Chapter 8
Frances
“So, this number right here automatically means this,” Lucky explains, his tone unusually patient.
I stare at the numbers in front of me, willing them to make sense, but it’s like trying to read a foreign language.
“See?” He taps my notebook. “You take this part, plug it in here, do the calculation like we practiced, and you end up with the answer.”
“Yada, yada, yada. It’s all gibberish to me,” I groan, pushing the notebook away and dropping my head back against the couch cushion. I press my fist against my temple as if that’d somehow stop the headache from forming. “It’s useless. I’ll never get this.”
“You’re not dumb, Frankie,” he says simply. “Sooner or later, this shit will click, and it will all make sense to you.”
I lift my head and stare at him. “Did you just… compliment me?”
“No.” He scoffs like I just accused him of murder.
“You did.” I grin. “You said I’m not dumb. That’s as close to a compliment as you’ve ever given me.”
“Fine. Whatever. It was a compliment.” He exhales. “But since you’re still annoying as fuck, it evens out.”
“Jeez, thanks for the ego boost.”
“I didn’t know your ego needed lifting. You seem pretty confident to me already.”
“Another compliment.” I wag my eyebrows. “Careful, Lucky. Keep this up, and people might think you actually like me.”
“Helloooo? Did you miss the part where I said you’re fucking annoying?”
I bite my cheek to keep from laughing since his scowl is dangerously close to a pout.
“And yet,” I say, glancing around the sleek penthouse, “you went through all this trouble just to help me out.”
“How about less lip and more focus?” He plops the textbook back onto my lap. “I’ve got shit to do.”
“What kind of shit?”
“Shit,” he repeats vaguely.
“Can you be more specific?”
“No.” He grumbles, flipping to another page. “Now, where were we—”
“Nope. Nuh huh.” I shut the book. “I need a break before my head explodes.”
He cranes his head back to stare at the ceiling but eventually relents. “Fine. You hungry?”
“I could eat,” I admit as my stomach growls in agreement.
“Let’s see what Jude’s got in his fridge.”
Lucky gets up from the floor, and unwilling to be left alone with these soul-sucking textbooks, I quickly trail after him into the kitchen.
He swings the fridge open, sticks his head inside, and lets out a disgruntled groan.
“Just as I figured. He’s got nothing.”
“Didn’t you say your brother lives in London?” I lean against the counter. “Why would you assume his apartment had food anyway?”
He ignores me, yanking open the freezer.
“Ha! Bingo! You like Eggos?”
“Sure.”
Looking way too proud of himself for discovering frozen waffles, he tosses a few into the toaster, then leans against the counter opposite me with his arms crossed over his chest.
“I’ll make sure to stock up on actual food for next time.”
I don’t say anything to that, or to the fact that he plans on there being a next time. It seems we’re not going back to the school library, and this quiet penthouse is going to become our new thing.
And truthfully? I prefer it here. No prying eyes. No whispered comments in the background about how Lucky got stuck tutoring the big girl or the poor abandoned orphan.
Here, it’s just us. Us and silence.
It’s kind of nice. Not that I’ll ever tell him that.
Once the toaster dings, Lucky plates the waffles, drizzling a generous amount of syrup before sliding one across the counter toward me.
“Dig in.”
I don’t need to be told twice. I take a bite, sighing as the syrup melts into the warm, fluffy waffle.
“What?” I ask when I notice he’s not eating, just staring.
“Nothing.”
“That look wasn’t nothing. “So what is it?”
“Aren’t nuns supposed to say grace before they eat or some shit?”
“I guess,” I say with a shrug, taking another forkful.
Lucky just grins, then pushes off the counter and strolls over to the fridge. He yanks it open, grabs two water bottles, and tosses one my way without warning.
I catch it—barely—earning another one of his cocky smirks.
He hops up onto the counter, patting the spot next to him.
After a second’s hesitation, I join him, swinging my legs idly as I take another bite of waffle.
For a few minutes, we eat in silence, the city stretching out beyond the tall windows like something out of a movie trailer.
“I’ve never seen a nun who doesn’t use every excuse in the book to pray to her maker.”
“I’m not a nun.”
“Yet,” he counters smoothly.
I drop my fork and stare him down.
“Why do you always bring that up? It’s like you’re obsessed or something.”
“Maybe I am,” he admits, twirling his fork between his fingers. “I just don’t get why anyone would willingly choose that life.”
I laugh. “What… you mean a life of helping others? A selfless life of trying to do some actual good in the world?”
