Chapter 12
She can’t honestly be serious. This is a cruel joke, and everyone knows she doesn’t have a sense of humor.
“You’re not even going to give me a warning? You’re just going to fire me? That’s ridiculous.”
Still smirking, she stares at me with the shrewd gaze of a woman who always knows when you clock out one minute early and keeps a record of it—one of many mental tabs she has open of what the world owes her.
“No, what’s ridiculous is how long I’ve let this charade go on.
I didn’t even want to hire you in the first place. ”
Well, that explains a lot.
“If I hadn’t been talked into it by—” She cuts herself off, huffing. “It doesn’t matter now, does it? He was wrong about you, and I’ll happily let him know.”
I’ve reached my limit. Sorry, Dad, you’ll have to forgive me for losing my patience this time.
The chair pushes back with a squeal as I stand. “You know what? I’m glad you’re firing me.” I don’t give her a chance to respond. “Two years of pushing affiliate links so the owner can get kickbacks and promoting his buddies’ restaurants is not what I studied journalism for.”
Monica leans back in her chair. She’s completely unbothered, which only turns the burner up on my anger.
My dreams of The Observer being a beacon of truth and integrity have been holding on by a thread, and in this moment, they shatter, leaving me pierced by the shards of what’s broken.
“Find some other desperate graduate to be your puppet because I’m done. Have the day you deserve.”
Fate, if you’re there, please, please, make sure her sheets are always a little bit damp—no, worse, that there’s always a hair stuck on her tongue she can never get rid of.
I know I’m burning this bridge down to its studs, but I can’t find it in me to care. Two years of waiting, and working, and hoping, and for what?
She was never going to give me a chance.
I can’t breathe properly until I’ve slammed her door closed behind me. The glass rattles, but doesn’t break, and I shove the disappointment down.
With that, I’m done. Box packed and led to the elevator without a second thought. My only regret is that I won’t see Sterling again.
* * *
As I exit the elevator into the foyer, I’m once again faced with tattoos and chains. Lucky beams at me when I exit, and I’m starting to wonder if anything fazes this guy.
“Fancy bumping into you twice in one day,” I say, then nod at the coffee cup in his hand. “Are you here for payback? Because I think I have room for one more disaster.”
Heck, I have all the time in the world now that I don’t have a job anymore.
He looks at the box in my arms with concern. “What the hell happened up there?”
“How far back should I start? My ex ran off with another woman, I just got fired for being late, and to top it off, I probably nuked my career by yelling at my boss.”
Lucky holds the cup out to me, along with a small paper bag that smells like cinnamon. His eyes are kinder than I deserve, but I soak up the attention anyway.
“I know it’s not much, but I hear coffee and sugar go a long way in the healing process.”
I can’t help it; I laugh. He’s still wearing that beautiful smile from earlier, and I feel the tension inside me pop and release in an instant. I bet he never has to worry about anything.
“Rejection must wash off you like water on a duck’s back,” I say, letting him take the box from my hands and swapping it for the treats he brought me.
I’m shocked when his smile falls.
“Some, not all.”
Shit. I’ve made the world’s first human Labrador sad. Today is truly stacking up to be a crowning achievement in my list of shortcomings.
“Sorry, growing up with an older brother made me a little prickly.”
Lucky holds the door open for me. “Nothing to be sorry about.”
I doubt that, but it’s sweet of him to say. We spill out onto the street, and for a lack of anywhere else to go, I start walking home. Lucky follows.
My parents would have a hundred things to say about me leading a strange man back to my apartment—Alice would have a hundred more to say in favor of it—but the company is nice.
“What brings you here anyway?” I ask, moaning when I taste the coffee and find it rich and sweet. He remembered my order.
“I owed you one. Two now. Look, I’m really sorry you lost your job. You can yell at me if you’d like; it’ll make you feel better.”
“I think I’ve done enough yelling today, but thanks for the offer. Don’t you have a job to be getting to? What do you do anyway? Apart from showing up unannounced at people’s offices.”
