The Lucky in Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  “It’s all good. I’ll head back to Jodie’s. There’s a couch there calling my name.” This time, he grabs his duffel and slings it over his shoulder. It looks like it weighs three hundred pounds.

  I peer around for his bike, but don’t see it. “You’re going to walk back with all your stuff?”

  “It’s no big deal. It’s good training for work.”

  I point to the bag. “Is that all you have?”

  “Yeah, but listen, it’s all good.”

  But it’s not all good. It’s all . . . weird. It’s all awkward. And it’s all so uncomfortable—for him.

  The man is living on his sister’s couch, out of a duffel.

  I’m not heartless enough to kick him completely to the curb. “Why don’t you come in, and we can talk. I’ll try to help you figure something out. Do you like wine?”

  His lips curve up. “Am I in trouble if I say no?”

  I give him my best staring-down-perps stare. “It’s illegal to dislike wine in wine country. You might, in fact, be banished from the town limits. By me.”

  He smiles. “Just messing with you, officer. Of course I like wine.”

  “Good answer, Mr. Trouble.”

  Winking, he enters and drops his bag on the floor in the entryway.

  I head to the kitchen, gesturing for him to follow. As I glance quickly at my mostly neat living room, I’m reminded I wasn’t expecting a man tonight. If I had known he was coming, I’d have done the Swiffer-duster dance, cleaning every surface, spraying the bathroom mirrors, putting away every container of deodorant or bottle of Midol to make sure he never knew I might possibly sweat or have PMS.

  I’d have sidled up to the door, a touch of gloss on and something casual but sexy framing my figure.

  Instead, I’m in jammies and wearing no face paint. There’s no cosmetic artifice, but what do I have to hide anyway?

  In the kitchen, he scans my collection of fridge magnets, which covers almost every square inch of the appliance. They’re nearly all vintage-style pictures of women saying sarcastic things, courtesy of my retro-loving friend, Vanessa.

  Yoga class? I thought you said pour another glass.

  And I thought I wanted a career. Turns out I just wanted paychecks.

  You piqued my indifference.

  He smirks, tapping the last one. “Very you.”

  “Is it?”

  “Full of sass and spark.”

  I smile. “You’ve got me there.” I grab a bottle of chardonnay and a wine opener.

  “Let me.” He reaches for the bottle before I can say I am woman, I can do it all.

  Watching him open the bottle also feeds my inner vixen. Is it my imagination or do those tattoos ripple when his muscles move?

  I grab wineglasses and give them to him.

  He pours and hands me a glass, raising his own. “Should we drink to good witches? Or bad witches?”

  I look down at the ridiculous pattern on the pants. “We’ll drink to Monday night laundry.”

  “And to simple misunderstandings?”

  My heart pangs with guilt again as I take a sip. “I’m sorry. I can’t believe he really thought that made sense to rent it to you.”

  “Don’t think twice about it.”

  “You agree, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “So we’re on the same page,” I say, pressing.

  “Let me make one thing clear.” He meets my gaze, his dark-brown eyes holding mine intently. “I had every intention of meeting you on Thursday night, kissing you senseless until your knees wobbled and your panties were so damn wet you had to come home to change. I’d have gotten you so goddamn riled up, you’d be squirming on your bed that night, aching and wet again, and call me, begging me to talk dirty to you till you came hard with your fingers.”

  Oh. My. God.

  I’m officially a melted puddle of lust. Grab a mop, swab me up. I’m liquid, molten desire seeping across my kitchen floor.

  I part my lips to speak, but a moan traitorously escapes instead.

  A fucking moan.

  I clamp my lips shut.

  He arches a brow, his eyes saying he likes that sound. “And I still want that. Do you?”

  I test my jaw to see if it works. Oh hey, it does. “Sure. That’s why living together would be a bad idea.”

  “Absolutely. Besides, I’m sure I can get the money back from him.”

  My shoulders fall. “You already paid for the room?”

