Chapter 18
Lucky
I wake up midday and pace the kitchen, looking out towards the patio. My hair’s tangled, and I’m just wearing my chunky knitted cardigan.
Two kisses.
Two.
And nothing more.
No expectations, no pressure, just… warmth lingering where his lips touched mine.
I pace the kitchen, my head full of thoughts.
The cold morning air drifts in through the open door, brushing my neck, and I hate it and love it at the same time. Silence isn’t punishment today—it’s an invitation. But my mind is a war zone.
Why is this so different? Most men I’ve kissed, or let kiss me, want chaos, a quick fuck, then vanish into thin air until the next time we happen to meet.
Ethan—he’s steady. He’s calm. He’s… he’s patient.
And it’s killing me in the best way. I want him.
But my past, my noise, my mistakes—they don’t belong in his neat, ordered world.
The phone buzzes.
Banks.
My thumb hovers over the green icon, and my heart skips a beat. It didn’t end well the last time he was here. I miss him so much. I hesitate answering because I’m wondering if he’s calling to tell me he’s found another gig. Some other lucky industry star to manage their life for them.
“Banks,” I say, voice a scratchy whisper, “I… I’m sorry. For yelling. I didn’t mean it. You’re more than just payroll to me. You’re the only family I have.”
There’s a pause, then that familiar, infuriating laugh. “Lucky Vale,” he says. “You don’t have to apologize for breathing. Or shouting. Or existing like a tornado.”
I smirk despite myself, leaning against the counter. “I don’t know why I do it. Mess everything up.”
“You don’t mess things up. You just… shake them awake. You wake people.”
I laugh. Soft, shaky. “So are we good?”
“You know we are, babe.”
“Then can I tell you about Ethan?”
“The giant lumberjack that you seem to have loose knees for?”
“I don’t have loose knees.”
“Depends, have you fucked him yet, because he wasn’t just bringing you flashlights that day, you know.”
I groan, dragging a hand over my face. “Banks.”
“What?” he says, all faux innocence. “I’m just saying—men don’t show up with hardware unless they’re hoping to screw something.”
“That’s not—Ethan isn’t like that.”
“Mhm. Sure. And I’m the King of Denmark.”
I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. But god, I’m smiling. “He kissed me,” I admit, voice small but electric.
Banks goes silent for half a beat. “Ah,” he murmurs. “So that’s why you’re pacing like a feral cat.”
I look down at my bare legs, the hem of my cardigan brushing my thighs as I walk another circle across the kitchen tiles. How well he knows me.
“It was… different,” I say, choosing the word like it might burn me. “Slow. Careful. He didn’t try to take it further.”
“Because he likes you,” Banks replies, simple, obvious—like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
The words land like a weight on my chest. Heavy. Terrifying. Good. Too good.
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Don’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it makes it real.”
“And you want it to be real,” he counters gently. “Even if you hate that you do.”
I sink onto a stool, folding one knee up to my chest. “He’s… steady, Banks. Calm. He sleeps without noise. He cooks. He folds laundry. He fixes things. And I’m—”
“A hurricane in platform boots?” he offers.
“That’s generous.”
He sighs, long and fond. “Lucky, listen. You’ve only ever dated men who fed on your chaos. Men who liked the Lucky Pink version of you. This guy? He likes you. The cardigan-wearing, midday-waking, kitchen-pacing you.”
A breath catches in my throat.
“That’s scarier than anything else, isn’t it?” he adds softly.
I don’t answer. I can’t.
Outside, the patio is washed in a pale afternoon glow. The lake glitters in the distance—quiet, steady, like it’s waiting for me to catch up.
Banks’ voice warms through the phone. “Go for it, babe. Think later. Maybe the lumberjack is exactly the kind of man you need.”
My heart beats too fast. Too loud. But I can’t deny the truth humming under my ribs.
“I think,” I breathe, “that might be the problem.”
I end the call with Banks and drop my phone on the counter. My chest is still hammering, but the familiar storm of nerves and excitement propels me forward. Time to stop hiding in my cardigan. Time to face whatever Ethan is—whatever we are—without overthinking it to death.
