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)
“So you were called Lucky.”
I nod. “Nonna started calling me her piccolo fortunato—her ‘little lucky one.’ Said I must’ve tricked fate into blessing instead of cursing me. And after that, everyone called me Lucky. I never really stopped being lucky. It really stuck in hockey, though. My career has been everything I could want and more.”
“Yeah, but I’m thinking that’s more talent and hard work than luck,” she observes and doesn’t wait for me to confirm. “What do you want me to call you?”
I lift a shoulder. “Doesn’t really matter to me. What do you like?”
She thinks about it, eyes flicking briefly to my four-leaf clover tat. “I like Lucky. It fits your personality.”
“Well, there you go.” I grin at her. “What about your family?”
She laughs as if what she’s about to say will be good material for a stand-up routine. “I’ve got the full sitcom setup. Mom, dad, two brothers, family dinners every Sunday. It’s chaotic but good.”
“Sounds nice. That’s something we obviously have in common—we believe family is important.”
“It is,” she says, then smirks. “Although my brother once ate a whole tub of frosting and puked in my shoes, so…”
“Sibling love,” I say solemnly. “Unmatched.”
She giggles and I catch myself watching her again. She’s funny and bright and sharp as hell. And yeah, I want to go out on another date with her.
But I don’t say that. Not yet.
I drive us to the bowling alley, and we trade our shoes for hideous lace-up rentals. Thankfully, the place is kind of dead, but then again, it is a Thursday night. A few people recognize me by the way they whisper when we walk by, but they keep their distance. I’m grateful for that because I want to be an average dude with Winnie tonight and there’s nothing that dispels normalcy quicker than having fans rush you for autographs and pictures.
I teach her how to hold the tiny candlepin ball, but she insists on “granny bowling.”
“That form won’t do you any favors,” I explain.
She releases the ball with a two-handed shove between her legs and manages a strike.
My jaw drops.
“Now you’re just showing off,” I tell her as she pumps her fists like she’s won Olympic gold.
“I peaked,” she says solemnly. “It’s all downhill from here.”
We bowl three full games. She wins two, I win one, and my ego is only a little bruised.
By the time we’re back in the Tahoe and headed for her house, I know without a doubt this was one of the best dates I’ve ever been on.
Granted, most of my dates start with the sole intention of ending up in the woman’s bed, but none of them compare to tonight.
I don’t know that I’ve laughed as hard as I have with her. She’s lightning fast on her snarky responses and her humor is dry as a bone, which is just my type, but she’s also wicked smart. I kept looking for this “average” vibe she thinks she has going, but by the end of the night, I am only more attracted to her.
The drive to her house is nonstop conversation. I pull up in front and she hops out, meeting me at the side. Without asking, I take her hand and tuck it into the crook of my arm, same position as when we walked out.
She chuckles and gives me an affectionate squeeze.
Once on her porch, she pulls her phone from her purse and asks, “Ready to TikTok?”
I hold out my arms and give her a sly grin. “When am I not ready to TikTok?”
Winnie balances her phone against a small plant stand on the porch rail. The light by the door casts a soft glow as she adjusts the angle. “Okay. One take. No filters. Just vibes.”
“Should we rehearse?” I ask, loitering at the top of the steps.
She snorts. “Guys got jokes. You’re the king of spontaneity. I expect you to show it.”
I clap, straighten and move close to her side. “Let’s do this.”
Winnie hits record and we both stare into the camera. Then she turns to me and s, “You really drove a black, tricked-out Tahoe and tried to convince me you’re average.”
I hold up a finger. “It’s not a Ferrari. Or a Lambo. By professional athlete standards, I’m practically a broke substitute teacher.”
She makes a face. “You wore designer sneakers and opened my door like it was a Met Gala arrival.”
“But I brought car snacks,” I shoot back. “That’s commitment.”
Winnie grins, glancing at the camera. “For the record, this is date number one in my Find One Decent Guy challenge.”
“Hi.” I wave. “I’m the not-so-average curveball, but I knocked it out of the park.”
She squints at me. “Still undecided on whether you count.”
“Brutal.”
She turns back to the phone. “Anyway, the date was… surprisingly fun.”
I nod, drape my arm over her shoulders in an easy, affectionate way. I wait for her to stiffen, but she doesn’t. “She didn’t walk out on me even after I admitted I own matching luggage and know my Myers-Briggs type.”