The Lucky in Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  They’re no longer discussing a young girl raised in a survivalist family. They’ve sidestepped from the author’s first boyfriend to their own first loves. They then jump seamlessly to current lovers, husbands, and beaus.

  As I let my distributor know I need twenty more of the new Nora Roberts romance, I hear that black-haired CarolAnn still likes it doggie-style at age sixty.

  While checking on my shipment of quirky travel guides, I learn that hobo-chic Allison wants to explore clamps.

  As I hit the order button on a new clean recipe book, I discover that skinny-jean-wearing Sara and her younger boyfriend like to park at the end of a deserted road so she can give him a blow job in the car. Sometimes, if Sara’s really frisky, her boyfriend will pull her hair and spank her.

  During the blow job.

  An unexpected pang of envy stabs me right in the solar plexus.

  I want to know what that’s like. All of it—the blow job in the car, the spankings, the ease with which she talks about it. Most of all, I want to know how the hell studious-looking Sara has navigated the path to car spankings.

  I step away from the desk and straighten some shelves, doing my best to pretend I’m not eavesdropping as I pick up a “You Can Have It All” style of self-help guide that I’m positive Clare knocked over earlier.

  “Look, I know these aren’t crazy kinky things, but I feel like I’ve been liberated since Chuck left me and I met my new boyfriend,” Sara says, in a husky, Kathleen Turner-esque tone. “Chuck was the same old, same old. But Javier? No way. He’s a different creature entirely, and it’s freeing. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Absolutely. You’re sexy and single and you have a hot man who wants you. There’s no reason you shouldn’t do exactly what you want to do,” CarolAnn adds, almost like she’s giving a you go, girl speech. Which she kind of is.

  “How did you get Javier to pull your hair? Was it his idea or yours?” Allison asks, and I don’t want to tune out a second of this conversation even though it’s making me keenly aware of my lack of an interesting sex life.

  I’ve never been spanked.

  I’ve never bitten.

  I have never given a blow job in a vehicle.

  I used to think I was simply a good girl. I boxed myself into a category—I’m the safe one, I’m the one who likes beds.

  And I do like beds.

  But what if I like cars more?

  With a deep, needy ache, I desperately want to know what I’m missing.

  “Easy,” Sara declares, then details precisely how she accomplished the hair-pulling and spanking. I take furious mental notes, adding the ideas to my burgeoning plan.

  If the sixty-something ladies in this book club are sowing their wild oats, it’s time for me to damn well do it.

  I resolve to make a change.

  Tomorrow night I’ll see Gabe at the bowling alley for the party. I intend to walk out of there with a solid plan to figure out what’s been missing all these years.

  When the ladies leave, I say good night, lock the door, and grab a stack of how-to books. After a few hours of study, I make a list. Books rule. Research rocks.

  By the time the clock chimes midnight, I have one hell of a plan.

  I am woman. Hear me roar.

  11

  Gabe

  “And I believe we set a record today.” Shaw stretches his neck, cracking it loudly as he slams his locker shut next to the baby-faced Charlie, one of the paramedics who works frequently with us.

  “For the number of non-fatal medical emergencies?” I put the rest of my gear away at the end of our twenty-four-hour shift, which is thankfully, finally fucking over. Felt like a forty-eight-hour one. But with only minor injuries and no deaths or losses of limb, I’ll chalk it up to a damn good shift.

  Shaw shakes his head. “No. For no phone numbers given out.”

  Charlie drags a hand through his dark hair. “It’s a record shift of epic failures in that department.”

  I roll my eyes. “You two clowns do know it’s called work? That thing we do all day long?”

  “Huh.” Shaw scratches his unshaven jaw, affecting surprise. “Is that the name of it? Did you know that, Charlie?”

  The younger man feigns shock. “I had no idea.”

  I point to the two of them. “Well, I’m glad to finally be the one to inform you, since you seem to be under the impression that it’s a pickup market.”

  “Oh yes. That’s exactly what I was thinking when we responded to a shortness of breath call for the eighty-year-old Mrs. Miller,” Shaw remarks.