  “First month’s rent. It’s not a big deal, and we’ll clear it up. I’ll get the money back.”

  The knife of guilt slices deeper. “Of course he’ll give you the money back. Did you sign an agreement too?”

  “Yes, but we’re all adults here. If you want out, that’s cool.”

  I take a drink of wine, noodling on his dilemma. If I’m kicking him out of a deal, I need to find a place for him. I need to understand, too, what he’s looking for and why. “Why don’t you have a place to stay?”

  “I’ve been staying at my sister’s house, as I said. Her husband was called overseas shortly after the baby was born, and the timing worked out with me looking for a new job. I took one here so I could be near Jodie while he’s in Afghanistan.”

  My heart lurches with sympathy. That’s precisely what he told me when I pulled him over, minus the Afghanistan part. I can’t imagine how hard that must be for his sister—and for his brother-in-law, to have to leave his family.

  “How is she managing without him?”

  “She’s a tough cookie. It’s not his first time having to go, so she’s accustomed to it. But it’s not easy, especially since she’s a working mom.”

  “What does she do?”

  “She’s a baker. She sells the best walnut blue cheese bread at the farmers market.”

  Pride suffuses his voice as he talks about his sister. Hunger rumbles in my belly when he mentions the bread. “Jodie?”

  His chocolate-brown eyes light up. “That’s her. You know her?”

  “I know of her. Her bread is legendary, and I might have been known to indulge in a loaf or two.”

  His smile spreads across his face. “That’s awesome. I’ll have to let her know. Seems like she’s heard of you too.”

  This intel intrigues me. I take a drink of wine. “Is that so?”

  His eyes travel along my body. “She might have mentioned yesterday that there was a pretty cop who worked at the market.”

  I might love Jodie even more, this baked goods goddess I hardly know. “Pretty cop? I’m flattered.”

  He takes another swallow, his eyes never looking away. “And I might have mentioned to her that I’d been pulled over by the prettiest cop in the entire universe.”

  Laughing, I roll my eyes. “And now you’re just trying to butter me up to get me to let you stay.”

  “If I were trying to butter you up, I’d have brought some of the bread. Anyway, it’s the God’s honest truth. What can I say? I wanted you from the second you pulled me over.”

  Is there any word sexier than want? My skin tingles, and my bones hum from the boldness with which he owns his desire.

  But this predicament isn’t about desire.

  It’s about choices and circumstance, and, well, those pesky things known as bills. I sidestep his comment. “And it’s not working out staying with her?”

  “She’s got three kids, and there are no extra rooms. I’ve been sleeping on the couch, so I’m looking for a place somewhere else to stay.”

  “It’s tough to find rentals in this town,” I say sympathetically. “The housing situation in California is insane, especially in wine country. It’s hard for me as a regular person—news flash, I’m not making Mrs. Monopoly jack as a cop—to live here. The only reason I can is that my mom’s aunt gave this place to Shaw and me when she passed away. She didn’t have any kids of her own, and the mortgage is mostly paid. I don’t know what I’d have done without her generosity.”

  Derek nods then take
s a drink. “It’s settled, then. I’ll set up a bonfire and make an offering to the rental gods that a generous aunt will come out of the woodwork and give me her cute little cottage.”

  “Derek,” I say, a little sad.

  He shakes his head. “Don’t do that.”

  “Don’t say your name?”

  “Don’t say it like that. With sympathy.”

  I lift my chin. “Hey. I’m badass. I don’t have a sympathetic bone in my body.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about. No sympathy, no mercy. I will find another place. It only took me a week or so to find this one, so I’m sure I’ll unearth something else just as fantastic.” His gaze wanders around my kitchen—it is definitely a cute home.

  “How long was the agreement for?”

  “We did a month-to-month.”

  I reach into the photo album in my mind, thinking of all the rental signs I’ve seen.

  Hardly any.

  Then again, I didn’t post a sign. Rentals in this town are a landlord’s prerogative. I get to pick and choose because I have what others want—real estate to lease. I honestly don’t know of any other studios, apartments, or rooms over garages. “What is it you do for a living?”