“A celibate life.” Heat creeps up my neck at the way his chestnut eyes darken just a shade.
“That’s your issue with it?”
“It’s one of my issues,” he retorts with a smug smile before cutting into his Eggo. “But yeah, that one’s definitely at the top of the list.”
I roll my eyes and go back to eating before murmuring, “I don’t think I’ll be missing much.”
Lucky chokes on his waffle. “Are you kidding?”
“Does it look like I’m kidding?” I repeat his earlier words to me.
“Fuck,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I really don’t get you.”
“You don’t have to,” I say simply, before taking a sip of water. “Your only job is to teach me calculus. You don’t need to get me.”
“God, you’re annoying,” he groans. “I’m just trying to have a conversation.”
“No,” I correct. “You’re judging something you don’t understand.”
“Fine,” he says, placing his plate in between us to give me his full attention. “Enlighten me, then.”
“That’s the beauty of it. I don’t have to,” I retort nonchalantly, taking another bite.
Instead of getting annoyed, he just looks at me, his gaze unreadable and oddly focused, as if trying to figure something out.
“So, what, the whole celibacy thing is cool with you?” he finally asks.
“Like I said, I don’t think I’m missing much.” Lucky looks like I just punched him square in the face again.
“You can’t be serious,” he replies, aghast.
“Please don’t tell me that you think that sex is the end-all, be-all of life?” I taunt.
“I think it’s a hell of a thing to voluntarily give up,” he argues.
I pop another piece of waffle into my mouth, not one bit bothered by his viewpoint. “You can’t miss what you never had.”
“Wait, wait, hold up…” He pushes his plate further to the side just to lean in close to me. “Are you telling me you’ve never had sex?”
I glance at him and shake my head. “Nope.”
His eyes widen. “Have you ever even been kissed?” My fingers tighten around my fork, and when I shake my head, his brows shoot up. “No?”
“No,” I say evenly, meeting his gaze.
For a moment, he just stares at me, his expression morphing from incredulous to utterly bewildered. Then his tongue swipes over his bottom lip, and something shifts in his eyes—something dangerous. Something that, to my utter shame, makes my pulse pick up. And that’s when I realize—I probably shouldn’t have told him that. Because something tells me Lucky is not planning on letting that tidbit of information slide.
“How the hell are you supposed to make a life-altering decision when you don’t even have all the facts?” Lucky demands.
“I guess I just am.” I twist my fork in the syrup, pretending to focus on that instead of him.
“You guess? ” He pushes his plate fully away, eyes locked on me as if I’d just personally offended him and everything he believes in.
“Are you going to eat that?” I ask, already reaching for his plate.
“Knock yourself out,” he grumbles. “I lost my fucking appetite.”
“Sucks to be you.” I take a bite, sighing in satisfaction. “These are delicious. We never get Eggos at the orphanage. We only get porridge most mornings.”
“If you say with raisins, I’m gonna blow my brains out.”
“God, you’re dramatic.” I give him a flat look.
“And you’re naively stubborn.” I freeze mid-bite.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me,” he says firmly.
“How am I naive?”
“Notice how you didn’t even deny the stubborn part,” he mocks, but there’s no humor in his eyes. “You’re naive because any logical person would consider all the facts before making a decision that will dictate the rest of their life.”
“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” I let out a long-winded exhale.
“Not a chance.” He leans back against the cupboards, arms folded.
I exhale through my nose, drop my fork onto the plate, and lean into him. Before he can register what’s happening, I press a quick, chaste kiss on his lips.
It’s over in a second.
I pull away, staring at him smugly.
“There. First kiss. Nothing to write home about. Just as I thought.”
Lucky blinks once, then twice, a new look settling over him—quiet, steady, and way too dangerous for my peace of mind.
“That wasn’t a kiss.”
“My lips met yours. Hence, kiss.”
“No.” His voice is lower now, more serious. “A real kiss implies two active parties. That wasn’t a kiss because I wasn’t fucking ready.”
I rest my chin in my hand, giving him my best, unimpressed stare. “I don’t see how your preparedness would make the outcome different.”
His jaw tightens. “Trust me. It would be different.”
“I don’t buy it.” I grab the last bite, pretending his reaction isn’t sending an unexpected thrill down my spine.
“But thanks for the snack. I feel re-energized enough to get back to studying.” I plop down from the counter and start collecting the plates. “Just let me wash these first.”
Before I take a step, Lucky’s hand wraps around my wrist, halting me in place. “Leave it,” he says, his grip firm.
