Chapter 17 #2
Except every time I look… she’s already looking at me.
Not openly. Not obviously.
But enough to land hard in my chest.
And every time she looks away, her fingers toy with the hem of her jacket like she’s grounding herself.
She’s nervous.
So am I.
For entirely different reasons.
Outside the restaurant, the air is cooler than it should be in early summer, crisp enough to cut through the heat still sitting under my collarbones. Mum’s already fussing the moment we step onto the pavement.
“Ethan, darling, you did get the leftovers? I’m not going back without that aubergine parmigiana—your father will sulk the whole drive.”
“I’ve got it, Mum,” I say, letting the word Mum land sharply. My accent always gets stronger when I’m wound up, and right now I’m wound like a bloody clock spring.
Dad is attempting to guess numbers with Lily—poor man doesn’t realise she thinks the only lucky number in the universe is five. Charlotte is sighing into her phone, muttering about needing to get back to Manhattan tonight.
“Long Island by seven tomorrow morning,” she says, half to me, half to herself. “Golf event. Partners, apparently, can’t function unless there’s a nine-iron involved.”
The chaos swirls around me like weather. I try to keep myself centered, but my brain’s still stuck back at the dinner table—Mum’s knowing smiles, Dad’s raised brows, Charlotte taking one look at Lucky and immediately deciding there’s a story.
And Lucky—
Christ.
She walked into that restaurant glowing like she’d rehearsed confidence, but forgot to rehearse where to put her hands. My family practically devoured her with interest. No wonder she looked ready to crawl out the window by dessert.
We head toward the cars. Lucky catches up to me, falling into step beside me.
“You okay?” she asks quietly.
No.
Yes.
Maybe.
Absolutely not.
“I’m—” I stop, rub at my face. “I didn’t expect… all of that.”
“Your family seems nice,” she says.
“They’re lunatics.”
She snorts. “Seems hereditary.”
That earns a twitch of a smile out of me, but it doesn’t stay. There’s too much noise in my head. Too many implications, my family fired at her like confetti cannons.
The moment we’re all piled back into the cars, the quiet hits like a slap.
Lucky sits beside me in the truck, hands folded in her lap, gaze fixed out the window at the passing trees. She’s not tense… exactly. Just wound tight. Like she’s thinking too much.
Or maybe I am.
About the jacket.
About the glasses.
About what she said—and didn’t say—back at dinner.
I clear my throat. “They overwhelmed you.”
She huffs a tiny laugh. “Maybe a little.”
“They’re… a lot.”
“They’re wonderful,” she says quickly. “Just—loud.”
“Understatement of the century.”
She laughs again, softer this time.
It hits me in the sternum.
“I brought you with me to the restaurant. I wanted you there.” I swallow. My throat feels tight. “I just didn’t want them all over you.”
She gives a soft laugh. “Ethan, your family being nice to me isn’t a tragedy.”
“It’s not that.”
I’m staring at the road, but I see the dinner table, Mum’s raised brows, Charlotte’s smirk.
“It’s—They think things.”
“Like what?”
“That you’re… important.” The word leaves me before I can tame it. “Important to me.”
She goes still. I feel it more than I see it.
The stop sign comes up too fast; I brake too hard. Brilliant.
“Are you angry about that?” she asks gently.
“No.”
I shake my head, exhale.
“No, I’m not angry. I just… don’t know how to do this without messing it up.”
Her silence isn’t judgment. It’s something else. Soft. Dangerous.
I drive the rest of the way with my heart in my throat.
We pull into the driveway at the same time as my parents. Of course, we do. Perfect.
Lily bolts to them, chattering something about the dessert she didn’t choose. Mum beams.
“We’ll take Lily in, darling. She’s exhausted. You two—walk Lucky home.”
“It’s fine, Mum, you don’t?.”
“Oh, don’t you worry about Lily,” she says. “We’ll tuck her in.”
Dad nods, already ushering Lily with a warm hand on her back. “Absolutely. You two go on.”
“Go on…?” I echo cautiously.
Mum gives me a look.
The kind that means don’t be thick, Ethan.
“Walk Lucky home,” she says brightly. “Even if she does live ten steps away.”
I feel my jaw work. Lucky’s eyes flick toward me—surprise, then something like amusement.
“I can—” she starts.
“Ethan will do it. He’s a gentleman,” Mum finishes, bulldozing the conversation as always. She pats Lily’s head. “Come along, darling. Let’s get you ready for bed.”
Dad claps me on the shoulder. “We remember young love.”
I feel my entire body combust.
“We’re not—It’s not—We’re hardly—”
I sound like an idiot. My accent is full Cambridge lecture hall at this point.
Lucky tries not to laugh. She’s failing.
“I’ll take the escort,” she says, saving me from my own bloody face catching fire.
And with that, they vanish inside.
