’s a lot of feelings in a five-foot-two frame.”
“She’s a lot of everything and I adore her.” I move my hand to his chest. “I hate that it’s hard for me sometimes to accept just how right all of this is. I didn’t think I could ever have… amazing in my love life. I thought it was unsafe, and yet, you’re showing me it’s not.”
“And I’ll keep showing you,” he vows, and yes… I believe him.
“Nothing about this feels temporary anymore,” I say, cutting gently to the heart of it.
His grin fades into something quieter, more intimate. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
I nod, breath catching a little. “Me either.”
He dips his head and presses a kiss to my forehead first, lingering. Then he leans in and kisses me with a certainty that feels like an oath, like he’s sealing something between us.
When he pulls back, he stares at me so earnestly, I get a lump in my throat. “I’m looking forward to the journey.”
“So am I,” I whisper.
I reach for my car door and pause just before opening it. “Please thank your mom again for dinner. And for loving you exactly the way she does.”
He laughs, then steps back. “Night, Shaw.”
“Night, Branson.”
And as I drive away, I can still feel his kiss on my lips and that steady, unshakable sense that whatever this is, wherever it’s going, I’m pretty sure he’s my forever.