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)
His laugh rumbles against me as he takes the bottle. “You’re gonna pass so hard, they’re gonna rename the curve after you.”
I step inside, greeted immediately by the smell of garlic and tomato and something buttery that hits like a hug to the face.
From the kitchen, a woman’s voice calls, “Tell me she brought wine. You said she was the smartest woman you know, next to me, of course. You didn’t lie, did you?”
“Ma,” Lucky groans as he shuts the door behind me. I only have a moment to take in his condo.
It’s sleek but lived-in—modern gray tones, leather couch, massive TV, and a dining table that looks suspiciously unused. There’s a Titans’ jersey framed on the wall, some vintage hockey gear on a shelf, and a houseplant in the corner that’s either thriving or fake.
The whole place smells like clean laundry and cologne, which honestly feels unfair. My place smells like bunny hay and dry-erase markers.
I spot a pair of sneakers kicked under the coffee table and a neatly stacked pile of books on the counter. Everything about it feels like him and I’m instantly at ease.
“She brought wine!” Lucky’s mother exclaims as she appears in the kitchen archway, a wooden spoon in hand and a towel slung handily over her shoulder.
She’s petite, round in the way that tells you her food will make you cry tears of joy, with short black hair and bold red glasses that match her lipstick. Her eyes are pinned on me—and she grins.
“Oh, she’s even prettier in person.” She lands a censuring look on Lucky. “I told you, didn’t I? TikTok never tells the full story.”
Lucky mutters under his breath and takes the wine into the kitchen. I offer my hand, but Rosa Branson bypasses it entirely and pulls me into a hug that leaves me gasping for air.
“I’m Rosa. You call me Rosa, not Mrs. Branson. Mrs. Branson was my mother-in-law, and she was terrifying.”
I laugh. “Deal.”
“Now come in, come in. I have dinner almost ready and your boyfriend here has been no help.”
“I was banned from the stove for snitching meatballs,” Lucky calls.
“He lies,” Rosa says over her shoulder as she pulls me into the kitchen. “I banned him because he said store-bought ricotta was fine.”
I stifle a laugh as she hands me a knife and gestures to a cutting board with romaine lettuce and cherry tomatoes. “You make the salad. I trust you.”
“I’ll try not to let you down.”
We fall into an easy rhythm—Rosa stirring sauce, me slicing vegetables, Lucky setting the table and swiping bites when he thinks we’re not looking. Every now and then Rosa throws out a comment like, “He broke his arm in eighth grade showing off on a skateboard,” or “He once got detention for writing love poems in health class.”
Lucky groans, but I live for every second of it. This is the dirt I want—what his childhood was all about because it sure shaped him into the amazing man he is today.
“You never told me you wrote poetry,” I say, nudging him when he brushes past me with silverware.
He leans in close, whispers, “I’ll read you one after dinner. But only if you’re a very good girl.”
I blush hard and then realize by the smirk on his mother’s mouth, she heard it too, which makes me blush harder.
Dinner is unbelievable.
The lasagna is the best I’ve ever had. Gooey and rich and melts in your mouth. The meatballs are dense and full of flavor. The salad is, well, competent—I didn’t screw it up, which I consider a victory.
Rosa keeps the conversation flowing like a well-oiled machine, asking me about my family, my classroom, what book I’m reading, and how I’m coping with all the TikTok frenzy.
“You’re handling it better than I would,” she says frankly. “But then again, I’ve always said social media is just the devil with a better algorithm.”
Lucky snorts into his wineglass. “You posted six photos of your new basil plant last week.”
“That basil is thriving,” Rosa replies primly.
“Tell me how you make it thrive,” I ask. “My green thumb is decidedly yellow.”
Rosa launches into a detailed explanation that involves crushed eggshells, talking to the plant every morning, and something called “companion planting,” which sounds suspiciously like matchmaking for herbs.
Lucky shoots me a grin. “She’s been trying to set that basil up with the oregano for weeks.”
I stifle a laugh, already half in love with this woman and her overachieving kitchen garden.
Rosa leans forward, fork poised in the air, and gives Lucky a look that instantly makes him wary.
“Okay,” she says. “Now I have a question.”
Lucky groans. “Please tell me it’s about the basil.”
“No,” she says sweetly. “It’s about this woman sitting next to you.”
My stomach tightens a little, but I smile as I glance over at Lucky. He looks mildly horrified.
Rosa keeps going, undeterred. “I think your TikTok meet-cute was charming. Just charming. But clearly, it’s more than that. I can see it in the way you look at her—and the way she looks at you.” She gestures with her fork, dangerous enough to rival a sword. “That’s not algorithm chemistry, that’s real.”