Lucky

Chapter 1

Lucky

The GPS dies three miles before I reach the turnoff, the screen going black like even the satellites can’t be bothered with my life anymore.

Figures.

I crawl the rented SUV up the winding mountain road, headlights cutting through pine-dark nothing.

The trees crowd the road like they’ve been waiting for me.

The air is the kind of June cool that sneaks through the cracked window and brushes my neck, raising goosebumps.

It smells like wet earth and leaves and quiet—and the quiet is the worst part.

My chest tightens the closer I get to the lake. The closer I get to being alone.

The dashboard pings, and a voice text from Banks blasts through the speakers, too loud in the silence.

“Lu, babe. You made it? Good. Listen, your mission is to find yourself. No press, no fans, no bullshit. Keep doing your therapy sessions online. Oh—and dye your hair. Mountain folk still think the Scorpions are modern. You don’t want to show up looking like an eighties Cyndi Lauper wannabe.”

I choke on a humorless laugh. “Wow. Love you too, Banks.”

“I packed a couple of hair kits in your suitcase. Just follow the instructions. You’ve got this. Proud of you.”

The message ends, and the silence returns, thick enough to press on my eardrums.

Fingers drag down the length of my hair—hours of bleach and toner, maintenance that nearly killed my stylist when I insisted it had to be perfect. The one thing I’ve managed to control. The one part of Lucky Pink I can still keep.

Dye it. Blend in. Even here.

The SUV settles with a final hiss as the engine dies, parked at the edge of the lake. Staring out at the dark water, a hollow tug pulls at me. It feels like losing pieces of myself before even stepping out.

I yank a black beanie over my head, trying to stuff all the electric-pink strands inside. One stubborn coil pops free at my collarbone, neon under the dashboard glow. I shove it back in like I’m hiding contraband.

Gravel crunches beneath my boots as I step out. The lake house rises in front of me—dark wood, wide porch, big windows staring out at the water that glints like ink under the moon. Beautiful. Isolated. Horror-movie level quiet.

A shiver runs through me, like the air itself is holding its breath. Even the breeze feels like it’s circling something it doesn’t want to disturb.

My stomach rolls.

The key Banks left in the envelope is cold and sharp between my fingers as I climb the steps. The boards creak. A mosquito buzzes my ear. I blow out a jittery breath and try the lock.

Nothing.

I try again. Harder. The key won’t twist.

“Come on, come on,” I mutter, jamming it in, wiggling, shoving. “Why is everything in my life allergic to working properly?”

The lock doesn’t care. It stays frozen, or jammed, or possessed by some rural demon that hates me personally.

I let loose a string of curses that would make my tour bus driver blush.

When I lift my head, I see the only other house on the property. It’s set a little back, with warm lights behind the windows. Someone’s awake. Great. My big solo-find-yourself retreat starts with needing assistance like a helpless idiot.

I stomp off the porch, muttering, “Of course. Of course, this is happening. Day one and I’m already bothering strangers. Banks can shove his therapy reminders straight—”

I reach the door and knock before I can chicken out—three sharp raps that echo too loudly in the quiet. The porch light above me flickers once, like even it’s judging my life choices.

The door swings open a few seconds later, and the man who fills the doorway looks like he’s been dragged out of bed and resents me personally for it.

Tall. Broad shoulders. T-shirt stretched over a chest built from hard work, not gym selfies. Bare feet on the hardwood. Wrist veins. Dark hair rumpled like he’d been asleep on it a moment ago. A permanent shadow of stubble dusting his jaw, adding to the frown carved deep enough to store rainwater.

His eyes sweep over me—beanie, oversized hoodie, frantic city energy bleeding into the still mountain night—and land somewhere between confused and mildly irritated.

He stands perfectly still, like a statue carved from night.

“Can I help you?” he asks, and it sounds like he hopes the answer is no.

The voice hits next. His accent is British, clipped, and cool. It slices through the sleepy mountain air with surgical precision. It doesn’t fit the scenery. Or maybe I don’t fit the scenery, and he knows it instantly.

“Hi, I’m renting the house next door. My lock might be frozen,” I say, breathless from nerves I disguise as annoyance. “Or jammed. Or whatever locks do when they’re assholes.”

His eyebrows lift by a millimeter.

Judgment level: advanced.

He doesn’t speak, just… stares. Appraising. Patient, the way a boulder is patient. Immovable and silently annoyed at the wind that dares to hit it.

Movement catches my eye. There’s a small figure half-hidden behind his leg.

The girl peeks out, big brown eyes curious, curls wild around her face like she’s part woodland sprite.

She clings to him with one hand, like she’s still deciding if I’m safe or some feral creature that crawled out of the woods.

She can’t be more than ten or twelve. Old enough to be cautious. Maybe young enough to still believe in magic and monsters. Or not. I soften automatically. The way I do around kids, the way something in me untangles at the sight of innocence.

I wiggle my fingers in a tiny wave, smiling. “Hey, sweetheart.”

She hides again, then reappears for half a second, giving me a shy half-grin before disappearing like a nervous rabbit.

Something warm flickers in my chest. Something protective.

The man notices. His jaw tightens just a fraction; it’s subtle, but there. His whole body shifts closer to her in that instinctive dad way, like he’s a shield without even thinking about it.

