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)
Lucky shifts in his chair, dragging a hand down his face. “Ma—”
“I’m Italian, Matteo. I’m allowed to be nosy. It’s in the blood.”
He exhales and shoots me a quick, sheepish glance. “Sorry. She does this.”
I shrug, cheeks warming. “It’s okay. I… don’t mind.”
Rosa smiles like she’s won a small war. “Excellent. So, tell me, my sweet boy, what’s really going on here? It’s real, right?”
My eyes snap to Lucky. I mean… he’s been pretty clear how he feels, but I want to know what he says to his mother.
He sets his wineglass down. “While it might have started as a goofy TikTok thing, me being clever and charming her with adorable videos, it’s become a lot more.”
“How so?” Rosa prods.
“Somewhere in the middle of all that, it stopped being about posts and stitches and likes.” His eyes drift to me and I’m completely lost to him. “It became about her. Winnie.”
My heart lodges in my throat and Rosa lets out a dreamy sigh and mutters something in Italian. Lucky says he doesn’t know the language too well, mostly curse words and such, so he’ll be no help in translating.
But that’s not what’s important.
It’s time for me to step up to the plate and let him know how I feel. Yes, his nosy Italian mom whom I already adore is sitting at the table with us, but suddenly it’s like there’s no one else in the room. “You’ve made all of this feel different. Like maybe it’s okay to let someone really see me. And it turns out I like being seen by you.”
Rosa makes a soft, sentimental sound, and I’m pretty sure she’s dabbing her eye with a napkin.
Lucky glances at her, exasperated but smiling. “Can we eat dessert now, or do I have to bare my soul again first?”
She waves her hand. “No, no. That was perfect. Ten out of ten. You may have dessert.”
I don’t say anything right away because I’m still trying to catch my breath. But then his hand brushes mine under the table, and I lace my fingers with his.
He squeezes once. Like a promise.
How is this my life?
Lucky Branson—TikTok hotshot, pro hockey star, absurdly good with his mouth—just told his mom that I mean something to him.
And I believe him.
After dinner we play a few hands of UNO and it’s the type of normality that I’ve been craving in my fantasy relationship. His mother is staying the night, so I am not, even though Lucky invited me. That I’m not comfortable with. So after lots of hugs from Rosa—and a to-go bag with five pounds of leftover lasagna—Lucky walks me down to my car in the parking garage.
The night air is cool, the kind of early spring chill that carries a bite under the warmth. Our footsteps echo in tandem.
“She does that, you know,” Lucky says finally, hand squeezing mine. “Puts people on the spot like it’s nothing. She’s been doing it since I was old enough to form full sentences.”
I glance over at him. “I found it charming.”
He stops walking and turns to face me, eyes soft and sure in the dim light. “I meant every word of it, Win.”
God, that look.
“I know,” I say, stepping in closer, wrapping my hands lightly around his forearms. “And I meant what I said too. This is real and I adored your mom’s nosiness. She loves you very much.”
Lucky grins, one of those slow, lopsided ones that feels like sunlight. “Yeah. She’s a lot of feelings in a five-foot-two frame.”
“She’s a lot of everything and I adore her.” I move my hand to his chest. “I hate that it’s hard for me sometimes to accept just how right all of this is. I didn’t think I could ever have… amazing in my love life. I thought it was unsafe, and yet, you’re showing me it’s not.”
“And I’ll keep showing you,” he vows, and yes… I believe him.
“Nothing about this feels temporary anymore,” I say, cutting gently to the heart of it.
His grin fades into something quieter, more intimate. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
I nod, breath catching a little. “Me either.”
He dips his head and presses a kiss to my forehead first, lingering. Then he leans in and kisses me with a certainty that feels like an oath, like he’s sealing something between us.
When he pulls back, he stares at me so earnestly, I get a lump in my throat. “I’m looking forward to the journey.”
“So am I,” I whisper.
I reach for my car door and pause just before opening it. “Please thank your mom again for dinner. And for loving you exactly the way she does.”
He laughs, then steps back. “Night, Shaw.”
“Night, Branson.”
And as I drive away, I can still feel his kiss on my lips and that steady, unshakable sense that whatever this is, wherever it’s going, I’m pretty sure he’s my forever.