Chapter 5
Lucky
I duck into the small-town grocery like I’m on a secret mission, trucker’s cap pulled low enough to hide my face, praying the universe hasn’t scheduled a “recognize Lucky Pink” hour. Every creak of the linoleum, every cough, every squeak of a cart makes my shoulders tense.
The produce aisle is my personal hell. I hover over a pile of tomatoes, brow furrowed, flipping one over like it holds the secrets of the cosmos.
“Are they… ripe?” I mutter to myself, wiggling one in my fingers. It might be ripe. Or it might explode. Or it might just be a conspiracy against me. I honestly can’t tell.
“You’re holding them wrong.”
I whip around, heart in my throat. Ethan. Of course. My brain short-circuits, and I nearly drop the tomato like it’s radioactive.
“Don’t,” I say, waving my hands, but he’s already advancing like he owns the aisle.
Calm, efficient, infuriatingly sure of himself.
“You’re going to squish them. Here, let me.”
Before I can protest, he gently takes the tomato from me, inspects it like it’s a tiny work of art, and sets it down with exaggerated care.
“See? Not tragic.”
“Tragic is a strong word,” I mutter, though the corner of my mouth twitches. He notices, of course. He always notices. That stupid calm smile, like he’s amused by my unraveling in a way that’s somehow comforting. I hate it. Sort of.
I try to vanish behind the broccoli section, crouching slightly to pretend I’m just browsing. “I don’t need help,” I insist, though the zucchini pile in front of me is silently judging my ineptitude.
“Really?” he asks, voice amused. “Because you’ve been standing here staring at these zucchinis for five minutes like they’re the Mona Lisa.”
I glance down. Yep. Five zucchinis, perfectly lined up, none selected. My panic rises like a tide. “I can’t—vegetables are… they’re complicated.”
“Complicated? They’re vegetables, not a Rubik’s Cube,” he mutters, shaking his head, though there’s a flicker of humor in his jaw tick.
I snap back, hands waving like I’m defusing a bomb. “Easy for you to say! You’ve obviously never had to pick a tomato without accidentally creating a puree of regret in aisle three.”
He chuckles softly, bending down to help me pick a bell pepper. His hands are calm, precise, and gentle. I watch him and feel my shoulders unclench a fraction—irritatingly comforting.
“Here,” he says, handing me the green pepper like it’s a peace offering. “Trust me.”
“I don’t trust anything in this store,” I mutter, snatching it anyway. “Especially… people.”
“Good,” he says, dry, almost teasing. “Because you just trusted me. Progress.”
I roll my eyes, faint, because yes—faint amusement is leaking out of my chaotic mess. “Fine. But you’re not carrying the groceries to my car.”
“Bold,” he replies, hoisting the bag of produce with one hand like it weighs nothing. “But also wrong.”
“Ugh,” I groan, glaring at him. “I can’t believe I let you turn my five-second panic into a grocery expedition.”
“Welcome to small-town efficiency,” he says, voice flat but smirking. “You look ridiculous with that cap low like a spy, by the way.”
I snort, tugging the brim lower. “I am a spy. Mission: Survive Public Interaction.”
“And the mission is going well?” he asks, eyebrow quirking.
“Debatable,” I mumble, then jab at him with the pepper. “You’re not helping. You’re enabling me.”
He catches my wrist, steadying it with a patience that is infuriatingly attractive. “Enabling you is my specialty. Consider it a favor.”
“Yeah, well, keep your favors. I’ll carry my own panic.”
He laughs quietly, low and steady, and I resist the urge to melt right there between the broccoli and organic lettuce. “You’re ridiculous,” he says.
I snort again, tugging my cap even lower, muttering, “Tell me something I don’t know.”
By the time we reach the checkout, my arms full of things I almost definitely don’t know how to cook, my chest feels a little lighter. Chaos is still my default, but somehow, standing here with him calmly navigating my mess, it’s… tolerable.
There’s a small bell tinkling over the cashier’s counter, stacked with half-empty candy jars and local ads. The older lady behind the register looks up, squinting through her glasses.