He clears his throat. “Right. The lock.” His voice is flatter now, brusque but not unkind. “I’ll get my tools. Meet you over there.”

No introduction. No sympathy. No mountain-town hospitality.

It shouldn’t affect me. But something about his distance, his calm, his quiet confidence makes me hyperaware of every nervous twitch in my body. Every breath is too fast. Every piece of me unraveling at the edges.

“Thanks,” I say, already backing away, almost tripping over my own boots as I retreat down his steps.

The door closes behind him before I even reach the path, leaving me alone again in the cool mountain dark, my heart pounding as if I’ve just survived something far more dangerous than a grumpy neighbor.

Back at the porch, I pace. The boards creak under my boots in a slow, uneven rhythm that does nothing to settle my pulse.

My hands shake—stupid adrenaline in my blood, leftover dread from the drive and the dark and the too-much silence.

Silence so thick it feels like it’s pressing fingers against my throat.

I rub my arms, trying to warm myself, trying to keep them from shaking too visibly.

The lake is quiet and patient, but the trees aren’t—every rustle, every snap of a twig, every whisper of wind sounds like a threat.

Sounds like someone stepping where they shouldn’t. My brain fills the shadows with eyes.

“Get it together,” I whisper to myself.

I don’t.

Footsteps approach. They’re heavy enough to be human, steady enough to be him. Confident, unhurried. The opposite of everything inside me. The sound travels up the steps before he appears at the bottom, toolbox hanging from one hand like it weighs nothing.

I straighten, force my shoulders back, and wipe my palms on my jeans.

He climbs the steps with that same maddening calm, and I try—god, I TRY—to sound casual when I blurt, “So… why do you have a British accent and live in the middle of nowhere?”

The second the words leave my mouth, I regret them. They sound nosy. And weirdly invasive. Like I’m interrogating him instead of making small talk.

He slides me a look. Dry enough to wick moisture from the air. His eyebrow barely moves, but the sarcasm is practically glowing.

“Who moves to the mountains wearing fluorescent hair?”

My stomach drops straight through the porch.

“What?” I squeak, already knowing.

He doesn’t even smirk—just gestures, deadpan, to my beanie, more specifically, to the bright-pink strand of hair that has apparently staged a daring prison break and is hanging out near my shoulder like a neon sign. It looks radioactive in the porch light. Impossible to miss.

“Oh my god.” I slap it back under the hat, face burning hot enough to power the cabin’s water heater. “It’s not—this is not my—well, it is, but—forget it.”

He watches me. Half a beat too long. Not like he recognizes me—not like he’s thinking, Hey, look, Lucky Pink crashed into my porch—just… curious. Quietly baffled. Like he’s trying to figure out what species I am and whether I’m dangerous or just inconvenient.

Good. Let him stay clueless. Being unknown feels like oxygen.

He finally holds out his hand. I pass him the key, and our fingers brush—warm, calloused skin against my cold, jittery ones. My pulse stutters. A full, embarrassing skip-thunk.

He doesn’t react. Of course, he doesn’t.

He kneels beside the door, full focus on the lock, and that’s when I notice how steady he is. No wasted movement. Everything deliberate. Controlled. The opposite of the chaos that buzzes under my skin like static.

He studies the lock, works it with surgical precision—twist, tap, pressure, shift.

Thirty seconds later, the door clicks open as if it had never had issues at all.

I blink. “Oh. Cool. Just magic. No big deal.”

He stands, brushing dust from his hands, the porch light catching the sharp cut of his jaw. I swear I see the ghost of something smug in the corner of his mouth.

“There you are.”

Show-off.

He says it as if opening a door is no more impressive than breathing, like saving my sanity at midnight is nothing worth mentioning.

I clear my throat, suddenly aware of how close we’re standing, how much space he takes up, how little I seem to occupy.

“I’d offer you tea or coffee as thanks,” I say, gesturing vaguely at the dark house behind me, “but I doubt there’s anything in there besides dust and spiders. Maybe a serial killer if I’m really lucky.”

His mouth twitches—almost a smile. Or maybe it’s annoyance. Hard to tell with men like him.

He mutters something under his breath. It’s definitely English, definitely annoyed, possibly a swear, but it’s too low and too accented for me to catch. Something like 'bloody' something or 'madwoman,' if I had to guess.

He grabs his toolbox, the metal clinking softly in the quiet. For a heartbeat, he hesitates, as if debating whether to say something else. Something polite. Or rude. Or both.

He settles for dipping his head in the barest nod—practically microscopic—and turns away.

No goodbye.

No “welcome to the neighborhood.”

No “don’t worry, your lock isn’t actually cursed.”

Just steady footsteps fading down the steps, moving back toward his house with the kind of confidence that comes from knowing exactly who you are and exactly where you belong.

Lucky Pink is neither of those things.

I watch him walk, that broad back disappearing into the night, swallowed by shadows and pine trees and the soft glow of his house lights across the property. The darkness closes behind him like he was never there.

And suddenly it’s just me.

Me and the creaking porch.

Me and the quiet lake.

Me and the house that feels too big, too empty, too still.

I swallow hard, grip the doorknob he just conquered, and step inside the lake house alone, where the silence rushes in like a wave.