“I write pop songs. Perform a bit every now and then, but my rock-star days are behind me.”
“You certainly have the look for it.”
“Dead sexy?”
Yes. “Something like that.” Facts are facts, and Lucky is gorgeous.
My phone starts to ring, and I struggle with the paper bag in my hand before Lucky shifts the box and takes it from me. I smile a thank-you and answer before I check the caller ID.
“Hello?”
“Miss Finnegan, I’m glad I caught you; it’s Bryan from New Realty. I wanted to let you know your lease is ready to sign.”
Relief washes over me. Moving into my new apartment is the last good news I have left.
“Unfortunately,” he continues.
Oh no.
“We just heard from your employer that you were terminated, and as such, the owners have decided to deny your application.”
My steps falter. “Um, okay. Thank you for letting me know.”
“Have a nice day.”
The sun is struggling to poke through the heavy clouds, its light cracking and splintering off the towering high-rises. Broken, like my hopes of ever getting this apartment.
Maybe this is a sign.
Maybe I’ve won the lottery for bad days.
In a single day, I’ve lost my job and home. In five days, my current lease will run out, and what then?
Move back to Ferntree?
I stand on the sidewalk, dazed. Then, with hysteria bubbling in the back of my throat, like an excited kid in a pet store, I start to laugh.
“You okay?” Lucky asks.
“No,” I answer shakily. “I’m officially having the worst day ever.”
“If it is the worst day, it can only go up from here.”
Gosh, he’s actually sweet. Despite it all, I smile at him.
He smiles back, and I almost stumble forward from the force of it.
“Hey, do you wanna get a drink?” I ask.
“Sure, but we might have a hard time finding an open bar.”
“Lucky for us,” I say, flushing at the heat in Lucky’s gaze, “I have a bottle I’ve been saving for the occasion.”
“Lead the way.”
* * *
The pop of the champagne cork echoes off the walls of my apartment. My cupboard and counters are bare, boxes litter the floor, and it’s hard not to feel like my whole life is packed up and ready to leave me behind.
I rip the tape off a box in the kitchen to find something to drink out of, staring at mugs and dish towels, but no glasses.
“How particular are you?”
Lucky looks over my shoulder into the box, our elbows brushing. It’s indecent how good he smells. Bringing him here might be the best idea I’ve ever had.
“I grew up on a council estate, love. If you want, we can drink it straight out of the bottle.”
He takes two mugs out of my hands and is already pouring wine halfway to the top before I can protest.
If he keeps this up, I’m really going to fall for him.
“Cheers,” he says, lifting his cup to mine. There are little yellow bows on it. “To new beginnings.”
I snort. Here I am, my life packed up in boxes, dumped, unemployed, and about to be homeless. This hardly feels like a beginning. More like a toast to my crumbling life.
The wine is bright and tart, and the alcohol does its job, buffering the sharp edge off of today.
“I was saving this for the first night in the new place,” I say, skipping the sofa to sit on the floor. Lucky copies me, our knees touching. “But I guess my last day in the office also counts.” Not having to deal with Monica anymore is something to celebrate.
“What are you going to do now?” he asks.
“That … is a great question. Maybe you should be the reporter.”
Lucky laughs. It’s delightful. “Nah, I prefer talking about myself too much. I’ll stick to writing hit songs.”
“A self-aware musician? I didn’t think those existed.” These bubbles are wonderful. All my bones have liquefied, and there’s no more annoying pain in my head anymore.
“I’m also gorgeous and talented, with a thick—”
I cover his mouth with my hand, and it stops whatever he was about to say, but it doesn’t do a thing to stop my brain from filling in the long, pulsating blank.
The warm, wet touch of his tongue along my palm shocks me into pulling back. I’m blushing all the way to my belly.
“The smart thing to do would be to count my losses and go home. My parents would put me up in a heartbeat, and my old boss always said my job was waiting for me if I ever returned.”
“But you’re not going to do that,” Lucky guesses.
“No, I’m not.”
