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)
I grin as I seize on his discombobulation and bolt past both my brothers. Victory, and garlic, are mine.
True to form, my mother has prepared enough food to stock a fallout shelter. There’s roast chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans with bacon and her infamous garlic bread, which she swears is low carb because she “uses intention instead of flour.”
Plates are full, talk is boisterous, and it takes exactly five minutes for the conversation to shift to him.
Lucky.
“So,” Caleb begins casually, slicing into his chicken like it insulted him, “how’s Mr. Professional Hockey?”
“His name is Lucky,” I say, already bracing.
“That’s not a name. That’s a Vegas promotion.”
“He seems nice,” Mom offers, ever the mediator.
“He’s famous,” Dad says, pointing his fork at me like he’s connecting dots. “Do you know how famous people get into trouble? They start dating civilians. Like astronauts dating raccoons.”
“That is not the metaphor,” Mom huffs.
“He’s not a raccoon,” I say. “He’s… sweet. And funny. And maybe kind of a little extraordinary.”
Eli raises one eyebrow. “You said you were looking for normal.”
“I was,” I admit. “But maybe I underestimated what I want. Or need.”
There’s a long pause as the family processes.
Caleb is the first to break it. “Well, at least he’s not a barista-poet who thinks astrology is a career path.”
“Or that guy who told you women shouldn’t wear pantsuits,” Mom adds with an eye roll.
“Or the one who faked a British accent for three weeks,” Eli mutters into his mashed potatoes and everyone chuckles at my expense.
I hold up a hand. “Okay, okay. You’ve made your point. And for sure, Lucky isn’t like those guys. He’s grounded. Smart. Doesn’t take himself too seriously. But he’s a freaking professional hockey player. That’s so far away from normal. Don’t you think that’s just asking for trouble?”
“He let a rabbit share his spotlight,” Dad says, surprisingly serious. “That’s something.”
“And he called you electric on one of his stitches,” my mom offers.
Caleb smirks. “Well, I hope he knows that voltage runs in the family. Because if he hurts you, I’ve got twenty places to hide a body where it’ll never be found.”
“I’ve got fire and legally sanctioned axes,” Eli adds, ever the firefighter.
“Boys,” Mom warns, but I beam anyway.
Because this is them. They’re loud and weird and so unreasonably invested in my dating life, but it comes from love. Fierce, unconditional and overwhelming love.
Which is something I know Lucky appreciates. He’s very close to his mother, sister and nieces, so he understands my need to have my adult life intertwined with my parents and siblings.
After dinner, while Dad does dishes and Mom queues up a podcast called Murder at the Farmer’s Market, I sit out on the porch with Sadie curled into my side. Today was warm, but it’s starting to cool off.
Buttermilk’s on his long leash, wreaking havoc on the front doormat.
Caleb steps out and hands me my second beer of the evening.
“You really like this guy?”
I nod. “Yeah. I think I do.”
“Then maybe don’t overthink it. The good ones don’t come around every week.”
He ruffles my hair like I’m still ten. I swat him away but keep smiling.
“But I’ll kill him if he hurts you,” he adds.
“Yeah, yeah,” I drawl. “You know where to hide a body.”
Caleb tweaks his daughter’s nose. “You ready to go, kiddo? You’ve got school tomorrow and I want you to practice your math facts.”
Sadie pouts and burrows in closer to me. “I don’t want to. I’m going to stay with Aunt Winnie and Buttermilk.”
I give her a sympathetic squeeze. “Sorry, bug. The world needs your brilliance.”
Caleb grins. “Come on, now. Remember what Grandpa always says—”
Sadie groans as we recite it together: “‘Education is the passport to the future.’”
She huffs and scurries off the porch swing. “Fine. But I’m not doing multiplication unless there’s a cookie involved.”
“I think we can manage that,” Caleb says, taking her hand. He bends down, kisses my cheek. “See you next week.”
After Caleb goes back inside, I sit on the porch for a while longer, watching the late-afternoon sun stretch over the winter-browned grass. Buttermilk is reclined beside the steps like he’s just finished a marathon nobody asked him to run.
Smiling, I shift to reach for my phone, heart tapping an unsure rhythm. I could wait for Lucky to reach out again.
He probably will. He always does.
But I don’t want to wait.
I want to let him know that I’m as interested in seeing him again as he is me. I want to feel that spark again. The one I keep pretending doesn’t mean anything because it scares the crap out of me.
The one that was decidedly missing last night with Nate.
I open our text thread and type: I know you’re probably getting ready for your game so no need to respond. I was thinking… what if I took the lead on date number three?