Chapter Two
Nate
This is by far the worst day of my life.
And that’s saying something considering all the bad days I’ve had lately.
But this? I don’t think anything is going to top this.
Because at the end of the day, I’m still “Mister Unlucky,” as my grandparents used to call me.
Though I’m pretty sure my grandfather didn’t mean it as warmly as my grandmother did.
She always told me that luck was what I made it, but I’m pretty sure Grandpa thought I was the worst thing that could have happened to this family, judging by how much of a dick the man was to me.
Like it was somehow my fault that my mother decided to have me and be a single mom.
Though maybe he was on to something, the bastard, because what else can I blame this shitty day on? Driving until I couldn’t see straight all the way to my childhood home, only to take a long-overdue nap and wake up in the middle of a damn fire…
Yeah, talk about bad fucking luck.
Though, I don’t know. Maybe if Grandpa would have been a little more supportive, or at the very least polite, instead of judging me and being shitty to Mom, then maybe then we wouldn’t have moved so far away.
We could’ve stayed here, in this town, and then things would be different.
Like maybe Mom would be alive, for one. Plus, I could’ve at least been here for Gram, and I could’ve helped her more around the house and stuff.
You know, like grandkids are supposed to do.
Maybe I could have helped Mom and Grandma fix up the house since Grandpa’s later years apparently rendered him unable to do much other than yell or sleep.
A deep sigh escapes me.
Fuck, I wish Mom were here. She would know exactly what to do, what to say. She always did. She was my best friend, and I know it’s probably really lame for a twenty-three-year-old man to be best friends with his mother, but it’s the truth. And now she’s just… gone.
Like Grandpa, and now Gram, too.
It should be her handling Gram’s affairs. Fixing up the house like she dreamed of doing. My mother’s words reverberate in my brain, and I can’t stop thinking about them.
“You and me, we’re going to turn that old heap into a bed-and-breakfast,” she’d say.
“A real nice one, with the fancy cocktail hours and all the good family recipes.”
Even now there’s a part of me that wants to believe somehow it’s still possible even though I don’t know the first thing about fixing up a house, especially a historic one like the Barrett Estate.
But that was what I promised myself I’d do when I got the call about Gram’s passing.
One way or another, I would make Mom’s dream come true.
And maybe the idea of starting over somewhere new wasn’t just a pipe dream for her, but it was what I needed, too.
Especially after these last few months.
Evan breaking up with me on the same day I got the call was just the bitter icing on the shit cake I’d been served. He said we just “weren’t compatible” anymore. Which was code for he’d been fucking someone else behind my back. The entire time we’d been living together, almost eight months.
I know it was a risk to move out to Ohio—away from Mom in Kentucky, to be with him in the first place.
After all, we’d only been talking online—well, okay, so we didn’t do a ton of talking, but those late-night confessional texts made me feel like I’d finally found someone who understood me, who got me.
I thought maybe I’d finally found something good, something stable. Guess I fucked that up, too.
This is why you can’t have nice things, Nate.
I stare at the charred husk of what was once my family’s pride and joy. I was hoping that this would be my Diane Lane Under the Tuscan Sun moment of revival. That all the bullshit I’d been through the last few months—hell, the last decade—was just preparing me for something better. My glow-up.
That’s how it always is in the movies, right? Everything sucks, and then you meet the man of your dreams, and he sweeps you off your feet?
Hell, I’d even bought the perfect outfit and everything in hopes I’d end up running into a beefy flannel-wearing lumberjack in the coffee shop or maybe I’d end up hiring a hot handyman who wouldn’t be able to resist my unlucky black-cat vibes.
A guy can dream, too, you know!
I glance down at my frayed hoodie cuffs, which have somehow remained intact despite everything. And that’s when it hits me.
“Fuck,” I mutter, as I realize on top of everything else, I’d brought my duffel bag with most of my clothes—said outfit of seduction—inside with me when I got here.
I’d meant to unpack first, but after the long drive and everything else, I was too exhausted.
All I wanted was to pass out for a few hours.
I could deal with Gram’s affairs after I’d slept and had a coffee.
Or two. So I laid down and shut my eyes for five minutes on the couch, remembering all those naps I used to take there with Gram when I was a kid, how warm and cozy I’d felt then…
And then when I woke up, it was to the smell of smoke and burning wood, and now here I am.
Sitting in the ambulance with the pretty paramedic, Lacey, staring at the graveyard of my life.