“Mr. Maddox,” she says, like she’s just spotted royalty instead of a man in a flannel and jeans.
I tilt my head, eyebrows high. “Mr. Maddox? Interesting. Is everyone in this town that formal?”
Ethan’s lips twitch, almost a smile. “Only Mrs. Watson,” he says dryly.
I glance at the woman, who’s already bagging groceries with deliberate care. “Ah,” I say, amused. “Noted. I like her style.”
Then the lady peers at me, one bushy eyebrow raised. “And you, young lady—are you Mr. Maddox’s guest?”
I freeze for half a second too long. My brain scrambles, because guest sounds like invitation, like explanation, like who even are you?
“No,” I say finally, quick and clipped, shoving my hands into my jacket pockets. I don’t elaborate. Not gonna happen.
Ethan notices the subtle stiffening and leans a little closer, low enough that the cashier can’t hear. His voice is calm but firm:
“You’re fine, Lucky.”
I swallow, grateful, and he smoothly shifts his focus back to Mrs. Watson. “So, how’s the weather treating you today?”
The change is seamless. My panic eases just a fraction; the conversation rerouted without me having to defend my existence or explain my face in public.
I mutter under my breath about small-town nosiness, but it’s drowned out by the sound of plastic bags rustling and Ethan handling it like he’s done this a thousand times before.
I glance at him, impressed and slightly exasperated. “You make it look too easy,” I mutter.
He shrugs, smirking faintly. “Experience.”
I cock my head, teasing. “Experience or creepy superpower?”
“Maybe both,” he replies dryly. “Depends on who you ask.”
I roll my eyes but can’t hide a grin. Then I lean against the counter, curious. “Do you ever, you know, just… let people see you?” Half-teasing. Half-serious.
He raises an eyebrow, smirk in place. “Not my job to make you comfortable with strangers.”
I tilt my head, trying to look unimpressed, but inside, I’m grateful. “Right,” I mutter, rolling my eyes, but my fingers unconsciously relax from the bag.
Ethan catches the shift in me, notices the little signs I’m too polite—or too scared—to admit.
Without a word, he continues chatting lightly with Mrs. Watson, joking about the weather, the quality of the town’s tomatoes, something mundane.
And somehow, I feel like I can breathe again, like my chaotic, paranoid brain is allowed a tiny break.
I glance at him, wondering if he even realizes what he just did, and how effortlessly he shields me from a simple, uncomfortable question, without even seeming to try. And I feel that weird, warm bubble in my chest that’s equal parts annoyance, respect, and something I’d rather not name.
By the time we’re loading everything into my SUV, I’ve argued about the weight of a watermelon, the moral implications of pre-packaged salad, and whether carrots should be counted individually or by bunch.
He’s steady, unfazed, somehow making it feel like we’re a team, even in this tiny, ridiculous battle of wills.
“You know,” he says as he sets the last bag in the trunk, “you’re absurd. But not entirely unmanageable.”
“Absurd is my brand,” I mutter, tugging my cap lower, trying not to melt.
He pauses, looking at me. “You’re outlandish,” he says softly, and then adds, “I like it.”
I shove my hands into my jacket pockets, trying to act like I don’t want to lean closer. “And you’re smug. Very intimidating.”
“Intimidating?” he asks, eyebrow quirked, amused. “I’m not intimidating. I’m… politely terrifying.”
“Right,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “Polite. Sure. That’s exactly it.”
He laughs quietly, the kind of laugh that rumbles low in his chest, and I catch myself staring a moment too long. Focus, Lucky. Groceries. Panic. Not… whatever the hell that is.
“Next time,” he says, still smirking, “we’re bringing a cart.”
“Next time there won’t be a next time,” I snap, half-joking, half-serious, and then I giggle at my own dramatic flair. I make a secret note to ask Banks to arrange one of those online grocery deliveries to the lake house.
“Right,” he says, clearly not buying it. “You sure about that?”
I huff, tugging the brim of my cap lower, trying to hide my grin. “Positive. Very.”
“Yup, ridiculous.”
I snort, flipping him off playfully even though my hands are full. “Don’t push your luck, Maddox.”
