Chapter 2
Two
Pen
The Luck house sits at the end of a semicircular drive. Or should I say it looms, because the white clapboard center hall colonial is huge. Thankfully, it also has a nice wide portico. I park as close as I can to the front step and, holding my coat overhead, make a mad dash to the door.
I’m fairly dry when I reach it. But outside is cold as hell.
It creeps up my bones and shivers along my flesh.
The narrow windows that frame the front door reveal a slice of the warmly lit big hall with its worn and well-loved Persian runner, rectory red walls, the antique sideboard that May dented when riding her scooter indoors.
Another shiver goes through me, this one of longing. I want to be in there where it’s warm and familiar. It’s as simple as knocking on the door, but it doesn’t feel that way at all. It’s as though it won’t matter; I can get inside but I’ll still be all alone.
Shrugging off self-pity, I ring the bell. There’s absolutely no need to be maudlin right now. Everything is fine, and . . .
A man strides to the door. Holy hell is that . . . ?
I’m transfixed, frozen with my hand halfway up in the act of ringing again. No. It can’t be . . .
The door swings open with a soft woosh, and we stare at each other, this man and I.
Only, he’s no mere man. He never was. It shouldn’t be a surprise that he’s here; this is his family home.
But, in my heart of hearts, I didn’t expect him to be visiting tonight.
It’s Saturday. I thought he’d head straight back to LA after Thursday night’s game.
I thought it would just be Margo, the girls, and maybe March. Mom said it would only be them!
Yet here he is in vivid, stunning color. All six foot four of him.
I guess that’s what Mom had been trying to tell me. That’ll teach you to hang up on her. I tell myself to shut it and stare up at August.
It’s been a few years since we’ve been face-to-face. Sure, I’ve seen him in recent pictures, in the freaking news, and in this week’s latest viral videos. But, in person, these differences are shocking and, frankly, overwhelming.
He looks exactly the same. And totally different. How can that be? There’s not an angle or line of his face that I hadn’t covertly studied throughout our childhood. I would recognize August Luck anywhere.
And yet . . . He’s grown into himself. Hard where he used to be somewhat soft. From age fifteen on, he’d towered over me. I’m used to feeling small around him. But now he’s huge. A veritable wall of honed muscle.
He’s so attractive it hurts—deep in the center of my chest. I feel like I’ve been kicked. Maybe that’s why I can do nothing more than gape at him and blurt out, “August?”
There’s an awkward beat and then, “Penelope.” As if my name is the answer.
Most people who know me either use Pen or, if we’re close, Penny. I don’t know how it started or why, but August usually calls me Penelope—in that stilted, disapproving way of his that makes it sound more like a dismissal than a greeting.
And we’re stuck on a loop because I blurt out his name again. “August?”
The corner of his lip twitches, except it looks more like agitation than amusement. “Penelope.”
That mellow voice rolls over me with the force of a wave.
Okay, this has to stop. But I can’t seem to refrain from staring.
Why does he have to be so appealing to me?
It would be easier if I could simply write him off as another hot guy.
But, no. August Luck has the singular ability to turn my brain to mush and my knees to jelly.
I tell myself that this reaction is nothing special; almost everyone who encounters August takes pause. He’s always been beautiful. Glossy hair so dark it’s nearly black, straight yet strong nose, firm lips, an almost aggressively stern square jawline: all of it lies in perfect symmetry.
Before the draft last spring, videos of August running drills at the NFL scouting combine went viral. Slow-motion shots of him sprinting were everywhere, prompting sports commentators to laughingly refer to August as a Roman god or runway model.
However, his eyes are the real kicker. I often wondered if anyone looked August Luck in the eye without feeling a little hitch of wonder. Deep set, under sweeping dark brows and framed by long black lashes, his blue-gray eyes are so pale and luminous, they appear sliver.
Lucky Eyes was what the Lucks were called in school. Neil Luck, their father, has grass-green eyes; Margo, their mother, sky blue. Combined, all their children have some shade of vivid green-through-icy-gray eyes that contrast so well with their dark hair.
With those quicksilver eyes alone, August can stop traffic. The whole package? He’s too beautiful for words. It has intimidated me my whole childhood. Whenever August Luck walked into a room, I’d soon leave it. Either that or suffer the humiliation of gawking at him, tongue-tied and red-faced.
Great green grapes, woman. Control yourself this time. Back the truck up and be cool.
“August?” I say again. For no reason whatsoever. And distinctly not cool. I have, unfortunately, lost the ability to formulate proper thoughts or actions. And it’s all his fault.
My interactions with him might have been bearable if August treated me with the same effortless charm he oozes on others, but he never has. When it’s between us, he’s stoic and distant, and I feel reduced to nothing more than a commercial interrupting his favorite game.
Only something strange is happening. He’s gawking too. As if I’m an alien that’s just landed and he’s not quite sure if he should wave a white flag or run for weapons.
