Chapter 9
Lucky
A wave of laughter moves around the table and it's loud, overlapping, borderline theatrical, and I let myself sink back into my chair. Half amused, half bracing for the next volley of Maddox-family verbal shrapnel. Lily is practically vibrating in her seat, eyes wide and sparkling as she looks between me and Charlotte, as if she’s watching her favorite sitcom unfold in real time.
I swear the kid’s about to start selling tickets.
Someone — Ethan’s dad, I think — reaches for the potatoes and accidentally elbows a wineglass, and Charlotte’s dramatic gasp could win an Oscar. Mrs. Maddox pats my hand like I’ve survived something noble just by sitting here. It’s chaos wrapped in good china.
I steal a glance at Ethan.
He’s leaning forward just slightly, that quiet, coiled posture like he’s ready to step in if Charlotte so much as breathes too deeply in my direction. His jaw is tight, eyes cutting between her and me with laser precision. Protective. Subtle, but impossible to miss.
And I feel it — not just see it — in the way his shoulders tense, in how his hand hovers a little too close to the edge of the table like he’s ready to… I don’t know… intercept something. Shield me. Drag his sister bodily away if necessary.
I straighten the napkin on my lap to have something to do with my hands. Because God help me, I like watching him try so hard not to show he cares.
“Ah, Lucky,” Ethan’s mum chimes, eyes twinkling like she’s just remembered a delightful secret.
“You’ve arrived just in time at Cedar Lake.
We thought we’d surprise Ethan next weekend—his birthday’s coming up, you know.
Every year, same drill: Charlotte drives up from Manhattan, we fly in, and he gets the royal fussy treatment.
Didn’t want you to feel left out of the family tradition. ”
I blink. Birthday? Suddenly, the noise, the precision of their orchestration the gleam in Charlotte’s eye, makes sense. I’m the unexpected variable thrown into his annual ritual. I bite back a grin, because I’m part of this now, whether I like it or not.
Charlotte leans forward, silk scarf swishing. “Don’t look so horrified, Lucky. It’s rather fun watching my brother squirm.”
“Fun for you, terrifying for him,” I murmur, and she cackles.
“Oh, positively! Honestly, he deserves it.”
Dinner continues, a glorious mess. Ethan’s mom is fussing over the wine bottle, and his dad is inspecting forks and knives as if they’re evidence at a crime scene.
Charlotte's skewering me with sharp curiosity and mockery, Lily's bouncing like a pinball, jabbering about every riff she wants to learn. Somehow, I’m keeping up. I fit better than I expected, trading barbs and jokes with them like I’ve been part of this craziness forever.
“So, Lucky,” Charlotte leans in, voice silky, “what exactly do you do, apart from charming Ethan senseless?”
I raise an eyebrow, smirking. “I make small towns mildly chaotic. Occasionally, I play guitar. And I like to cook… badly.”
Lily claps and winks at me. “That’s what I said! She’s brilliant!”
Kid’s brilliant at keeping secrets. Even as big as mine.
Then, my hand brushes Ethan’s under the table.
Just a touch. My stomach flips. His eyes flick to mine, sharp and aware, holding me there.
Subtle, electric. I let a small smirk curl on my lips, teasing.
He jerks just slightly, jaw ticking, annoyed at Charlotte’s probing but closer now, shoulders guarding me like a shield.
Protective and impossibly British about it.
My pulse ticks up. He doesn’t even know what he’s protecting, only that I want to keep my past to myself.
Charlotte notices none of it—or pretends not to. “Ethan, you’re practically glowing. Or is that just panic? My, my, someone can answer back.”
The evening spirals into further chaos. Ethan’s mom is now fretting over containers of takeaway stacked like a monument to domestic madness.
Eventually, Ethan leans over, voice low. “Lily’s guitar lessons. Covered. Don’t make me hear otherwise.”
I tilt my head at him, eyes sparkling, and whisper just enough for him to catch it. “I’ve already invaded your quiet little life. Consider the lessons' compensation.”
He freezes for a heartbeat, just long enough that my smirk grows, then nods. Eyes flick down at mine again, lingering, charged. It’s subtle, under the table, but it’s enough.
Charlotte, oblivious or maybe deliberately cruel, leans back, watching us like she’s reading tea leaves. “Well,” she says, “if she survives dinner with my brother without running, she deserves a medal—or a very large cocktail.”
I glance at Ethan. Jaw tight, fingers flexing around his glass. That’s the medal he’d give me, I think. Maybe even a little more. And somehow, in the middle of this beautiful, ridiculous chaos, I realize: I fit here. I belong here. And I might just want to stay.
Dinner goes late. Like… late-late. Ethan does the “Dad voice” and tells Lily it’s bedtime, but she’s having none of it.
“Bed? Now? But Nana hasn’t met Fred yet!” she shrieks like this is a human rights violation.
“Fred?” Charlotte repeats, delighted. “Is Fred a person or a creature?”