Leaving me and Lucky standing beside my truck, under the soft glow of the porch light, the storm-washed air cool around us.
Lucky tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Well,” she murmurs. “Looks like you’re stuck escorting me… all ten steps.”
I should laugh.
Instead, my pulse kicks up, sharp and certain.
Because the distance is nothing.
But the moment?
It feels like the edge of something big.
We walk the ridiculous ten steps between our porches like it’s a mile-long gauntlet.
The night air is scented faintly with pine and lake water. Lucky keeps her hands shoved into the pockets of her leather jacket, shoulders slightly hunched, not from cold—more like anticipation. Or nerves. Or both.
I’m walking a little too close. I know it. My hand keeps brushing the air near her arm, like some stupid part of me thinks proximity alone might steady whatever the hell is happening between us.
The lake mirrors faint moonlight, ripples whispering in the darkness; somewhere a frog croaks, and the air tastes damp and electric.
“You okay?” she asks once we reach her steps, her voice low, the kind of soft people use when they’re afraid to break something delicate.
“I will be,” I say truthfully. “Eventually.”
She nods, as if she understands exactly what that means. And she probably does.
We stop under her porch light. She fiddles with the edge of her jacket sleeve—an anxious tell I’ve only noticed the past few days.
She looks up at me, eyes catching the light just enough to shine.
“You want to come in? For… tea?”
She hesitates, then adds with a small smile, “Coffee this late would make us both a wreck.”
Tea.
Not an excuse.
Not a deflection.
An invitation.
My stomach drops in a warm, alarming way.
“I—” I try not to sound too eager.
“Yes. Tea would be… good.”
“Good,” she says, barely above a whisper, and pushes open the door.
She walks in first. I follow, trying not to look like someone walking into the most dangerous decision he’s made in years.
Her place smells like cedar, mint shampoo, and something sweet—vanilla, maybe. Lamps are low, warm, cozy. There’s a guitar propped near the couch, a mess of notebooks on the coffee table. She disregards her glasses on top of one, like she couldn’t wait to get them off.
She heads to the tiny kitchen nook.
“Chamomile or peppermint?”
“Dealer’s choice,” I say, leaning against the doorway, trying not to stare at how her dress fits across her hips, at the glimpse of ink on her leg she didn’t bother hiding tonight.
She chooses chamomile.
The kettle hums faintly as she fills it, her hands trembling just slightly—barely noticeable unless you’re watching as closely as I am.
“You sure you’re alright after dinner?” she asks quietly.
I exhale, long and slow.
“My family….”
“They’re… honestly kind,” she says, matter-of-fact.
“That’s one interpretation,” I mutter, and she snorts. “They like you,” I add.
“They like you,” I correct. “A bit too much, if I’m honest.”
Her fingers tighten around the mug, grounding herself. “Does that bother you?”
…Yes.
No.
Everything about her bothers me in ways I don’t have vocabulary for.
“It just makes things… complicated,” I say.
“Because?” she presses, gentle but brave.
Because I’m starting to fall for you.
Because I don’t understand your walls.
Because I don’t know what you’re running from.
Because I don’t know how much you’ll let me know.
I swallow instead of saying any of that.
“Because I don’t want you to feel cornered by anyone. Including them.”
Her breath catches.
For a moment, she just watches me. Really watches me.
The kettle begins to boil.
She turns away, flustered.
I pretend not to notice.
We step out on the back porch, mugs steaming between us, the lake a dark mirror just beyond the railing.
“Do you ever sleep?” she asks, teasing.
“Rarely,” I say. “You?”
She huffs a laugh. “Define sleep.”
The silence after isn’t awkward. It’s loaded.
She sips her tea, looking anywhere but at me.
“You asked earlier,” I say softly. “If I were angry.”
She nods.
“I wasn’t.”
Pause.
“I was… scared.”
Her eyes snap to mine.
Of what? They say without words.
“Of how much I didn’t want you uncomfortable,” I admit. “Of how much I—”
I stop myself, pulse hammering.
She sets her cup down. Slowly.
“Ethan.”
It’s the way she says my name—soft, careful, like she’s holding something fragile—that undoes me.
“I’m not uncomfortable,” she says. “I just… don’t know how to do this either.”
My breath leaves me.
The moment stretches, warm and dangerous.
Her hand brushes mine on the porch railing.
Accidentally.
Not accidentally.
I don’t move.
I don’t breathe.
Then she whispers, barely audible, “Tell me what you were going to say.”
And my resolve fractures clean in half.
Her question hangs in the air between us, fragile and electric.
Tell me what you were going to say.
I should look away. Breathe. Think.
But she’s standing less than a foot from me on this porch, bathed in warm lamplight, staring like she’s trying to read every thought I’ve buried for years.
“Lucky…”
It comes out rougher than I intended.