  “I’m a paramedic.”

  “Oh God,” I say with a groan. “Couldn’t you have just said ‘billionaire’ so I could kick you out and not feel bad?”

  “Sorry, kitten. I’m your regular blue-collar Joe. I’ve got some money saved, and a retirement plan, but for the most part, what you see is what you get.”

  What I see is damn attractive.

  What I see is downright appealing.

  I can feel the wine weaving its way through and softening me.

  We’re not that different. We’re two adults trying to make a living helping people. We’re not oozing money, but we want to serve the community. Taking a deep breath, I say, “Look, we can be adults, right?”

  He scoffs. “What do you mean?”

  “We’re not animals.”

  He raises both brows in a question. “Speak for yourself.”

  “Well, if you were an animal, I’m sure you’d be a leopard.”

  “Jaguar,” he says with a grin.

  “Okay, jaguar. Hear me out. I’m not trapping you. You’re not trapping me. We’re both mature. We’ve already acknowledged we aren’t looking to date or have a relationship, right?”

  He nods emphatically. “Relationships are not on the radar.”

  “But doing our jobs is. I have a room above the garage that has a separate entrance. There’s an entryway that leads upstairs, and the other door leads to the kitchen. I need to rent it to pay my bills. You need a place to stay in an expensive town. You’re here to help your sister and the community. I’m here to help the community. We’ll be better at doing our jobs if we don’t have to worry about paying bills or shitty couches that give us a crick in the neck.”

  He lifts a hand, absently stroking his neck. “How’d you know I have a crick in my neck?”

  “I’ve never met a couch that’s comfortable to sleep on.”

  He takes a drink of his wine, looking like he’s considering this. When he sets it down, his eyes sparkle. “I hear there’s a king-size bed in the room above the garage.”

  “Please. It’s not just a king-size. It’s a memory foam king-size.”

  He groans, and the sound is carnal and delicious. “Fuck, Perri. You’re tempting me.”

  I laugh, take a drink, then focus again on the matter at hand. “I’m not suggesting we play house or have set times when you need to return home for dinner, or what have you. But I think we should rise above the fact that we’re attracted to each other and solve this problem like grown-ups.”

  His eyes narrow, blazing darkly. He shakes his head.

  “What? No?”

  He sets down his wine, stalks toward me, and takes my glass. He puts it on the counter. He threads his hands around my neck, cupping the back of it. My blood runs neon-hot, and my body turns electric.

  His face is inches away, and I can feel his breath on me. I can smell the chardonnay, and the man, and oh God, I can tell he’s aroused too.

  He’s barely touching me, but I can feel how hard he is.

  My lady parts tingle, and I’m hot, wet, and wildly aroused.

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” he growls. “What this is? It’s not attraction. It’s stronger. More intense. It’s red-hot fucking desire. It’s raw and it’s carnal, and it’s so much dirtier than attraction.”

  And I’m so much more turned on than I was a few seconds ago.

  He lets go of me. I can’t feel the ground. I reach behind me for the counter, needing to hold on.

  “But we can’t give in to it.” My voice cracks as I try to speak around the fog of desire.

  “I know that.”

  “We need ground rules,” I insist. “Like, we share the kitchen, but you don’t come down the hallway to my bedroom without permission. And I won’t go up your stairwell without your permission.”

  His eyes darken with a dirty playfulness. “You can come up my stairwell anytime, kitten.”

  “I’m being serious.”

  “Me too.”

  “Derek.”

  “Fine. You can come up the stairs, but no fucking.”

  “No fucking and no foreplay,” I add, though I’m pretty sure the way he touched my neck was melt-my-undies-off foreplay.

  “That leaves . . . kissing?” he asks.

  A smile teases at my lips. “Well, we do need to practice.”

  “We absolutely need to practice.”

  “The contest is important for my potential promotion,” I add.