“Hamster,” Lily says proudly. “He runs very fast. Like Lucky!”
I choke on my drink. “He does not run like me. I trip over my own boots.”
But Lily grabs her grandmother’s hand and Charlotte’s scarf in the other and drags them down the hallway like she’s leading a royal procession into her room.
The moment they disappear, I stand, smoothing my jeans. “Alright. I should—”
“I’ll walk you,” Ethan says.
I blink at him. “Ethan. Your house is literally—”
“Still walking you.”
I snort. “You’re impossibly British.”
“Occupational hazard,” he mutters, grabbing his keys.
We step out into the quiet. Crickets. Cool night air. A breeze that smells like pine and someone’s barbecue from afar because there isn’t another house for miles.
“My family,” he says. “They can be a handful.”
I shove my hands into my pockets. “You don’t have to be sorry for your family. They’re… fun.”
His brow lifts. “Fun?”
“Chaotic fun. Big, loud, nosy… family fun.” I swallow. “Some people don’t get that. So you’re blessed.”
He stops walking for half a second—just long enough for the meaning to land. I didn’t mean it as a confession, but it hangs in the air between us anyway.
He clears his throat. “I wasn’t trying to pry the other day.”
“I know.” I tap the side of my temple. “Trust me. I know when someone is prying.”
“And I wasn’t.”
“You weren’t.”
He exhales. “Doesn’t mean I’m not curious.”
I grin. “Then ask, Maddox.”
“…Do you—have family? Besides Lily harassing you and my mother force-feeding you wine?”
I laugh softly. “Banks. He’s probably the closest I have. He’s technically on payroll, but he cares. Enough.”
“That’s who you were talking to the other day?”
I wince. “Yeah. Sorry you overheard that.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” he says quietly. “And you don’t have to… endure my family next weekend. They can be… a lot.”
“I want to,” I say, surprising even myself. “I never got to be around a family. Not really. So they might have their faults, but…” I smile. “I like them. Although your dad’s accent? I swear he wasn’t speaking English.”
Ethan actually laughs. A real one. “He’s from Newcastle. Geordie accent.”
“What is a Geordie? It sounds like a type of pastry.”
He laughs harder. I like that sound more than I should.
We reach my porch and stop. Porch light humming. Night stretching around us. He leans on the railing, waiting.
“So,” he says gently. “Your family?”
My stomach tightens. But I started this. And something about him—how he listens, how he doesn’t push, how he waits—makes me want to follow through.
“My mom died,” I say quietly. “When I was a kid.”
His face softens. “Lucky—”
“No, don’t—” I shake my head. “She wasn’t… there. For anything. Not when she got pregnant, not when I was born. She died of an overdose.”
His shoulders go tense.
“I was born addicted,” I continue, tone flat. “Social services had me for the first two years. Then she supposedly ‘cleaned up,’ but she never did. Different men, different drugs. I was fortunate her boyfriends never…” I wave a hand. “I know other girls who weren’t so lucky.”
His jaw locks. Hard.
“Honestly?” I laugh, but it’s sharp. Bitter. “I’m glad she died. Because if she’d lived, who the hell knows where I’d be? Inner city slum kid with a mom shooting up in the bathroom, selling myself not for food but for—”
“Lucky.” His voice cuts in—low, steady, commanding.
I freeze. I realize what I’m saying. What I’m dumping on him. And the look in his eyes—God, he looks devastated. For me.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “I shouldn’t have said all that. You probably think I’m—trash. Trailer park disaster meets—fuck. I should go.” I turn to leave.
He grabs my arm.
Not hard. Not painful. Just firm enough that I stop spiraling.
His eyes burn. “Don’t ever say that about yourself.”
I swallow. Hard.
“You don’t get to feel ashamed for surviving,” he says. “You crawled out of something most people don’t. That’s not shame. That’s strength.”
I snort, but it’s weak. “You don’t know anything.”
“I know enough to form an opinion,” he says quietly. “And it’s not a bad one.”
Something tightens in my chest. Something unfamiliar and dangerous.
“Really?” I whisper, trying to sound flippant and failing.
“Really.” His thumb brushes my arm before he realizes it.
“So you don’t—hate me? Even though I annoy the hell out of you?”
“Oh, you absolutely annoy me,” he says.
I laugh. “Wow. Honest.”
He steps a fraction closer. “But I don’t hate you.”
We’re suddenly facing each other. Close. Too close. His hand is still on my arm, warm and grounding. His eyes flick to my mouth. Mine flick to his. Neither of us moves.
Electric. Unspoken. Pulling tight between us.
He seems to realize it all at once. He lets go like my skin burns him, steps back sharply, mutters something I can’t catch, then turns and walks down the steps.
Just—walks away.
I stand frozen on my porch, heart hammering, breath shaky.
“What the fuck was that?”
I press a hand to my chest.
Do I…
Do I have feelings for Mr. Grumpy-Stoic Ethan Maddox?
And holy hell—
Does he have feelings for me?