Lucky

Chapter 4

Ethan

The woman in the yard isn’t the one I met the other night.

For a second, I honestly think I’m looking at someone new — someone quieter, softer, almost… normal.

But then she turns, and I recognize the shape of her, even if the rest is wrong.

Her hair isn’t pink now.

It’s brown.

Brown and partially tied up in a loose knot like she twisted it there mid-panic. No makeup. No hat. None of the loud armor she arrived in the other day.

It throws me more than it should.

She’s swallowed by another oversized black sweater, sleeves half-covering her hands, and her boots are so big they look borrowed. Still, it’s her. Lucky. Or whatever her real name is.

Lily didn’t shut up about her over breakfast.

I lean on the railing of my front deck, arms crossed. From here, I have a clear view of the mess she’s pretending isn’t happening. Four unopened boxes still sit exactly where they were left yesterday on her porch. In the sun and untouched.

A guitar case leans beside them. Not the cheap kind. The kind professionals travel with. The kind people take care of, not abandon on a porch like forgotten luggage.

Doesn’t match the rest of her.

Doesn’t match this town.

Doesn’t match someone who looks like she’s hiding in the woods to breathe.

Which is exactly what she’s doing.

You can see it in the way she keeps glancing over her shoulder, like she expects something — or someone—to follow her here.

Breakup?

Running from debt?

Hollywood meltdown, she’s hoping no one recognizes her from?

I don’t know.

And I don’t want to know.

Except I’m still standing here, watching her fight with an axe like she’s never touched one in her life.

She swings too hard, hits the log wrong, and the blade ricochets off the wood, skidding dangerously close to her boot. She stumbles back with a curse loud enough to send a bird exploding out of the tree beside my deck.

Christ. She’s going to take her foot off.

She sets up again. Smaller swing. Worse aim.

“City folk,” I mutter under my breath. “Bloody useless.”

But I don’t move.

I watch her line up another doomed attempt, jaw tight, irritated by how irritated she makes me.

Because if she mangles herself, I know I’ll be the one hauling her to the ER.

Because Lily likes her.

Because she looks like someone one stiff wind away from crumpling.

Because—

No. Not because of anything else.

Not my business.

Not my problem.

But she lifts the axe again, and I can practically feel the disaster coming.

And that’s what finally pushes me off the deck.

I try — I genuinely try — to walk back inside and mind my own damn life.

She’s a stranger. A noisy one. A magnet for trouble, if I’ve ever seen one.

But then she swings again, weaker this time, like the fight’s leaking out of her. The axe thuds uselessly against the log. She huffs, frustrated. Vulnerable.

By the time I realize I’m interfering, I’m already halfway down my steps.

Her yard opens straight to the lake — no fence, nothing dividing my world from hers. She looks even smaller out here, swallowed by the openness, by the silence, by her own oversized clothes.

Smaller than she pretended to be yesterday.

“I can help,” I say when I’m close enough.

She startles, jumping like she didn’t hear me approach. That reaction hits me somewhere I don’t like. People who flinch that easily… they’ve learned to.

She pushes the loose hair out of her face and straightens her shoulders as if that alone can make her less breakable.

My eyes drag over her outfit. She’s drowning in this oversized sweater — sleeves past her wrists — but with black leggings and heavy, lace-up utility boots.

It’s humid. Warm. Definitely June.

Why the hell is she dressed like it’s winter?

Or hiding in plain sight?

Her gaze flicks over me, cautious but not timid, like she’s constantly gauging threat level. “Lily told me your name. Ethan.”

“I didn’t ask,” I say, a reflex I don’t bother softening. I don’t need her thinking this is neighborly kindness.

She shrugs, but it’s the kind that collapses in on itself a little. “And I guess you know mine now.”

“Lucky,” I confirm. “Yes. I heard.”

Her mouth lifts into a strange, tired half-smile, as if she’s daring me to make something of it, but too exhausted to care if I do.

I nod toward the axe lying by her boot. “What exactly are you chopping wood for?”

She wipes her forehead with the sleeve of her sweater, which is ridiculous because she’s sweating inside that thing. “I was cold last night.”

“It’s summer.”

“Not where I’m from,” she shoots back immediately, chin lifting. “This is winter. This is Arctic. This is—”

“It’s eighty degrees,” I interrupt, unable to help myself.

“Yeah,” she says, completely serious. “Winter.”

I stare at her. She stares right back.

She’s either unhinged or funny, and I can’t tell which.

Maybe both.

And, annoyingly, I don’t hate it.

I almost walk away. I should. She clearly doesn’t want help, and I don’t want whatever chaos is following her around. She sees me shift my weight, sees the turn in my shoulder.

“I can offer you coffee,” she blurts, “if you chop the wood.”

I freeze mid-step.

Coffee. She’s bribing me with coffee.

Of course she is.

Her lip quirks up nervously, like she’s testing me. Like she doesn’t know if I’m the kind of man who takes bribes or the kind who lets people fail.

I don’t say a damn thing. Just step forward, take the axe from her hands.

She doesn’t protest. Just steps back, folding her arms like she suddenly doesn’t know how to fill the space between us.

And I notice — too late — the way her sweater clings in the heat, how her stance is tentative but stubborn all at once.

It’s too hot to be doing this really, so I shrug and pull my shirt over my head, tossing it carelessly onto the railing. Now I’m left in just my white cotton vest, clinging to me with every movement.

She freezes. Stares. Hard.

