She laughs at Dad’s terrible accents.
She nods sympathetically when Mum complains about the humidity in Florida. I watch Lucky nudging her napkin back into place as Mum continues her monologue, her fingers brushing the edge absently, a small grounding habit.
Lucky even teases Charlotte once—light, careful—but Charlotte smirks in that razor-sharp way that means Lucky earned points.
Me?
I spend half the evening fidgeting mostly and stealing glances at Lucky to make sure she isn’t overwhelmed.
Except every time I look… she’s already looking at me.
Not openly. Not obviously.
But enough to land hard in my chest.
And every time she looks away, her fingers toy with the hem of her jacket like she’s grounding herself.
She’s nervous.
So am I.
For entirely different reasons.
Outside the restaurant, the air is cooler than it should be in early summer, crisp enough to cut through the heat still sitting under my collarbones. Mum’s already fussing the moment we step onto the pavement.
“Ethan, darling, you did get the leftovers? I’m not going back without that aubergine parmigiana—your father will sulk the whole drive.”
“I’ve got it, Mum,” I say, letting the word Mum land sharply. My accent always gets stronger when I’m wound up, and right now I’m wound like a bloody clock spring.
Dad is attempting to guess numbers with Lily—poor man doesn’t realise she thinks the only lucky number in the universe is five. Charlotte is sighing into her phone, muttering about needing to get back to Manhattan tonight.
“Long Island by seven tomorrow morning,” she says, half to me, half to herself. “Golf event. Partners, apparently, can’t function unless there’s a nine-iron involved.”
The chaos swirls around me like weather. I try to keep myself centered, but my brain’s still stuck back at the dinner table—Mum’s knowing smiles, Dad’s raised brows, Charlotte taking one look at Lucky and immediately deciding there’s a story.
And Lucky—
Christ.
She walked into that restaurant glowing like she’d rehearsed confidence, but forgot to rehearse where to put her hands. My family practically devoured her with interest. No wonder she looked ready to crawl out the window by dessert.
We head toward the cars. Lucky catches up to me, falling into step beside me.
“You okay?” she asks quietly.
No.
Yes.
Maybe.
Absolutely not.
“I’m—” I stop, rub at my face. “I didn’t expect… all of that.”
“Your family seems nice,”she says.
“They’re lunatics.”