Even more odd? His reaction makes something snap deep inside of me. Suddenly, I don’t feel tongue-tied anymore.
“Something wrong?” I ask.
August swallows hard, the line of his brows drawing together. “No. Uh . . . No.”
“Okay, then.” I gesture toward the entrance hall. “May I come in?”
He starts as though pinched. “What? Yeah. Sure. Sorry.”
Maybe I turned my car in the wrong direction a ways back and somehow unknowingly entered a parallel universe. That’s the only reason I can account for Mr. Rizz himself stumbling over his words and jerking back like he’s lost coordination. Hell, did he have a bad hit and get a concussion?
Craning my neck so I can study his eyes for dilated pupils, I ask him, “Are you all right?”
At that, August scowls, looking a bit more like himself. “Of course.” Then, as if it occurs to him that he’s acting strange, he sighs expansively and shakes his head. “Rough week. Sorry, Penelope.”
The image of him gyrating on a wobbly table fills my head. I bite my lip and glance away. Not before I see him flush again. He takes a bigger step back, and, when I ease past him, closes the door with a little more force than necessary.
“So . . . Penelope.” That’s all he says.
I nod gravely. “August.”
“Penelope.”
We’re back to that again?
As though reading my mind, he huffs, the corner of his mouth starts to curl.
“Augie? Did I hear the door . . .” Margo walks into the hall by way of the kitchen. She sees me and breaks into a beaming smile. “Penny!”
Before I can say a word, I’m enveloped in a wall of cool silk, warm bosom, and strong arms. Margo squeezes me tight and rocks a bit. It’s like being a kid again, but I don’t mind.
“It’s been so long,” she says, still hugging me.
I saw Margo at Mom’s place a few months ago, but I smile against her breasts—it’s a miracle I can breathe—and manage a muffled, “Missed you too. Happy birthday, Auntie Margo.” Her birthday was yesterday, but I didn’t want to intrude on the family then.
Mom, however, ordered me to “get my butt over there” and wish her well, “pronto!”
Apparently, Mom’s insistence was valid because Margo squeezes me tighter and utters a weepy sounding, “Thank you!”
Aunt Margo isn’t really my aunt. She’s Mom’s best friend and college roommate. But we kids gave our mom’s friend the honorific of aunt. She’s also half a foot taller than me and loves hugs that last forever.
“You’re gonna make her tinkle,” says a deep voice.
I pull back, and Margo and I glare at August’s brother, March, as he saunters into the hallway.
A year younger than August, he might as well be his twin.
Except, where August is sternly handsome, March has a sunnier expression.
Which is kind of odd, given that August, until this bizarre hall incident, has always been just as charismatic.
The main difference—and it’s a huge one—is that March never treated me like I was invisible. Something I appreciated so much in my youth that I might have had a bit of a crush on him during high school—well, for about a week, anyway.
“Stop teasing Pen,” Margo chides. “You know she doesn’t like it.”
“Pretty sure she loves it, Ma.”
I punch his arm right before he gives me a bear hug as well.
“I’ll tease you,” is my very witty threat, also muffled against yet another chest. This one broad and solid as a brick wall.
He laughs and sets me back. There’s a twinkle in his eye that I don’t entirely trust. “Promise?”
When I give him a repressive glare, March rests his arm around my shoulders and turns to a stone-faced August. “How long has it been since we’ve seen Penny, Gus-Gus?”
“Since your high school graduation,” August answers woodenly.
March and I are the same age, and we graduated together.
Has it been that long? I suddenly feel ashamed that I’ve been neglectful in visiting the Lucks.
Well, not all of them, just the males. Then I note the blank stare August is still subjecting me to.
There’s a good reason I’ve stayed away from him.
March doesn’t seem to notice our weird tension. He pulls me more securely against him. It’s strange. Once, I might have swooned if he’d done that, but now it feels more nostalgic and comfortable than anything.
“Doesn’t Penny look great?” he asks August.
Okay, now I’m uncomfortable. I resist the urge to pinch March.
August blinks down at me. “She looks nice.”
The compliment sounds like it’s been dragged from him, delivered in such a deadpan, disingenuous manner that I give him an overly bright smile. How’s that for nice, mister?
As if reading my mind, he frowns and tries again. “You have nice teeth.”
What!
“What?” March manages through a snort.
August blinks again, then turns heel and strides into the kitchen.
Margo shakes her head softly, watching him go.
“Is he okay?” I ask. “I mean, he didn’t get a concussion or anything lately?”
This sets March completely off and he’s doubling over. I’d been serious in my query, but I guess that sounded bad. I wait for the floor to grant my wish and swallow me whole.
Sadly, the floor remains solid.
Margo, however, huffs in exasperated humor and gives her son an affectionate punch on the shoulder. “Quiet you.” To me, she simply shrugs. “Augie’s had a rough week.”
So I’ve heard.