  I give my buddy a sharp-eyed stare. “I don’t think it’s the eighty-year-old Mrs. Miller’s phone number that you were angling for.” I crack up as it hits me. The woman’s twenty-something granddaughter was the one who made the call and then seemed unable to look anywhere but at Shaw as he took grandma’s vitals. The trim, toned blonde ogled him the whole time, and I was positive Shaw would be shacking up with her tonight, but it sounds like nothing came of it. “You didn’t get the girl’s number?”

  Shaw shakes his head.

  And that means I need to give him hell. “You’re losing your touch, man. You need to retire and live life as a monk.”

  He lets his head hang, forlorn. “I know. What is wrong with me?”

  “Everything,” Charlie says in mock seriousness. “Do you need me to give you some lessons on how to win the ladies? Everyone knows paramedics have better game than firemen.”

  I clap Shaw on the back. “You couldn’t close the deal. Clearly, it’s time to accept you’re an ugly, old bastard and you have zero game.”

  “Same as you.”

  “Of course. I’m hideous. I also need to jet.”

  Charlie lifts a hand to wave. “I need to deal with some paperwork. See you guys later.”

  “Catch you next time,” I say as Shaw and I take off.

  “Speaking of closing the deal,” Shaw says as we leave the firehouse and head down the street, “are you ever going to close the deal with Arden?”

  I stop in my tracks, bristling at the mention of the woman I very much want. I narrow my eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  He sets a hand on his stomach, laughing. “Do you actually think I don’t know that you have it bad for her?”

  As a matter of fact, I was hoping so.

  “I don’t have it bad,” I deny, even though he’s as right as the Earth rotating around the sun.

  “You can lie to yourself, buddy. But I’m not fooled. You should do something about it.”

  I sigh as we turn the corner. I could keep up the ruse, but he’s already seen through me. What’s the point in pretending? “Fine. Fine. You win.”

  He pumps a fist. “Called it. Even though it was patently fucking obvious, Twenty-Three,” he says, using his nickname for me, my number when I played pro ball.

  “Like wearing-a-billboard obvious?”

  He nods several times. “But that’s because I know your style. Maybe it’s not obvious to her. Which brings me back to closing the deal. Are you or aren’t you going to let the woman know you have a thing for her?”

  I drag a hand through my hair. “I’d like to. But then what if it goes south?”

  “South? The direction most relationships go?”

  I laugh mirthlessly. “Yes. Isn’t that the truth?”

  “Sure seems to be.”

  “Hell, I went out with a woman who works at the retirement home, and now I get the cold shoulder from her when I go to visit my pops. I was a gentleman too. I made my intentions clear from the start. Nothing serious. But she wanted more, and now she scowls at me.”

  “You can withstand a scowl, surely?”

  “Yeah, I can handle scowls.” I take a deep breath. “But I don’t want Arden to scowl, you get me?”

  Shaw nods, and we stop at his blue pickup truck, parked near the station. “I hear ya. Some women are special. You don’t want that to happen with your bowling buddy. But look at what happened to yo
ur major league career. You went for it, and you had no regrets, Twenty-Three.”

  I was recruited out of college by the Texas Rangers and played minor league ball for three seasons with that organization. A relief pitcher with a killer curveball, I was called up to the majors and played there for one glorious season before my shoulder fried like a circuit board left in the sun.

  Retirement came swift and early, but I didn’t let it get me down. I had choices. I’d parked all my major league money in a mutual fund so I could let it grow. I had no interest in lamenting what didn’t happen. I wasn’t going to be that guy clinging to one great year and never moving on. I’ve seen Eastbound and Down, thank you very much. And while Danny McBride is funny as fuck, there was no way I would become a washed-up baller clawing my way back to the pitcher’s mound. Instead, I moved on, since the world only spins forward.

  When I was a kid and my pops asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I always had two answers—ballplayer and a fireman.

  I always wanted both.

  I’d done all I could on the first one, saved some good money from that year in the show, and it was time to head into career number two.