“But they’re covered in syrup. They need to be—”
“I said leave the fucking plates alone, Frances.”
My eyebrows hike up. “Frances? Since when do you call me that? I thought you hated my name.”
“I call you that when you piss me off. And for the record, I don’t hate it. Frankie just fits you better.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to get used to hearing it since pissing you off is basically my full-time job now.” I snort, breezing right past his third compliment of the day.
But before I can shake his grip off my wrist, he slides off the counter, closing the space between us.
I have to crane my head back just to hold his gaze. And for some stupid reason, my pulse spikes up yet again. I don’t know if it’s how his eyes darken or how the air shifts between us, but my skin tingles, my breath catching in my throat.
“I wasn’t ready before.” His voice is deeper, raspier. “But I am now.”
I barely have time to process what that means when his hand cups my cheek, his other gripping my hip as he pulls me in and crashes his mouth on mine.
And holy shit! The peck I gave him doesn’t hold a candle to this.
Lucky doesn’t just kiss—he claims.
His lips move against mine with a hunger that steals every thought in my head. It’s all heat and urgency, but there’s something else threaded through it—something softer. His thumb brushes along my jaw as he tilts my chin just right as if learning me, memorizing me.
A shockwave rolls through my entire body, sharp and sweet, making my heart stutter. His fingers press into my hip, grounding me, anchoring me to the moment while everything else in me floats. I don’t even realize my hands have found his shirt until my fingers curl into the fabric, clutching it as if it were the only thing keeping me standing. I can feel the hard muscle beneath it, his tension matching my own.
My knees threaten to give, and just as I start to melt into him completely, his lips slow—softening, lingering. He brushes one last kiss over mine, featherlight, like punctuation. Then he pulls back, just enough for oxygen to make its way back into my bereft lungs. His forehead rests gently against mine, and I feel his breath ghost over my skin, unsteady and warm. His chest rises and falls like he just ran a race.
And maybe he did. Or maybe we both did. Though I’m not sure which of us was named the victor.
“Now that,” he murmurs, his thumb grazing my bottom lip, “was a kiss.” I stand there, stunned, my lips still tingling. “Still think you’re not missing out?” I open my mouth, but no words come out. “Cat got your tongue?” he teases, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers trailing against my skin for a second too long.
That’s when panic hits me all at once. I jerk away, scrambling to put distance between us. “We should… we should get back to studying,” I blurt out, practically bolting to the living room.
What the fuck was that?!
Is that what a real kiss feels like?
And why do I feel this tight pull in my lower stomach?
I’m so thrown off by these new sensations that I don’t even realize Lucky’s standing in front of my kneeled frame until his knuckles pull my chin up.
“You’re not as confident in your decision now, are you?” A slow grin tugs at his lips, along with a cocky gleam in his eye.
I snap my head away and start packing up my things.
“You know what? I think I’ve learned enough for today.”
“I didn’t peg you for a runner,” he says, still towering over me with that smug, knowing look on his annoying, gorgeous face.
“I’m not running.”
“You are. I proved you wrong, and you can’t handle it.”
“That kiss proved nothing.”
“Oh, no? Then why are you packing your things?”
“Because I’m tired of looking at your face.” I sling my bag over my shoulder and stand up. “Now, take me home.”
“An orphanage isn’t a home,” he repeats with a sneer, which I now believe to be his favorite fucking mantra.
“Well, it’s the only one I have, asshole!”
“Nuns don’t call people assholes, Frances. ”
“This one does.” I glare at him, my cheeks burning. “Especially when you’re acting like one.”
Lucky’s eyes slit into two fine lines, but thankfully, he heeds my command.
“Fine. You want to go home? I’ll take you home.”
And with that, he turns around and heads for the door, not even bothering to wait for me.
The ride back to the orphanage is tense, to say the least.
I’m pissed. I’m confused. And I hate that my lips still feel swollen from his kiss.
When we pull up to the orphanage, I reach for the door handle, ready to get as far away from Luciano Romano as possible. But to my chagrin, I don’t get very far when Lucky’s fingers wrap around my wrist, stopping me from moving an inch.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?” I ask with too much bite.
“For what I said about the orphanage not being a home. I was… pissed.”
“You’re always pissed.”
“I guess you bring that out in me.” He chuckles softly.
“Yay me,” I mumble, yanking my wrist free and storming up the steps of the orphanage, not even bothering to shut the car’s door behind me.
