Mom and I are dancing around a very awkward place right now. Neither of us has budged our stance on Pegs and Pops’s house, and okay, Imightstill be a little salty about it.
“Shit.” I need to concentrate better because there’s the turn. I switch on my blinker, even though there’s no one behind me; one does not ignore the rules just because they can get away with it.
Oh, but how I wish I could.
Two
Pen
The Luck house sits at the end of a semicircular drive. Or should I say it looms, because the white clapboard center hall colonial is huge. Thankfully, it also has a nice wide portico. I park as close as I can to the front step and, holding my coat overhead, make a mad dash to the door.
I’m fairly dry when I reach it. But outside is cold as hell. It creeps up my bones and shivers along my flesh. The narrow windows that frame the front door reveal a slice of the warmly lit big hall with its worn and well-loved Persian runner, rectory red walls, the antique sideboard that May dented when riding her scooter indoors.
Another shiver goes through me, this one of longing. I want to be in there where it’s warm and familiar. It’s as simple as knocking on the door, but it doesn’t feel that way at all. It’s as though it won’t matter; I can get inside but I’ll still be all alone.
Shrugging off self-pity, I ring the bell. There’s absolutely no need to be maudlin right now. Everything is fine, and...
A man strides to the door. Holy hell is that . . . ?
I’m transfixed, frozen with my hand halfway up in the act of ringing again. No. It can’t be...
The door swings open with a soft woosh, and we stare at each other, this man and I. Only, he’s no mere man. He never was. It shouldn’t be a surprise that he’s here; this is his familyhome. But, in my heart of hearts, I didn’t expect him to be visiting tonight. It’s Saturday. I thought he’d head straight back to LA after Thursday night’s game. Ithoughtit would just be Margo, the girls, andmaybeMarch. Momsaidit would only be them!
Yet here he is in vivid, stunning color. All six foot four of him.
I guess that’s what Mom had been trying to tell me.That’ll teach you to hang up on her.I tell myself to shut it and stare up at August.
It’s been a few years since we’ve been face-to-face. Sure, I’ve seen him in recent pictures,in the freaking news, and in this week’s latest viral videos. But, in person, these differences are shocking and, frankly, overwhelming.
He looks exactly the same. And totally different. How can that be? There’s not an angle or line of his face that I hadn’t covertly studied throughout our childhood. I would recognize August Luck anywhere.
And yet... He’s grown into himself. Hard where he used to be somewhat soft. From age fifteen on, he’d towered over me. I’m used to feeling small around him. But now he’s huge. A veritable wall of honed muscle.
He’s so attractive it hurts—deep in the center of my chest. I feel like I’ve been kicked. Maybe that’s why I can do nothing more than gape at him and blurt out, “August?”
There’s an awkward beat and then, “Penelope.” As if my name is the answer.
Most people who know me either use Pen or, if we’re close, Penny. I don’t know how it started or why, but August usually calls me Penelope—in that stilted, disapproving way of his that makes it sound more like a dismissal than a greeting.
And we’re stuck on a loop because I blurt out his name again. “August?”
The corner of his lip twitches, except it looks more like agitation than amusement. “Penelope.”
That mellow voice rolls over me with the force of a wave.Okay, this has to stop. But I can’t seem to refrain from staring. Why does he have to be so appealing to me? It would be easier if I could simply write him off as another hot guy. But, no. August Luck has the singular ability to turn my brain to mush and my knees to jelly.
I tell myself that this reaction is nothing special; almost everyone who encounters August takes pause. He’s always been beautiful. Glossy hair so dark it’s nearly black, straight yet strong nose, firm lips, an almost aggressively stern square jawline: all of it lies in perfect symmetry.
Before the draft last spring, videos of August running drills at the NFL scouting combine went viral. Slow-motion shots of him sprinting were everywhere, prompting sports commentators to laughingly refer to August as a Roman god or runway model.
However, his eyes are the real kicker. I often wondered if anyone looked August Luck in the eye without feeling a little hitch of wonder. Deep set, under sweeping dark brows and framed by long black lashes, his blue-gray eyes are so pale and luminous, they appear sliver.
Lucky Eyes was what the Lucks were called in school. Neil Luck, their father, has grass-green eyes; Margo, their mother, sky blue. Combined, all their children have some shade of vivid green-through-icy-gray eyes that contrast so well with their dark hair.
With those quicksilver eyes alone, August can stop traffic. The whole package? He’s too beautiful for words. It has intimidated me my whole childhood. Whenever August Luck walked into a room, I’d soon leave it. Either that or suffer the humiliation of gawking at him, tongue-tied and red-faced.
Great green grapes, woman. Control yourself this time. Back the truck up and be cool.
“August?” I say again. For no reason whatsoever. And distinctlynotcool.I have, unfortunately, lost the ability to formulate proper thoughts or actions. And it’s all his fault.
