by Jackson Kane
Mr. Lucky
A Billionaire Romance Novella
USA TODAY Bestselling Author
Nora Flite
Jackson Kane
All rights reserved. Mr. Lucky is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. They are not to be construed in any way. Resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2017 Jackson Kane & Nora Flite.
Edited by Alice Anne Evans and Julie Ahern
Proofread by Kim Byrd
Jackson’s special thanks:
My beautiful PA- Harlow Kane
My street team and each and every one of my kick ass Kandy Kanes
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Chapter 1
Calli
“You have got to be fucking kidding me!” I slapped the pleather check holder down on the laminate-topped restaurant booth table. Loose slips of white paper slid out with the paid check.
Had I really just gotten stiffed on a tip for the third time this week?
I sat down in the booth and massaged the dull ache out of my temples, a swell of defeat washing over me. My joints throbbed and my back had started to cramp up. No amount of coffee could keep the seven straight double shifts from finally catching up to me. The exhaustion I’d been ignoring all week was trapped in my rib cage and sat heavy on my heart.
How long can I keep this up?
I'd been asking myself that same question for a long while. If I was really, really honest with myself, I'd been asking it ever since my best friend had abandoned our hometown. Well, abandoned was a strong word, but she had run off to NYC years ago.
Don't be too jealous, I reminded myself scathingly. You'll get to see New York City soon enough. Zenya—the best friend that she was—had asked me to be her maid of honor. The wedding was this weekend, and I'd been trying all week to feel excited about it, but it hadn't worked.
“Never trust a customer who comes in five minutes before closing,” Marcos said, leaning over the restaurant’s bar. He was the owner and chef of Sophie’s Place. In his hand was an open bottle of rum—had he already started drinking? He took a few long swigs. “If they're too rude to notice the time, they probably won't have the presence of mind to give you a tip.”
I sighed and gathered up the receipts on the floor. “Your wisdom is always appreciated.”
He nodded sagely and took another deep drink. “Wisdom is worth more than money.”
I snorted in disgust. “We’ll see about that when my landlady changes the locks on my apartment for not being able to pay rent.”
Didn’t these customers realize I only made two dollars and eighty-three cents per hour? I NEEDED my goddamn tips!
“You have any bread left?” I asked, hating that I'd fallen so far.
Marcos disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a plastic bag half full of the brown house-baked bread we gave to everyone as a free appetizer. “Here you go, Saint Calli.” He paused, then pulled the bag just out of my reach. “Hey, any of this tax-deductible?”
“Give me that, Scrooge.” I stood up and pulled the bag to me, but Marcos didn't let go.
“Did you give my offer any more thought?” he asked, his normally apathetic face taking on a stern, almost worried quality. “No one knows more about this place than you.”
“I—can you give me until the end of the weekend? With the wedding and all that, I've got too much going on right now.”
His eyebrows lowered, like he knew that we both knew this wasn't about me being busy. Hell, I was standing here playing tug-o-war with leftover bread. Clearly, I needed money, and becoming a manager at Sophie's would give me that.
But how could I ever explain how terrifying it was to me to take the position? The job would give me security. It would also tie me to this place—this town I was desperate to escape. It wasn't my dream to be a townie, tied to a failing restaurant while all my friends became pilots and doctors.
The changing digital clock above the bar caught my eyes. “It's one in the morning? Dammit! Do you mind if I skip clean up? I have to be in Manhattan in six hours.” And I still had to pack!
Marcos nodded, let go of the bag and waved a hand dismissively. “Get out of here.”
“I owe you one!” I scooped up my purse, coat and the bag of bread, and bolted for the door.
“Hey!” Marcos called after me. “Tell Zenya to hit me up on Instagram some time.”
“I’m sure her fiancé would love that,” I replied. Marcos's hearty laughter chased me outside.
While I had a soft spot for my boss, the reality was, there was no way Zenya would ever leave her fiancé for someone else. The guy was gorgeous, and she couldn't stop telling me how great he was. How great her whole life was.
A lightning flash lit up the inky sky when I pulled out of the parking lot. I hated how sad I felt whenever I thought about her happiness. It made me feel like the worst person in the world.
Another crack of lightning split all the dark clouds, except the one that followed me wherever I went. Please, please, please don’t rain! My car handled like a wet bag of cats in the rain.