But the hits just keep on coming because the second I step inside, I practically crash into none other than Sister Agnes.
“Frankie?” she says, brows knitting as her gaze sweeps over me. “Is everything okay? You look… flushed.”
I freeze like a criminal caught red-handed.
Did she say flushed?
God. It’s written all over my face, isn’t it?
This is all her fault.
If she hadn’t pushed me into this tutoring thing, I wouldn’t be kissing bullies in penthouses. I wouldn’t be feeling like the floor just dropped out from under me.
“Oh, no,” she sighs. “What did Lucky do?”
He kissed me.
And made me feel … things.
“Nothing,” I mutter. “He didn’t do anything. I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”
Before she has a chance to ask me anything else, I rush past her, run up the stairs into my room, and shut the door behind me with more force than necessary.
The air inside feels heavier somehow. Like the room knows something’s different about me.
I don’t bother turning on the lights. I just collapse onto my bed, letting the silence wrap around me. Outside, the sun sinks below the horizon, casting golden streaks across the floor. Then everything fades into dark blue, then black.
I don’t move. I don’t eat. I just sit there, knees drawn up to my chest, staring at nothing.
At some point, my fingers find my lips as if still trying to make sense of what happened.
I can still feel him.
The heat. The pressure.
The way the world fell away for a second and it was just him and me and now.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, its glow slicing through the dark. I already know who it is since only one person has my number—the same asshole who gave it to me in the first place.
I groan, dragging myself over and grabbing the phone anyway.
Lucky: You’re still thinking about that kiss, aren’t you?
Me: Leave me alone.
Lucky: Not until you admit it.
Me: Don’t hold your breath.
Me: On second thought… hold it.
Lucky: Admit it, Frankie. You liked it.
I glare at the phone, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Good thing he’s not here.
Because I don’t trust myself not to kiss him again… or murder him on the spot.
Me: Oh, I’m Frankie now. Not Frances.
Lucky: I’ll call you whatever you want me to call you. Just admit it. You’re thinking about that kiss.
Me: Sounds like you are more than I am.
Lucky: I’m thinking about a lot of things right now.
I swallow hard, his words planting forbidden images in my mind.
I bite my lower lip but don’t dare reply.
This vicious game of his feels like a trap. And I refuse to be toyed with.
Lucky : Speechless again, huh? Looks like I have that effect on you.
Me: Fuck off.
Lucky: You’re only proving my point. You’re not meant to be a nun. Not when you curse the way you do.
Lucky: A nun doesn’t kiss like you, either.
Me: How do you know? Have you kissed many before?
Lucky: Only you.
My heart rate speeds up, and I hate that two little written words have such an effect on me.
Me: Leave me alone, Lucky.
Me: I won’t say it again.
Lucky: You’re not saying anything.
Lucky: You’re texting.
God, he’s infuriating. And, of course, he had to get technical.
Knowing he won’t back off no matter what I type, I switch to a language he’ll actually respect.
Me:
Lucky:
Lucky: Tomorrow, I have a proposition for you.
Me: What kind of proposition?
Lucky: Got your attention, now, didn’t I?
Argh.
When I don’t reply, he sends me another text.
Lucky: Meet me by the St. Mary’s fountain after school. We’ll go back to Jude’s, and I’ll tell you all about it.
Me: No.
Lucky: Yes.
Me: If you have anything to say to me, you can tell me at school.
Lucky: Not this.
Lucky: Trust me.
Trust him? Trust him? Is he serious?!
Lucky: C’mon. What do you have to lose?
My mind? My future? Take your pick.
Me: Fine. I’ll be there. Can’t wait.
Me: That’s sarcasm in my tone, fyi.
Lucky: Oh, I know.
Lucky: Trust me, you’ll be interested in what I’m about to offer you.
Lucky: It’s a once-in-a-lifetime deal.
Me: I doubt anything your Machiavellian mind has concocted interests me.
Lucky: We’ll see.
Lucky: Goodnight, Frankie.
Lucky: Don’t dream about me too much.
Though he doesn’t add the laughing emoji to the end of his text, I know he’s taking great pleasure in my pain.
I toss the phone onto the bedside table like it burned me.
Why does even a stupid emoji from him feel like a challenge?
Whatever he wants to tell me tomorrow, I won’t fall for it.
Nothing Lucky could offer me is worth the chaos that comes with him.
Not even the kiss I can’t stop replaying in my head.
Or the fact that I still feel it clinging to my lips as if it belonged there.