Huey never understood my determination to stay, but then he’d err so far into caution that he would quit halfway through an idea.
“I love where I’m from, but I’m not supposed to be there. Ferntree’s the kind of place where people root themselves into the ground, their whole life a steady state of doing exactly what’s expected of them and nothing else. I want more. Or maybe that’s the champagne talking.”
“It’s saying all the right things.” Lucky tops off my mug. “You said it was your dream job earlier. Why lie?”
He’s so solid that I give in to the urge to lean on him, stretching my legs out and staring at my beat-up sneakers.
“It’s silly, but every time I told someone what I did—lifestyle reporting—they’d make this face.
Like, Oh, she has no brain because she likes to wear makeup and go out.
Which was garbage. It might not be the job I wanted or ever saw myself in, but I worked damn hard.
It’s just … I’d made myself a promised when I left home that I would stick it out in Chance until I became the reporter I knew I could be, and somehow, I’ve messed it all up. ”
“Bullshit. Sounds to me like you gave it your all, and now you’re free to do what you really want.”
“You really think so?”
“I know so.” He slips his hand in mine and turns it over. Gently, he starts tracing the lines across my palm, every drag of his finger sending goose bumps through me. “Dreams are beautiful, delicate things, and they need to be treated with care. Just like their owners.”
It’s rare that I’m aware of a memory as I’m making it.
“What do you dream about?” I ask.
All of his focus is on the point where he’s touching me. I want to burrow into him, press myself into his skin, the way I feel him being stitched into mine.
“Love,” he says and punctuates the word by kissing my palm.
My hand feels heavier, as though he placed a piece of his heart there, along with his lips.
I have the wild urge to press my own mouth to it when he releases me.
Lucky picks up his mug and swallows what’s left in one gulp. “You remind me a lot of the ex I had in college. He also wanted to change the world.”
There’s so much sadness in his eyes; I have to ask, “Did he succeed?”
“Yeah. Left everything behind to do it, but he did.”
I suspect that everything includes Lucky.
I reach over him for the half-finished bottle and refill his drink. “Do you think your friend is happy?”
“Maybe? I don’t know.” He rolls his head to look at me. He really is gorgeous. The amber in his eyes glows when the light hits it just right. “Anyway, you worked with the big shot. Would you say he’s happy?”
I can’t imagine who he’s referring to, unless he means …
Oh my God. “Sterling Ross is your ex?”
He nods.
“Wow. I mean, I knew he was bi, but he’s always been so tight-lipped about his private life. I’ve never really thought about the people he dates.” Shit, that sounds like an insult now that I say it out loud.
Surprisingly, Lucky chuckles. “If Mac is anything like he used to be, he doesn’t date. He cloaks himself in so much broodiness that no one can get close while secretly wishing someone would crash through his defenses.”
“Mac?” I ask.
“Mackenzie. It’s his middle name. Don’t tell him I told you.”
Yeah, there’s about zero chance of that ever happening.
Lucky pulls the elastic from his hair, running a hand through the now-free strands. It’s sexy and effortless, like everything else he does. Like he can’t help but express himself fully in every moment.
I bet he’s mesmerizing onstage.
“He wrote me after he ran off, but I was angry. We haven’t talked since.”
“I’m sorry.”
Lucky waves off my apology, putting his arm around my shoulders and pulling me tighter against him. “We were stubborn young assholes. It happens.”
I really misjudged him.
All that swagger, and there’s a level of insight underneath I didn’t expect. It’s humbling. I know better than to judge first, and I let myself get lost in the swell of my anger, my sense swept out by the tide of Monica’s hurtful words.
“Does that make you a stubborn old asshole now?”
His smile could warm the coldest nights. “Thirty-five is not old.”
“So, yes,” I tease.
He’s so close, so beautiful; all I would have to do is move and do something about it. And why not? I’ve got nothing to lose.
* * *
Make Your Choice:
what are you waiting for? kiss him (go to 18)
it’s too soon. I want a slow burn (go to 21)
go back (go to 9)