Chapter 17
Ethan
Lily is trotting across Lucky’s lawn with the kind of enthusiasm only twelve-year-olds and golden retrievers possess. She insisted she was “collecting” Lucky so we could all go together.
“Lucky!” she calls.
I stay where I am.
From the truck, I have a straight view of Lucky’s porch—something I’m not sure I should take advantage of. Feels intrusive. Feels… personal.
I lean forward slightly, resting my forearms on the steering wheel as I watch her climb the porch steps and knock.
She’s practically vibrating with excitement—half about dinner, half about showing off her favorite human to her grandparents.
My daughter gets attached fast, but with Lucky?
It’s different. Deeper. That part… I haven’t quite figured out yet.
But when the door opens, something in my chest pulls tight anyway.
For a full beat, my brain blanks.
She’s wearing a dress.
Not one of her oversized hoodies, or jumpers, not the enormous sweaters she uses like armor.
An actual dress—simple, soft-looking, hitting mid-thigh—and a black leather jacket thrown over it like she refused to be too dressed up.
Her hair is loose tonight, messy in that intentional way she pulls off without trying.
And when she steps out onto the porch, I catch a glimpse of the tattoo on her leg—the same black-ink floral vine I only saw for half a second on her second day in Cedar Lake, right before she got rid of her neon pink hair.
A curling line of leaves and flowers winding around her ankle and climbing higher, disappearing under the fabric now.
It draws the eye upward before I can stop myself.
I look away quickly, pulse flicking in my throat, but the image stays with me—quiet, beautiful, and somehow more intimate than anything she’s actually said to me.
But the thing that hits me hardest:
She’s wearing glasses. Big, round frames. Cute as hell. And I’ve lived next door for weeks and have never seen them before.
Was she hiding them? Or just… hiding parts of herself?
Lily squeals something and throws her arms around Lucky’s waist. Lucky laughs—really laughs—and it hits my chest in a way I’m not prepared for.
Then Lily steps back, still chattering, and Lucky looks up. Her gaze finds my truck instantly, like she knew I’d be watching. She lifts a hand in a small wave, sheepish, almost shy.
I wave back before I can stop myself.
And then she smiles.
Not the guarded, half-ironic smirk she gives most people.
A real one. Warm and a little nervous.
Something sharp twists in my chest.
She says something to Lily and grabs a small bag from just inside the doorway. As she steps out, she tugs the leather jacket a little more firmly around her arms. For a second, I wonder—is she covering something? Bruises? Scars? Or just old habits she can’t shake?
I don’t know.
But suddenly, I want to.
Lily leads Lucky across the lawn toward my truck like she’s escorting royalty.
Lucky’s cheeks are pink from the cool air or maybe from having an enthusiastic pre-teen attached to her side.
The late afternoon wind carries the faint scent of pine and damp earth, making the air feel sharper against our skin.
And damn it all… she looks beautiful.
When they reach the truck, Lily climbs into the back, still talking a mile a minute. Lucky hesitates by the passenger door, giving me that same small, hesitant smile from earlier.
Lily launches into a story—something about Charlotte’s perfume sample exploding in her suitcase—but I barely register the words. Lucky laughs, head tipping back just a little, and something warm and dangerous spreads in my ribcage.
Her laugh shouldn’t hit like that.
But it does.
I clear my throat, suddenly useless with words.
“Wow,” I say. “You clean up—uh—nice.”
Kill me.
Her lips twitch. “Wow. Such poetry.”
She opens the door and slides in, the leather jacket creaking softly as she settles. Her dress brushes mid-thigh. I pretend I’m not aware of it. I fail.
I put the truck in drive as she buckles up.
My family is going to eat this up.
And I have a bad feeling I’m already in more trouble than I realize.
The hostess leads us in, but Mum doesn’t even pretend to wait—she’s already out of her chair, pulling Lucky into a hug like she’s a returning war hero instead of someone who had dinner at mine not so long ago.
“Lucky, darling,” Mum beams, holding her at arm’s length. “Don’t you look gorgeous.”
I scrub a hand over my face. “Mum, she always looks—”
She waves me off. “Ethan, sweetheart, hush.”
Lucky laughs under her breath and slides into the seat beside me, trying to hide how flustered she is. It… works for her.
Dad leans in from across the table. “She’s been planning this dinner all week, you know.”
“Mum’s military campaigns have been less organised,” I mutter.
“Ethan,” Mum warns with a look. She’s glowing. She absolutely loves having an audience to interpret me for.
We’re halfway through ordering drinks when Charlotte arrives—power-walking through the restaurant like she owns a bloody share of it.
“Traffic was horrific,” she announces, tossing her bag into a spare chair. “Some twit jack-knifed a lorry on the bridge. Honestly, I could’ve walked from Manhattan faster.”