“Too late,” he says, smiling like he knows he’s won.
I throw my hands up, laughing. He leans against the SUV, watching me, hands crossed, the picture of calm amusement. And for a second, standing there in the small-town parking lot with him, groceries between us, it doesn’t feel like panic or static. Just… normal.
Well, our version of normal.
And maybe, just maybe, I don’t hate it.
I sit on the edge of my too-stiff couch, staring at a mug of instant coffee like it owes me answers. Small-town life is hard. Hard and quiet and judging. I’ve lived my whole adult life in chaos, noise, lights, deadlines, and now I’m supposed to… blend in?
I give up and grab my phone. If anyone can sympathize with my spectacular failure at domesticity, it’s Banks.
“Banks,” I say, barely holding back a laugh that’s more panic than humor. “I am useless. Absolutely useless at this lifestyle. I can’t even pick a damn vegetable without nearly committing murder in aisle two.”
He laughs, loud and familiar, through the speaker. “I always knew you’d fail at a quiet life. Did you even try to talk to the neighbors yet?”
“Oh, I did,” I say, face heating. “And it was… fine. Except I nearly strangled someone over their cat. And there’s Ethan and Lily.”
There’s a pause on the line. “Ethan?”
“Yes, Ethan.” I sigh, leaning back dramatically. “Tall, British, dry as toast, secretly terrifying but somehow… keeps me from losing my mind in public. He’s good at chopping wood, strong as an ox.”
Banks chuckles again. “And Lily?”
“Sweet kid,” I admit, despite myself. “His daughter. Patient. Polite. The only human alive who can stand me for more than five minutes without me feeling judged.”
“Mother around?”
“They live next door. I’ve only seen them in and out, like ghosts or highly responsible sitcom characters. Either she doesn’t exist or doesn’t exist with them.”
“Well, the two of them sound like a package deal,” he says. “So… the lumberjack guy—Ethan—are you making any moves, or just standing there like a neon sign screaming ‘I have no idea what I’m doing’?”
I snort. “Move? Him? He’s dry. Doesn’t like me. Thinks I’m stupid and annoying, probably. Definitely thinks I’m chaotic beyond repair. He’s… scary.”
“You?” Banks teases, “Scary? Come on, Lu Vale. You could charm a bear into giving you honey.”
I roll my eyes, muttering, “This is exactly why I don’t make domestic phone calls. You’re terrible advice.”
“Terrible advice?” he shoots back. “I’m a genius. You just need to switch on the Lu Vale charm. You know the one. The ridiculous, too-loud, can’t-help-being-extra charm. Works every time.”
“I think he finds me unbearable,” I grumble, tugging at my trucker cap like it’s a shield.
“Then test it,” he says. “Talk to him. Play your cards. Cause some chaos. Fluster him a little. Scare him a little. Then watch him squirm. You’re natural at that part.”
I groan, flopping back into the couch. “I knew coming to a quiet town was a mistake. Absolute mistake.”
“Relax,” Banks says, laughing. “You’ll figure it out. And hey, if the worst happens, just call me. I’ll help you plan the great chaotic escape. But honestly, stay there, you need to be there, sweetheart.”
I laugh despite myself. “Fine. But if I get eaten by polite neighbors or British stoicism, I’m blaming you.”
“Deal,” he says. “Just remember, Lu Vale—chaos is your weapon. Use it wisely.”
I hang up, shaking my head, half-amused, half-exasperated. Small-town life? Yeah. Not my forte. But maybe, just maybe, I can make it… entertaining.
I lean back against the couch, letting the craziness of the day finally settle like dust in a sunbeam, when something catches my eye.
Through the front window, a car slows near the house, crawling past like it’s studying every detail. My stomach flips, and my fingers curl into the armrest.
It’s probably nothing. Probably just a neighbor, or someone lost. But something about it puts me on edge, sets my nerves humming in that familiar, itchy way. I can’t look away.
I shift and wait, blinking against the sunlight seeping into the room, telling myself I’m being dramatic. Maybe I am. Perhaps I’m not. Either way… it bothers me.