Chapter 1
Lucky
TheGPSdiesthreemiles before I reach the turnoff, the screen going black like even the satellites can’t be bothered with my life anymore.
Figures.
I crawl the rented SUV up the winding mountain road, headlights cutting through pine-dark nothing. The trees crowd the road like they’ve been waiting for me. The air is the kind of June cool that sneaks through the cracked window and brushes my neck, raising goosebumps. It smells like wet earth and leaves and quiet—and the quiet is the worst part.
My chest tightens the closer I get to the lake. The closer I get to being alone.
The dashboard pings, and a voice text from Banks blasts through the speakers, too loud in the silence.
“Lu, babe. You made it? Good. Listen, your mission is to find yourself. No press, no fans, no bullshit. Keep doing your therapy sessions online. Oh—and dye your hair. Mountain folk still think the Scorpions are modern. You don’t want to show up looking like an eighties Cyndi Lauper wannabe.”
I choke on a humorless laugh. “Wow. Love you too, Banks.”
“I packed a couple of hair kits in your suitcase. Just follow the instructions. You’ve got this. Proud of you.”
The message ends, and the silence returns, thick enough to press on my eardrums.
Fingers drag down the length of my hair—hours of bleach and toner, maintenance that nearly killed my stylist when I insisted it had to be perfect. The one thing I’ve managed to control. The one part of Lucky Pink I can still keep.
Dye it. Blend in. Even here.
The SUV settles with a final hiss as the engine dies, parked at the edge of the lake. Staring out at the dark water, a hollow tug pulls at me. It feels like losing pieces of myself before even stepping out.
I yank a black beanie over my head, trying to stuff all the electric-pink strands inside. One stubborn coil pops free at my collarbone, neon under the dashboard glow. I shove it back in like I’m hiding contraband.
Gravel crunches beneath my boots as I step out. The lake house rises in front of me—dark wood, wide porch, big windows staring out at the water that glints like ink under the moon. Beautiful. Isolated. Horror-movie level quiet.
A shiver runs through me, like the air itself is holding its breath. Even the breeze feels like it’s circling something it doesn’t want to disturb.
My stomach rolls.
The key Banks left in the envelope is cold and sharp between my fingers as I climb the steps. The boards creak. A mosquito buzzes my ear. I blow out a jittery breath and try the lock.
Nothing.
I try again. Harder. The key won’t twist.
“Come on, come on,” I mutter, jamming it in, wiggling, shoving. “Why is everything in my life allergic to working properly?”
The lock doesn’t care. It stays frozen, or jammed, or possessed by some rural demon that hates me personally.
I let loose a string of curses that would make my tour bus driver blush.
When I lift my head, I see the only other house on the property. It’s set a little back, with warm lights behind the windows. Someone’s awake. Great. My big solo-find-yourself retreat starts with needing assistance like a helpless idiot.
I stomp off the porch, muttering, “Of course. Of course, this is happening. Day one and I’m already bothering strangers. Banks can shove his therapy reminders straight—”
I reach the door and knock before I can chicken out—three sharp raps that echo too loudly in the quiet. The porch light above me flickers once, like even it’s judging my life choices.
The door swings open a few seconds later, and the man who fills the doorway looks like he’s been dragged out of bed and resents me personally for it.
Tall. Broad shoulders. T-shirt stretched over a chest built from hard work, not gym selfies. Bare feet on the hardwood. Wrist veins. Dark hair rumpled like he’d been asleep on it a moment ago. A permanent shadow of stubble dusting his jaw, adding to the frown carved deep enough to store rainwater.
His eyes sweep over me—beanie, oversized hoodie, frantic city energy bleeding into the still mountain night—and land somewhere between confused and mildly irritated.