  “And I can’t let you kiss anyone else.”

  “I don’t want to kiss anyone else.”

  “I don’t either.” He grabs his wine and downs the rest of the glass. “So we’ll live together, not fuck, not engage in foreplay, just kiss.”

  Too bad he just turned my legs to jelly with one seductive touch. But I do my best to keep my eyes on the prize. “Those are the rules. No mercy. No sympathy. We follow them, plain and simple.”

  I extend a hand to shake, and he takes mine in his, yanking me close, but not touching. I hear myself whimper, begging for him to cop a feel.

  “We can do this. We can definitely make this work. Also, thank you.” His tone is tender and earnest, and the gratitude in it tugs on my heart. “I’ve been dying at Jodie’s home, and I can’t wait to spread out and sleep on a proper mattress.”

  I smile, glad I can help. “And you will love it.”

  Our hands are still joined. We’re still shaking and not letting go. He grips my hand tighter, his gaze straying to my lips. “But maybe we should enter the contest in the sweet category instead of the most passionate one.”

  “I can do sweet.”

  He drops my hand, cups my cheeks, tilts my head back, and dusts his soft, enticing lips across mine.

  It’s the polar opposite of yesterday’s kiss. A soft, sweet whisper of a kiss. A chaste kiss. A kiss fit for a public square, a library, a dinner out. A kiss you can take home to mama.

  But there’s nothing chaste about my body’s reaction.

  Nothing sweet about the fire in my belly and the heat pulsing madly between my legs.

  When he lets go, I blink, dazed. “Let me show you to your room.”

  He gestures toward the kitchen doorway, letting me walk ahead of him. I make my way to the staircase, and when I take the first step, he calls out, “Perri?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you a good witch or a bad witch?”

  I turn around, cataloging the naughty glint in his eyes. “Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

  13

  Derek

  I wake up feeling like Mark Zuckerberg.

  At least, I bet that dude wakes up like the sun is shining for him.

  Billionaires must feel fantastic in the morning, stretching their arms, enjoying their downy-ass pillows a
nd fluffy-as-a-feather ten-thousand-thread-count sheets.

  Or wait—do they sleep on greenbacks? Roll around on top of large bills all night?

  Regardless, I’m sure they’re comfortable at night, and I bet they feel rested as a hairy armadillo. My niece told me those little roly-polies sleep twenty hours a day, so they’re another creature who are surely some well-rested mo-fos.

  I wake feeling something else too. An early riser. No surprise, there’s my clockwork morning wood.

  But it’s a brand-new day, because none of my sister’s kids jump on me on the couch.

  Halle-privacy-please-lujah.

  With no worries about bumping into little ones, I swing my feet to the floor and walk straight to my own bathroom, my dick pointing the way.

  I enjoy a long, hot shower and take care of business.

  One thing remains the same though. My, ahem, inspiration.

  Yup, I’m still using the same image. Red hair, pouty lips, tight body, and a uniform. There is something insanely sexy about a woman in a uniform. Man, I’d like to see Perri stroll through the door tonight all in blue, aviator shades on, cuffs at the ready.

  For me to use on her.

  She’d look spectacular shackled to my bedposts.

  And there we go. Good morning to me.

  By the time I’m out of the shower, I’m fresh and clean, ready to tackle the day.

  I get dressed and head downstairs so I can say hello to my new housemate, but I find an empty kitchen.

  My shoulders sag a little. I wave a hand, dismissing the thought that maybe I was looking forward to seeing her. I’ll see her tonight.

  I spot a chalkboard perched on the counter next to the fridge.

  It’s a cute little thing, resting on an easel, with an assortment of chalk in pastel shades resting on the ledge beneath it. She's written a note in lavender chalk.

  Does she wear lavender lace lingerie too?

  Hmm. Where is the laundry room? She did say she was washing her clothes last night.

  Wait.

  I’m not that big a pervert, or a Peeping Tom. I’m not going to check out her dirty—or clean—laundry.