I have nothing.
No clothes.
No house.
No family.
No boyfriend.
No friends.
Not even a damn dog.
I don’t know if I have the energy to cry any more.
Lacey asks me a series of questions—what year it is, how many fingers she’s holding up, if I know my own name.
I know she’s just doing her job, probably trying to check for a concussion or trauma or something, but still.
She slips a pulse-ox on me to take my vitals, and I note how cold her hands are.
How small they are. Her fingers are long and thin, the nails cut down perfectly and manicured with the basic French tip. Modest, classic. Professional.
I glance up at her, noticing her sweet smile that feels a little too sweet.
I also don’t miss the way she looks me over, and I’m not all that sure it’s because she’s being professional.
Mom always said I had my Dad’s good looks, which I have to take her word for, being as I’d never met the guy and she didn’t have any photos of him.
Sometimes I wondered if she was telling me the truth or if she just didn’t know who he was and it was easier to pretend.
Either way, women have always paid attention to me, whether or not I wanted them to.
But the men? I’m not Matt Bomer over here.
I’m a six-foot scrawny beanpole with two big feet—that does not translate to my cock because again, Mister Unlucky—and no ass.
The only thing I’ve got going for me is I can suck dick like it’s my job.
Maybe it should be.
I break my gaze from Lacey, not wanting to think about that right now, though I can’t deny the thought of a dick in my mouth makes me feel slightly better, even if it’s only for a brief moment.
I look back at Lacey, taking in the sight of her. Her brown hair is pulled back in a perfect ponytail, wisps of hair framing her round face.
She’s pretty. If you’re into women, that is.
Which I’m not, nor have I ever been. I’ve tried.
I’ve kissed plenty of women, which wasn’t terrible, but I’d rather guzzle window cleaner than go down on one.
Vaginas are gross, I don’t care what anyone says.
I’ve had sex with one woman in my life, and that was Georgia, my next door neighbor in Kentucky. And that was a disaster, too.
Lacey must take my gawking and momentary walk down memory lane as interest, because I feel her fingers brushing my wrist softly, which pulls me back to the here and now.
“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head. She scoots closer to me in the ambulance; close enough I can get a whiff of her too chemical-flowery scent.
It’s not bad though. Kind of reminds me of Gram, if I’m being honest. It’s soapy and clean, and weirdly comforting in a way.
The pulse-ox beeps and she checks it before pulling it off.
“Vitals are good, and you seem pretty aware.”
I nod, trying to force a smile. “You sure? I mean, I just spaced out when you were talking to me.”
“You’re in shock. That’s normal. I’d be more worried if you weren’t reacting at all.”
“Right, I guess that makes sense.”
Her fingers brush my knuckles, and she doesn’t let go of me.
Not until her phone buzzes. I pull my hand back into my lap, feeling strangely on the spot. I look her up and down, my vision finally clearing from the hazy smoke as she smirks, staring at her phone before she shoots off a text.
“Boyfriend?” I ask, trying to distract myself from reality.
She smiles warmly at me as she shakes her head.
“No, it’s just AJ.”
AJ…
“The… firefighter?”
More like the hot firefighter.
I know my vision was fucked, but I’m pretty sure a blind man could see Mister Hot Stuff somehow.
Even underneath his heavy uniform and helmet, those piercing dark eyes and perfect bone structure would be hard to miss. Along with the tightly trimmed facial hair. But it wasn’t just his smoldering gaze that had me weak in the knees. It was that voice.
Deep, smokey. Raspy. And the way he said my name…
Fuck, it sounded sexy as hell, and I know that is so beyond inappropriate given the circumstances.
Maybe Lacey’s wrong. Maybe I am concussed.
I certainly feel like I’m losing my fucking mind.
She nods. “He was just checking in.” She slides her phone into her side pocket.
“Checking in?” I raise an eyebrow. “On me?” I point to myself.
She nods again.
“What… what did you tell him?” I blink, feeling strangely worried for some reason. Not about myself, but about what she told him.
She tucks some strands of hair behind her ear.
“Told him you seem to be okay, for the most part.”
“The most part?”
“Sometimes people don’t feel the effects until later,” she says carefully.
Oh.
“Which is why if you notice anything—headaches, pain, nausea, dizziness—”
“I should seek medical attention,” I finish for her.
She smiles again. “Not your first rodeo, I take it?”