Chapter 7
Seven
Pen
I don’t remember landing. I’m not even sure how I got from the plane to baggage claim.
My brain is stuck on pause. A screeching freaking halt.
Because, what the fuck? How dare he? We were getting along so great.
I had been feeling good—like I was floating, basking in the sunlight of his regard.
August was funny, engaging—the guy I’d seen glimpses of my whole life but never really met.
And suddenly there he was, just as I’d dreamed he’d be.
And then this. This fucking joke. Marry him? Har. Just hardy-har-har. So funny, August. Really.
“You’re fuming.” He sounds concerned. Worried. He should be. I have drawing pens in my bag and I’m not afraid to stick them in painful places.
“I’m not.” I don’t know how I manage to get the words out so calmly. But I’m proud of my aplomb.
“You so are. You sound like a constipated robot.”
Well, then.
“And you sound like a . . . a . . . big penis spew!”
A woman walking past does a double take.
August chokes on a laugh, his stride tripping. “A what?”
He laughs again, all amused insouciance, but I see the tightness around his icy eyes.
“You heard me. Whatever. I’m trying not to curse in public.”
“And penis spew is acceptable?”
Oh, he’s loving this. I want to stomp on his big size thirteens.
“Shut up.” There’s no heat to my demand; I’m too embarrassed to form words with any force.
He bites his lower lip. “Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that.”
“You shouldn’t have said it at all. That was mean.”
“Mean?” He stops mid-stride, taking me by the elbow so I have to halt too. Foot traffic breaks and flows around us like we’re rocks in a stream. “No, Penelope. It was an honest proposal.”
What? What?
“What!” Apparently, I’m stuck on the word.
His handsome face twists in a grimace. “Shit. I am so fucking this up.”
“You think?”
He runs a hand through his hair, making the ends stick up wildly. “Look, I’m parked in the lot. Can we talk while I drive you home?”
His expression earnest, and my curiosity is running wild. I wilt.
“Okay, but if you pull any more wack shit, if you haul off and ask me to have your baby, or say you have twenty-four hours to live and need a kidney, I’m going to be very put out.”
“I kind of like angry Penelope.”
“Shut. Up.”
“On it.” He does the zipped-lip gesture, but it doesn’t hide the twinkle in his eyes.
“It’s lucky for you that you’re so cute.”
August’s brows lift high. “Cute, huh?”
“I didn’t mean to say that out loud.” I turn and continue walking, ignoring the wide, delighted grin on his jerk face.
We maintain a strained silence as August leads us to his parked car.
When we exit the terminal, he takes a ratty Bass Pro Shops cap the color of hot dog mustard from his bag and pulls it on low.
A pair of mirrored aviator glasses follow.
His entire demeanor changes, from his confident stride to a soft shuffling.
It takes me a moment to realize he is adopting a disguise.
I had forgotten: August Luck is famous.
Famous enough that his hat, glasses, and unassuming walk doesn’t stop a schluby-looking guy hanging out by the arrivals gate from turning his massive camera our way and taking a couple of shots.
“Ignore him,” August says. Now that he’s been caught, he straightens his shoulders and walks in his usual loose-hipped stride. “Or try to. I know it’s hard—hell.”
His lips pinch as he glances at me. “I forgot to warn you. There might be pictures of us on the plane.”
“On the plane,” I parrot.
“Yeah. People take sneak shots. There was one of me sleeping on the flight to Boston.”
“They do that?” I know I sound naive when, in actuality, I’m pissed.
But he seems to get that. His smile is wry. “I’m in public, thus I am public domain in their eyes.”
“I bet it’s a lot easier to say that when pointing the camera rather than being pinned under its lens.”
“True. But you’ll never get people to admit it.” He holds the door to the parking garage stairs for me. “I’m sorry, though. I should have warned you so you had the choice to back out of flying with me.”
I stop short. “I’d never do that, August. Not for that reason.”
He stares at me for a beat, then we keep walking.
Looking at him from under my lashes, I remember how long he’s been famous.
The Luck Boys, as the press calls them, have been in the public eye since they were just kids.
But it got really intense when they started college.
How could a needy press ignore model handsome, incredibly talented siblings who were already part of a football dynasty? Impossible.
The garage smells of garbage, jet fumes wafting and the slow, hot baking of asphalt. But the light is dim, and my head filled with possible ways to comfort August, so I don’t initially see where he’s leading me. When he pulls out his keys, my fog clears, and I snap to attention.
“Is that . . .” I stare at the ancient SUV hulking in the parking space.
