I don’t know.
But suddenly, I want to.
Lily leads Lucky across the lawn toward my truck like she’s escorting royalty. Lucky’s cheeks are pink from the cool air or maybe from having an enthusiastic pre-teen attached to her side. The late afternoon wind carries the faint scent of pine and damp earth, making the air feel sharper against our skin.
And damn it all… she looks beautiful.
When they reach the truck, Lily climbs into the back, still talking a mile a minute. Lucky hesitates by the passenger door, giving me that same small, hesitant smile from earlier.
Lily launches into a story—something about Charlotte’s perfume sample exploding in her suitcase—but I barely register the words. Lucky laughs, head tipping back just a little, and something warm and dangerous spreads in my ribcage.
Her laugh shouldn’t hit like that.
But it does.
I clear my throat, suddenly useless with words.
“Wow,” I say. “You clean up—uh—nice.”
Kill me.
Her lips twitch. “Wow. Such poetry.”
She opens the door and slides in, the leather jacket creaking softly as she settles. Her dress brushes mid-thigh. I pretend I’m not aware of it. I fail.
I put the truck in drive as she buckles up.
My family is going to eat this up.
And I have a bad feeling I’m already in more trouble than I realize.
The hostess leads us in, but Mum doesn’t even pretend to wait—she’s already out of her chair, pulling Lucky into a hug like she’s a returning war hero instead of someone who had dinner at mine not so long ago.
“Lucky, darling,” Mum beams, holding her at arm’s length. “Don’t you look gorgeous.”
I scrub a hand over my face. “Mum, she always looks—”
She waves me off. “Ethan, sweetheart, hush.”
Lucky laughs under her breath and slides into the seat beside me, trying to hide how flustered she is. It… works for her.
Dad leans in from across the table. “She’s been planning this dinner all week, you know.”
“Mum’s military campaigns have been less organised,” I mutter.
“Ethan,” Mum warns with a look. She’s glowing. She absolutely loves having an audience to interpret me for.
We’re halfway through ordering drinks when Charlotte arrives—power-walking through the restaurant like she owns a bloody share of it.
“Traffic was horrific,” she announces, tossing her bag into a spare chair. “Some twit jack-knifed a lorry on the bridge. Honestly, I could’ve walked from Manhattan faster.”
She sits, adjusts her blouse, and finally acknowledges the table.
Then sees Lucky.
“Oh, brilliant, you’re here,” Charlotte says dryly. “I was worried my brother had scared you off.”
Lucky smiles. “Not yet.”