She sits, adjusts her blouse, and finally acknowledges the table.
Then sees Lucky.
“Oh, brilliant, you’re here,” Charlotte says dryly. “I was worried my brother had scared you off.”
Lucky smiles. “Not yet.”
“Impressive stamina,” Charlotte replies. “Most people can’t endure him for a full meal.”
“Mum,” I say, because someone has to.
But she’s too busy smiling warmly at Lucky.
Charlotte props her chin on one hand. “Love the jacket. And the glasses. Very… intellectual menace. Suits you.”
Lucky laughs, touches the glasses. “I only wear them when I want people to think I know what I’m doing.”
Charlotte nods like this is the most relatable thing ever. “Iconic.”
Christ. She’s charmed already.
By the time the mains arrive, I’m almost relaxed.
Almost.
Lucky’s laughing at something Dad said about American portion sizes, Mum’s fussing over whether Lily has enough ice in her drink, and Charlotte’s pretending she’s not watching everyone with lawyer-level assessment.
Then Mum does it.
Drops the grenade right into the middle of the table.
“So,” she says brightly, cutting into her sea bass, “we’ve decided Lily should come to Florida for the whole summer.”
My fork pauses mid-air.
Lucky freezes beside me.
Lily’s eyes go wide. “Wait—what?”
“Yes, darling,” Mum continues breezily. “You’ll fly down with us on Monday.”
“Monday?” I choke. “Mum, she’s got school. A full week left.”
She waves a hand. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. They don’t teach anything new the last week before summer. It’s all films and… whatever it is American children do.”
“Still—” I try again.
But Lily grabs my arm, practically vibrating.
“Dad, please. Please. Please. I want to go.”
I look at her—actually look—and she’s glowing. She hasn’t looked this excited in… God, months. Maybe longer.
My chest tightens.
Still, I open my mouth to argue.
Charlotte, of course, chooses that moment to drag Lucky into it. “What do you think?” she asks smoothly.
Lucky blinks. “Me?”
“Yes, you. About the school thing. Surely you’d remember if the last week meant anything.”
Lucky blinks, then laughs softly. “I’m twenty-nine, Charlotte. I barely remember last month. No, I don’t think last-week-of-school stuff is important.”
Charlotte hums. “Thought so.” Then—deadpan as anything—“And where did you go to school?”
Lucky shifts. “Mountfort High.”
“Yes, but I mean college.”
A tiny beat. Barely perceptible.
“I… didn’t go,” she says.
Charlotte tilts her head, studying her. “And what is it you do again?”
“I write music,” Lucky answers, her voice calm, but I catch the tension in her shoulders.
“You don’t look like a musician,” Charlotte observes, almost clinical. “Except for the leather jacket, giving you a kind of rocker chic aesthetic.”
Lucky exhales a soft laugh, her hands fidgeting in her lap. I notice her thumb brushing over the seam of her sleeve. Small, contained, careful.
Before I can step in, Lily snaps upright, shoulders squared like a tiny guard dog.
“She teaches guitar to kids,” Lily says firmly. “Back in LA. She’s really good.”
Lucky shoots her a grateful look and nods. “Yeah. I… teach sometimes.”
Lily beams.
Charlotte lifts an eyebrow but lets it drop.
Mum, bless her, moves back to Lily. “So, Florida it is! Sorted.”
“It is not sorted,” I mutter.
Lily tugs my sleeve. “Dad.”
Damn it.
I don’t say yes.
But I don’t say no.
And Lucky—quiet, watching—gives Lily a soft smile and gives me a look I can’t quite read.
Approval. Sadness. Understanding. Something in between.
But behind that, another flicker.
A question.
Because now she’s wondering the same thing I’ve been avoiding:
Who exactly is Lucky Vale?
Why did she run?
And why does it matter to me that I don’t know?
The rest of dinner dissolves into exactly the sort of chaos my family thrives on.
Dad gets started on a story about the time he and Mum accidentally crashed a wedding in Tuscany.
Mum corrects every detail. Charlotte snipes at both of them with dry commentary, which only she finds amusing.
Lily asks ten questions in a row. And Lucky—poor, brave Lucky—keeps getting pulled into the conversation like a small boat caught in a family-sized whirlpool.
She handles it better than I do.
She laughs at Dad’s terrible accents.
She nods sympathetically when Mum complains about the humidity in Florida. I watch Lucky nudging her napkin back into place as Mum continues her monologue, her fingers brushing the edge absently, a small grounding habit.
Lucky even teases Charlotte once—light, careful—but Charlotte smirks in that razor-sharp way that means Lucky earned points.
Me?
I spend half the evening fidgeting mostly and stealing glances at Lucky to make sure she isn’t overwhelmed.