August glances over and a pleased expression spreads over his face. “The Grouch? Yeah.”
Blood whooshes to my feet, and I become a little lightheaded. The Grouch is a duck green, 1989 Jeep Wagoneer, complete with wood-paneled sides. Its formal name is Oscar the Grouch. Legend has it, my dad called it that as a kid because the big truck was always growling.
“You have Pops’s truck?” It comes out as a squeak. I hadn’t seen the old SUV for years. My grandfather had stopped driving it after a time, preferring the heated seats of a newer Volvo in his later years. Even so, too many memories were tied to the Grouch for me not to think of Pops.
A lump of emotion swells in my throat, as August watches me.
“Pops left it to me. I thought you knew.”
“No. I—ah, no. I didn’t think about what happened to it.” I pull myself together and give him a smile. “I’m happy you have it. I just didn’t think . . .”
In all honesty, when I’d been told about the trust and what it entailed, I’d assumed Pops had simply sold it off before he died.
August unlocks the trunk and deftly puts our suitcases inside. Tan carpeting lines the trunk. Shag carpeting in a trunk. It had always struck me as patently ridiculous. My eyes smart. Suddenly, I’m a blink away from crying.
“When I was in tenth grade,” he says, “I went to that football camp at USC.” Dark brows knit over stormy eyes. “Pegs and Pops let me and March stay with them for the rest of summer.”
“I went to visit Mom’s relatives in Italy that summer.”
“I remember. I was just a wee bit jealous of you going there.”
I hold back a laugh. If he only knew how much I’d wanted to come home when I’d learned August and March would be visiting the one year I was away the whole time.
Upon reflection, I’m fairly certain that was arranged on purpose.
Likely, my parents and grandparents had reservations about me sharing a house with the youngest Luck brothers all summer long.
I’m still a little bitter about it, though.
August closes the trunk and guides me to the passenger door. He unlocks it. “Anyway, while I was there, Pops taught me to drive on this beast.”
“He did?” I grin at that. “Talk about a trial by fire.”
“I loved it.” He huffs out a small laugh.
“Even if I was terrified the first few times I got behind the wheel. Felt like I was racing down the road in an out-of-control barge.” Glossy hair falls over his brow when he ducks his head.
“Shocked the hell out of me when I got word that Pops had left it to me.”
“I’m glad you got it,” I say, fighting the urge to touch his arm. “I love the beast, but I never liked driving it. Clearly Pops knew you’d love it more.”
Raw emotion makes his voice thick. “I do. It means the world to me.”
I swear the ground tilts as if trying to push me into August, or into doing something ridiculous like hugging him close.
Flustered, I slide onto the worn leather seat and close my eyes for a moment. Gently, August closes the door, the familiar solid clunk of the metal ringing out in the quiet cabin. I open my eyes again when he lets himself into the driver’s side.
“It used to smell of wet dog, pipe smoke, and—”
“A whiff of old fish?” August supplies with a knowing look. Pops loved to fish off the Santa Monica Pier and bring home his catch, despite the fact that my grandmother, who everyone called Pegs, hated fish. “I had the car fully restored. Sorry to say that particular miasma of Grouch is no more.”
“I can’t say as I’ll miss the funk.” Although I do a little.
I think he knows that, because his expression gentles, then he starts the truck. It trembles and growls, my seat vibrating. I run my hand along the leather captain’s seat armrest as August takes us out into the California sun.
It’s always striking to me how different the light is here.
In Boston, there is a bluish-gray tint to the world, a coldness even in the heat.
Here, everything is softly golden. That gilded soft patina is beautiful to look at, but I am of quiet, dark libraries, cozy sitting rooms with roaring fires.
Flirty skirts, sunbaked skin that gleams, and hair fluttering in the breeze aren’t me. But I still love LA.
August fits. Even with his winter-sky eyes, he fits. He’s a bit grim now, however. Frowning at the road as he easily maneuvers the Grouch through the snarls of LA traffic. The silence between us is a living thing breathing down my neck.
I can’t take it. “Are you ever going to tell me what the hell you meant by that ridiculous declaration?”
“Ridiculous.” It’s a mutter as he winces then changes lanes. “Way to kick a guy when he’s down.”
“I wasn’t aware you ever got down.”
Hot silver eyes shoot my way. “Why the hell would you think that?”
“And anyway, it isn’t an insult to call that . . . ” my voice gets a bit high and panicked, “marriage proposal—if that’s what it really was—‘ridiculous.’ Any nondrunk or drug-free person would agree.”