I pull on a pair of ripped jeans and a soft sweatshirt, throwing my hair into a messy bun. It’s ridiculous how conscious I feel about my hair, my smell, the scent of last night’s outdoor lingering on me, but I shove all that aside and step out the door.
The garage is exactly where I know he’ll be.
The low hum of computers and the faint whir of surveillance equipment hits me before I even see him.
The air smells faintly of leather, metal, and cleaning spray—a mix that’s oddly grounding.
Monitors line one wall, some showing grainy security feeds, others showing spreadsheets I don’t understand.
A couple of toolboxes are tucked in corners, along with cases of cameras and what looks like tactical gear stacked neatly on shelves.
He’s bent over a workbench, papers spread around him, one hand tapping a keyboard while the other adjusts a small camera. His sleeves are rolled up, showing the sharp lines of his forearms, and sunlight from the open garage door glints off the edges of his watch. I can’t stop myself from staring.
My stomach tightens, and I’m reminded of the way his lips felt on mine last night.
Two kisses.
Two kisses that lingered longer in my chest than anywhere else.
I hesitate at the edge of the garage, unsure if I should call his name or just… march in like a normal person.
“Lucky,” he says, voice low, calm. I startle—he’s already noticed me—and then he stands. My chest does that ridiculous jumpy thing, and I almost stumble forward.
I freeze, suddenly unsure how to address him after our kiss.
“Hi,” I mutter, like a fool.
He walks over to where I stand, tilts his head, brushing his hand against my arm. It’s not a casual touch. Not a friend-touch. Something else. Warm, grounding, gentle. And my body relaxes despite my frantic thoughts. He’s never done this before. Never touched me like this.
I clear my throat. “Where’s Lily?” I ask, trying to focus on something other than the thrum in my chest.
“Florida,” he says with a shrug. “My parents. They left just after breakfast. Like they couldn’t wait to get out of Cedar Lake fast enough.”
I blink. “Right,” I mutter, shoving my hands into my pockets. “So… uh… would you want to come over for dinner?”
He raises an eyebrow, leaning casually against the workbench. “Dinner, huh? Should I be worried?”
I flush. “Why would you be worried?”
“Because,” he says, smirking, “I don’t usually eat the smoke alarm’s special.”
I huff a laugh, swatting at him. “I will try. Maybe.”
He laughs quietly, that low sound that makes my chest flutter. “You cook?”
I shake my head, biting the inside of my cheek. “No. I can barely make cereal without causing a minor emergency. But you can come anyway. Brave souls are rewarded, right?”
He tilts his head, amused. “Brave or foolish. Not sure which category I’m in yet.”
“I’m betting on brave,” I say quickly, because that’s what I want him to be. Brave. Patient. Not running away.
He smirks, eyes softening for the briefest second. “Alright then. Brave it is. I’ll be there.”
And just like that, my heart lurches again. I have no idea what I’m doing, no idea what I’m about to serve him, but somehow it feels like maybe—just maybe—I’m exactly where I need to be.
“Okay, then see you at seven,” I say, step out of the garage, and start walking back toward my place, but my chest is hammering, my mind racing faster than my legs can carry me.
Dinner.
DINNER.
What was I thinking? I can’t cook. Not even close. My idea of a “meal” is cereal and takeout, and now I’ve just… invited him over. For dinner.
I stop in the middle of our yards, gripping my sweatshirt like it’s a lifeline. I’ve never had a man over for dinner before. Not really. My old life? A cook—or more like Banks—would have handled all this for me if I had even tried. But no. Me. Alone. And now Ethan is coming.
I imagine him sitting there, calm and patient, waiting for something edible, and I feel my stomach drop. How do you make chicken? Or anything that won’t make him question all my life choices?
I pace again, kicking at a stray leaf. The idea is terrifying. My brain is a tornado, screaming: This is a trap. You are a disaster. You can’t even boil water without setting off smoke alarms.
And yet… part of me is grinning, ridiculous and terrified. Because somewhere under all the panic, I know he’ll still come. He’ll still walk through that door. And if he’s really the patient, steady man, I think he might be… maybe he’ll survive the culinary apocalypse I’m about to unleash.
But holy hell, I’m doomed.