  I’ve had no regrets—I’ve loved being a firefighter just as much.

  Don’t look back.

  Take your chances.

  Go for it.

  I need to fucking go for it with Arden, even if it means blowing out my shoulder.

  The trouble is, in this analogy the shoulder is our friendship, and I honestly don’t want to see it blow up.

  But that’s the chance I have to take.

  She’s the woman I can’t get out of my head.

  She’s no Darla. She’s no hairstylist. She’s the one I want for more than a one-and-done date. I want more than a casual thing with her.

  I want all in.

  “Pops, when you met Nana, did you know right away you wanted to take her out?”

  My grandpa scrunches his forehead like it hurts him to think. In some ways, I suppose it does.

  “I knew I wanted her to type memos for me,” he says, then winks, and that makes me happy, his awareness.

  I laugh, patting his arm. “You old fox, falling for your secretary.”

  He shrugs as if to say what can you do? “Emily could write memos like nobody’s business, Gabe.”

  I smile, loving days like today when he’s here, fully present, remembering. “So you went for it?”

  “Do I look like a fool?”

  “No, sir. You do not.”

  Nor do I want to look like one.

  Tonight, I resolve to bowl a game with the guys like I promised, find a way to get Arden the hell out of the bowling alley, and let her know I want to take her out.

  Again and again.

  When I exit Pops’s suite, I glance down the hall, peering left and right. I breathe a sigh of relief when I don’t see Darla.

  But that’s stupid.

  It’s not like she’s going to ambush me with tears or rage. Hell, we went on one date. That was all. Sure, she wanted another and said as much, but I wasn’t feeling it, so I said thanks but no thanks.

  I have to deal with running into her, if it happens.

  And when I reach the main floor, it does. She’s turning the corner, heading straight toward me.

  She lifts her chin proudly. “Hello, Gabe.”

  “Hello, Darla.”

  She walks past me, looking straight ahead with a cold, stony-faced, I-don’t-even-notice-you stare, and I make my way to the parking lot, ready to move on. No more ladies’ man.

  I’d like to be a one-woman man.

  12

  Arden

  I survey the scene at Pin-Up Lanes. Retro tunes play overhead, and a stream of people smile and toast, having a good time.

  My friend Finley from the next town over is here, and she and her new guy Tom are bowling. I stroll by her lane, tapping her on the shoulder after she finishes her turn.

  “Hey, you. How’s your show going?” Finley’s a TV comedy writer.

  “I have more than one hundred viewers, so I'd say it’s going better than my last show,” she says, her light blue eyes twinkling.

  “Oh, please. I’m sure you had more than that.”

  “I wouldn't be too sure about that,” she says dryly.

  “Well, I’m glad the new one is doing better then.” I tip my forehead in Tom’s direction. “And how’s the new man?”

  Her grin is infectious. “He makes me laugh and he makes me happy. And, well, I kind of can’t take my hands off him.”

  I smile. “I suppose that’s how it should be.”

  “I’m a big advocate of wanting to get your hands on the man you like.”

  We catch up briefly on her life, when Tom comes over after taking his turn. He pecks a kiss on her cheek and says hello.

  “You guys look like you’re having fun, so I’ll let you keep it up.”

  I wander past the crowds, and find Vanessa at the bar.

  “I’d say your Celebrate Summer Party is a huge hit,” I tell Vanessa from my perch at the bar, as I scan the crowd for Gabe. My purse is in Vanessa’s back room. My list is tucked safely inside a book in the bag. My plan is solid.

  “Thank you. I’m pretty damn proud of this event, myself. Can’t believe I pulled it off.”

  “I can. You’re kickass at everything you do. Do I need to remind you of how we used to wander past this bowling alley when it was that dilapidated, lamely named ‘County Lanes’? It smelled like bacon grease and half the lanes were broken, and you said, ‘I’m going to fix that up and add some style.’”

  Vanessa laughs, and I swear the memory of her determined teenage self flickers in her eyes. “I loved bowling and retro clothes as a kid. I guess it just worked out.”

  “It didn’t just work out. You made it happen.”

