Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“Oh, please no,” she says dramatically. “Not arm porn. I’m not sure my viewers would recover.”
We laugh and I glance sideways at her quickly. “Why do you do it?”
“TikTok?”
I nod.
“I started it as a joke. Bad date venting, mostly. But then it turned into this… thing. People liked that I was unfiltered. And I realized how rare that is—being authentic. And well… that’s not hard to do, so I kept doing it. Little did I know I could make money at this gig. How about you?”
I check my rearview mirror to change lanes. “I started mine for fun. Locker room bits, chirping the guys, stupid snack reviews. Then one day I lip-synched to a Taylor Swift song and the algorithm declared me hot and funny.”
“You are funny,” she says quietly, then clears her throat. “And maybe also hot, but let’s not dwell on that.”
“Too late. You said it out loud.”
She flicks my arm and we both chuckle.
I turn into the lot of a retro diner not far from her house. Neon signs. Classic cars. Waitstaff on skates.
“You’ve been here before?” I guess.
“Only a hundred times. This place was a treat for my parents to bring me and my brothers.” I can tell by the excitement in her tone that this was a good choice. “I haven’t eaten here in a long time, though.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re seated in a retro booth lit by neon glow and string lights, sharing a basket of curly fries alongside our root beer floats.
Winnie dips a fry into her ketchup with surgical precision. “Let’s talk expectations. You’re not looking for anything serious, right?”
I chuckle as I drag a fry through her ketchup. “You’re not holding back, are you?” I glance at her as she sips her float and awaits my answer. I’m slightly distracted by her full lips that are, not going to lie, fully kissable. “Define serious,” I say.
“You know… like marriage, mortgages, joint Costco memberships.”
I fake a shudder. “God, no. I’m barely holding it together with my existing cable package.”
She snorts and nearly chokes on her drink. “Good. I like to start all first dates with a clear understanding that we’re emotionally stunted.”
“I prefer the term selectively mature,” I offer. “Like, I do my own taxes, but I also cried when I lost my AirPods.”
That gets me a real laugh and her eyes shimmer with amusement. I mean… she finds me legit funny and I love making people feel good.
We fall into an easy rhythm. She asks about the team and I ask about how she handles all those tiny humans at school. We both agree that group texts are a scourge on humanity and that brussels sprouts are a scam, no matter how much you char them and slather with balsamic.
When she’s relaxed enough to lean her chin on her hand and just… look at me, it hits hard. That spark.
Not lightning, not fire—but something hot and small that hums in my chest.
Dinner is everything a first date should be—no awkward lulls, no uneasy small talk. We dine on burgers and I learn she hates mayonnaise, loves trivia, and has an irrational fear of mannequins.
She learns I cried at the end of Finding Dory and that my mom still sends me home with leftovers when I visit her in Boston, even though I tell her it’s hard to carry on the plane.
“Tell me more about your family,” she says eventually.
“My mom’s a badass.”
“What’s her name?” she asks, and I love that she wants that level of detail. Names are personal and it shows she wants a deeper understanding of me.
“Rosa DeLuca. She’s Italian, which means she loves fiercely and has no tolerance for bullshit. All the guys call her Mama Branson.”
Her eyes soften. “What about your dad?”
“Skipped out after I was born. The only thing I have from him is his last name. My mom raised me and my older sister, Daniela, on her own. Worked two jobs, never missed a practice, still calls me every Sunday and about a dozen times in between.”
“She sounds wonderful,” Winnie says with a heartfelt sigh.
“My mom made me the man I am,” I say with deep pride. I tell Ma that all the time.
“Did she really name you Lucky?”
“No. Sadly she went with a good Italian name… Matteo. Matty to most family and friends.”
“Then where did Lucky come from?”
“I was born on a Friday the thirteenth, during a thunderstorm, and my nonna swore I was cursed. She was dramatic like that—told my mom I’d bring mayhem with me wherever I went. But then, stuff kept going my way. Like, stupid little things. I’d trip on a sidewalk and fall right onto a pile of leaves instead of cracking my head. I’d find money in parking lots. I got picked to ride on the Zamboni at my first hockey game. Just weird things that we deemed to be luck.”