Color rushes up her neck, creeping into her cheeks. She looks away too fast, whipping her hair across her face, like she’s trying to hide the reaction she didn’t ask for.

“Did you… Do that on purpose?” Her voice comes out strained, tentative, half-laughing. “For… you know… my benefit?”

“No.” Flat. Automatic. My shoulders stay square. “Don’t want to wrinkle it. Got business in town later.”

She smirks a little, just enough to irritate me. “Right. Lumberjack by day, businessman by night.”

I don’t laugh. Don’t even smirk. I glance at her sideways. “Neither applies to me, so knock it off.”

She tilts her head, playful, but there’s fire behind the teasing. “You’re no fun. You must be terrible at parties.”

“I don’t do parties.”

“And yet you appear to chop wood for random strangers in oversized sweaters.”

I lift one brow. “You call that random?”

She throws her hands up. “You’re no fun!”

I sigh — low, controlled, because I refuse to let her fluster me.

“I do plenty for people I choose. You’re… making it hard to categorize yourself.”

Her eyes flash, mouth quirking with something between irritation and delight. “So basically, I’m a challenge?”

“You’re a logistical headache,” I say, and I mean it. But I can’t deny — she’s more than that, too. Infuriating and magnetic.

She smirks at me again, folds her arms, shifts her weight. “Good. I like challenges.”

And I know we’re going to argue through the rest of this woodpile, because neither of us will back down, and neither of us can look away.

I plant my feet and split the first log cleanly. The axe bites through wood like it was nothing.

She jumps — just a fraction — then straightens, pretending she didn’t. Her eyes flick up at me, trying to look annoyed, but it’s weak. I catch the corner of her mouth twitching, failing to hide a smirk.

I set up the next log. Swing. Split. Repeat. Efficient. Precise. Silent.

She clears her throat.

“Do you always chop wood like that?” she asks, tone sharp but playful, like she’s daring me to answer.

“Do you always try to kill yourself with an axe?” I return evenly. Eyes on the next log.

Her lips twitch. “Touché. I was… testing it. Safety first.”

“Uh-huh.” I glance at her. She’s still fidgeting with the sleeves of that sweater. Shouldn’t she be sweating through this? She doesn’t look like she’s used to hard labor, yet she watches me like she’s learning something. Or judging. Probably both.

“Not bad,” she murmurs. “You make it look… easy.”

I shrug. “Practice. Don’t want splinters in my hands.”

She laughs quietly. One of those unexpected laughs that makes the air shift a little, like she’s trying to convince herself this isn’t awkward. “I bet you’d make an excellent lumberjack. Or a serial killer. Hard to tell sometimes.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Which one am I?”

“You’re… precise,” she hedges. “Methodical. Deadly efficient. But also… oddly handsome when you work.”

I glance up, just for a second. Her eyes are on me — too bright, too focused. “That last part is irrelevant,” I mutter.

She grins, leaning back just a bit, hands on her hips. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that. I like irrelevant.”

I swing at another log, splitting it cleanly, then set the axe down. She’s not moving yet. Watching me, waiting.

“You’re intimidating,” she says suddenly.

I pause. “I am not.”

“Yeah, you are,” she insists, shrugging like it’s the most straightforward fact in the world. “Lumberjack in action, all serious jawlines and focus. I’m—well—I’m chaotic, obviously.”

I glance at her, taking in the oversized sweater, the boots, the wild brown hair. “You’re… noisy,” I say flatly.

“Exactly,” she grins. “See? You get me already.”

I shake my head. “I don’t get anyone.”

She huffs. “Sure. Don’t get me, but watch me fumble with an axe like I might break myself. Makes total sense.”

When the last log splits, I straighten, shoulders tight, and jerk my chin toward the porch.

“I’ll help you carry it in.”

She flinches slightly, like she wasn’t expecting that level of… intention.

“You don’t—” she starts, voice sharp, half-protesting.

But I’m already holding out a few pieces toward her. She hesitates, then steps closer and reaches for them. Our fingers brush, it’s a quick, warm drag of skin against skin.

Soft.

Heated.

Electric.

She freezes mid-movement, eyes wide, and I catch the hitch in her breath. Like the world just stopped for a heartbeat, and neither of us is sure what to do with it.

She swallows, tries to rearrange her stance, and I can feel her assessing me like she’s trying to decide if I’m safe. Or dangerous. Or just… here.

I shift my gaze away first. It’s easier. Safer.

I gather the remaining logs, stride up the steps, muscles working automatically, mind half-occupied by her. By the sway of her sweater, the way her hair keeps falling into her eyes, the way she’s watching me as if I might vanish before she can claim any control over the situation.

I set the pile down by the door without ceremony.

She scrambles after me, awkward, clutching the logs she’s already got, trying to balance her chaos with the uncomfortable tension between us.

Her fingers brush mine again. It’s accidental, fleeting, and somehow deliberate all at once, and I don’t look down, don’t allow the moment to be acknowledged more than it is.

I’m halfway down the stairs when she calls, sharp and teasing but with an edge of real hope: “Hey! You still get that coffee!”

I stop. Don’t turn. Don’t look. Keep the distance.

“I don’t do things to be owed,” I say, voice quiet but firm. “I do them because I want to.”

And I start back toward my own house before I can question why the hell that’s true.

Part of me wants to linger. Wants to see if she’ll challenge it. Wants to know if she understands that she isn’t just a problem to solve.

But I don’t. Not yet.

Still, her presence lingers behind me like a shadow I can’t shake.