  She lifts a glass and toasts. “To us. The Kickass Girls of Lucky Falls,” she says, using the name we bestowed on our trio when we were younger. “Well, minus one, but Perri’s surely out kicking ass and taking names.”

  “And she’s doing that literally,” I say, raising my Riesling and clinking it to Vanessa’s water glass.

  I take a drink of the crisp wine. I’ve deemed it the ideal pairing for going out on a limb. It’s fresh and bright, with an effervescent aftertaste. It’s ready to show off its flavors.

  I’m ready too.

  Tonight is a perfect night for a proposal. Gabe has finished his shift, he’s relaxed, and we’ve already planned to play a game or two here at the event. The Celebrate Summer fundraiser benefits the first responders in the county—the police, firefighters, and paramedics who have been tasked with harder than normal work thanks to the fires that raged for days in vineyards and across once lush, rolling green hills. That’s why the bowling alley, complete with karaoke bar, darts, pool tables, and twenty lanes, is stuffed to the gills. The first responders here have earned so much well-deserved support.

  “You can’t beat the view tonight,” Vanessa says, her eyes drifting over the crowd and finding the pack of men from the station at lane twenty, including Gabe, Jackson, Charlie, and Perri’s brother, Shaw. Vanessa’s gaze lingers on Shaw for a beat longer than usual. Maybe two beats longer, come to think of it.

  I shoot her a curious stare. “Are you checking out the Shaw view?”

  She scoffs then grabs a glass of water and downs a gulp. “No way. I was just talking about all of them. They’re all the reason fireman calendars and fireman fantasies exist, right?”

  I decide to let the Shaw issue go for tonight—I don’t need to give her the inquisition on a stare that lasted a little longer than usual. “We do seem to possess an embarrassment of riches in the hot fireman department. I bet Guinness World Records would like to know what we’ve accomplished in our little town.”

  She wiggles her dark eyebrows and motions for me to inch closer as the music shifts to Elvis Presley. “Want to know why we have so many hotties here?” She drops her voice to a whisper
. “I planted seeds. Hot fireman seeds.”

  “And now they grow from the fields,” I say, laughing, as Gabe raises a hand from across the alley and waves at me.

  My stomach flips.

  Stupid stomach.

  It’s just a wave.

  Why the hell is my stomach flipping?

  I wave back, rehearsing the words that I want to say to him later. I’ve mapped it all out.

  So I have this idea . . .

  I’d like to ask for your help . . .

  How would you feel about doing . . .?

  Vanessa drums her fingers on the bar. “And now I can ask you the same question. Are you checking out the view of Gabe? Looks like you’re giving him a very thorough undressing right now.”

  I snap my gaze away from the hottie. I mean, my friend. My friend. Only my friend. “I am not disrobing him.”

  Vanessa rolls her brown eyes. “You kill me, girl. I love how you deny it.” She raises her pitch, imitating me, evidently. “Oh, we’re just friends. Oh, he’s my bowling partner.” She snorts and goes back to her own voice. “More like the man you’ve been hanging out with for the last year, secretly staring at and imagining naked the whole time.”

  “I do not secretly stare at him.” Sure, Gabe is so handsome it’s nearly criminal, and admittedly, I have experienced a fair share of tingles and shivers when he’s accidentally touched me. But our friendship is what matters most.

  “True. You don’t secretly stare. You stare at him in public.”

  “I don’t do that at all. I’m simply attentive. To all my friends.”

  She snorts. “That’s a good one.”

  “But it’s true,” I say, perhaps to remind myself of my plan.

  I’m going to ask him for help as a friend, and only as a friend. I made a promise to myself the day David ditched me—no more dalliances with unworthy men. Not that Gabe is unworthy, but he does like the ladies, and I don’t want to be someone’s “nice” comparison point ever again. But I very much want to know what naughty things I might like, and I want to learn that without making a fool of myself when I have no idea what goes where in what position, or even what to say to get myself in that position in the first place. But I haven’t asked Gabe yet, so I don’t want to say a word to anyone else.