* * *
The pop of the champagne cork echoes off the walls of my apartment.My cupboard and counters are bare, boxes litter the floor, and it’s hard not to feel like my whole life is packed up and ready to leave me behind.
I rip the tape off a box in the kitchen to find something to drink out of, staring at mugs and dish towels, but no glasses.
“How particular are you?”
Lucky looks over my shoulder into the box, our elbows brushing.It’s indecent how good he smells.Bringing him here might be the best idea I’ve ever had.
“I grew up on a council estate, love.If you want, we can drink it straight out of the bottle.”
He takes two mugs out of my hands and is already pouring wine halfway to the top before I can protest.
If he keeps this up, I’m really going to fall for him.
“Cheers,” he says, lifting his cup to mine.There are little yellow bows on it.“To new beginnings.”
I snort.Here I am, my life packed up in boxes, dumped, unemployed, and about to be homeless.This hardly feels like a beginning.More like a toast to my crumbling life.
The wine is bright and tart, and the alcohol does its job, buffering the sharp edge off of today.
“I was saving this for the first night in the new place,” I say, skipping the sofa to sit on the floor.Lucky copies me, our knees touching.“But I guess my last day in the office also counts.”Not having to deal with Monica anymore is something to celebrate.
“What are you going to do now?”he asks.
“That … is a great question.Maybe you should be the reporter.”
Lucky laughs.It’s delightful.“Nah, I prefer talking about myself too much.I’ll stick to writing hit songs.”
“A self-aware musician?I didn’t think those existed.”These bubbles are wonderful.All my bones have liquefied, and there’s no more annoying pain in my head anymore.
“I’m also gorgeous and talented, with a thick?—”
I cover his mouth with my hand, and it stops whatever he was about to say, but it doesn’t do a thing to stop my brain from filling in the long, pulsating blank.
The warm, wet touch of his tongue along my palm shocks me into pulling back.I’m blushing all the way to my belly.
“The smart thing to do would be to count my losses and go home.My parents would put me up in a heartbeat, and my old boss always said my job was waiting for me if I ever returned.”
“But you’re not going to do that,” Lucky guesses.
“No, I’m not.”
Huey never understood my determination to stay, but then he’d err so far into caution that he would quit halfway through an idea.
“I love where I’m from, but I’m not supposed to be there.Ferntree’s the kind of place where people root themselves into the ground, their whole life a steady state of doing exactly what’s expected of them and nothing else.I want more.Or maybe that’s the champagne talking.”
“It’s saying all the right things.”Lucky tops off my mug.“You said it was your dream job earlier.Why lie?”
He’s so solid that I give in to the urge to lean on him, stretching my legs out and staring at my beat-up sneakers.
“It’s silly, but every time I told someone what I did—lifestyle reporting—they’d make this face.Like,Oh, she has no brain because she likes to wear makeup and go out.Which was garbage.It might not be the job I wanted or ever saw myself in, but I worked damn hard.It’s just … I’d made myself a promised when I left home that I would stick it out in Chance until I became the reporter I knew I could be, and somehow, I’ve messed it all up.”
“Bullshit.Sounds to me like you gave it your all, and now you’re free to do what you really want.”
“You really think so?”
“I know so.”He slips his hand in mine and turns it over.Gently, he starts tracing the lines across my palm, every drag of his finger sending goose bumps through me.“Dreams are beautiful, delicate things, and they need to be treated with care.Just like their owners.”