“Just get me through the weekend, Carrie,” I pleaded with my car, rubbing the dashboard lovingly as I drove. From the way it loudly backfired, it was easy to tell something was very wrong, but with Zenya’s dream wedding coming up I hadn’t had the time, or money, to get it checked out. “I promise, if you get me to Monday, I’ll get you a full check-up. I’ll even pick up one of those pine tree car fresheners so you smell pretty.”
I turned down my cramped side street to see a huge storage pad squatted in my unit’s clearly-designated parking spot. The long, rectangular, corrugated metal trailer looked like it fell off a MACK truck with no thought given to how it would affect anyone else.
“Nononono... Not now!” I pulled up behind the storage pod, which was locked up and dark. They weren’t even moving anything in! What kind of selfish asshole would do something like this?
Carrie's engine suddenly idled super loud and popped like a gunshot. It startled a scream out of me. In any other neighborhood that might’ve gotten the police called, but not where I lived on Washington Street. Carrie cleared her throat one more time, then finally died.
“Fuck!” I punched my steering wheel until my fists started to hurt. “Dammit, Carrie! No little pine tree for you!”
I fished my Triple A card out
of my purse, dialing into my phone. The little voice on the line informed me it'd be between two and four hours before they could send someone to look at my car. Seriously? So much for getting any sleep before Zenya’s bridal party luncheon.
I grabbed the bag of bread and opened my door just as the rain clouds rumbled, lit up, and broke apart. Down came the water.
I jogged across the street and left the bag of bread next to the first door in the apartment building’s hallway. I knew Olga would find it in the morning—and if not her, one of her six kids. It would have been nice to keep some of the bread for myself... but they needed it more than me.
I thought about knocking and asking for help with my car, then decided against it. It was late; I didn’t want to wake anyone up. Besides, she didn't even have a car. I doubted she knew how to fix one.
As focused as I was on my car problem, I still spotted the envelopes in my mailbox as I passed. Pulling up short, I reached inside for the papers. The rain was coming down in sheets; there was only one letter that wasn’t a bill, a pizza place menu, or some kind of limited time offer for a gym membership. I took a big deep breath and blew my air out real slow.
I’d been waiting for weeks to hear back from Brigham Historical Museum about their Research Assistant position.
I wasn't all that excited for the job itself, but the Museum was in Brooklyn. It was a way for me to escape my tiny little town of Roslington.
I hunched over the letter so that it wouldn’t get too wet, and with trembling fingers, I opened it and skimmed the formalities quickly. “Dear Calli Blanchard… Thank you for submitting for the position blah, blah, blah… We regret to inform you—” The words caught in my throat like a spoonful of sand.
I didn't get the job.
This news was the final nail in my coffin. My legs gave out, nothing stopping me from collapsing to my knees in the pouring rain.
All my safeguards and barriers were stripped away; I couldn’t take it anymore. A panic attack wrung me out like a wet towel. My chest heaved with heavy, ugly sobs.
It wasn't just about the stupid job. It was about all the decisions that had led me to this point. Everything I'd done... everything I hadn't done. I was only twenty-five. How did my life come to a complete stop? What happened? How did it all go so wrong?
Why didn’t I escape with Zenya when I had the chance?
That one terrible, terrible decision to stay haunted me every single damn day. I was crying so hard that I started coughing; the rising stomach acid scorched the back of my throat.
Was I a professional puppy-kicker in a past life? What did I do to deserve this? Why couldn't I just catch a break? Just one? Please?
Rain rolled off me in rivulets. It was coming down too hard to hear the approaching footsteps.
“Hey,” a deep, baritone voice said. I was probably about to be robbed and I just couldn’t find it in me to care. It was his shoes I saw first when I opened my eyes; black leather loafers with a shine so polished I could see my reflection in them. I'd never met a mugger with nice shoes. “Are you alright?”
“No,” I said, choking off a laugh before it could return to a sob, then I wiped my face and lied. “But I—I’ll be fine.”
Even now at the end of my rope, I couldn’t shake the stubborn never-let-them-see-you're-hurt mentality. It must've been the hardened New Englander in me.
The flickering streetlight finally snapped on and gave me a good view of the man and his outstretched hand.
He was tall, clean-shaved and had thick black hair that was neatly combed back. He wore a pair of crisp black slacks and a deep, blue silk button down shirt that the rain matted to his broad muscular torso. From his nice clothes, gold watch and lack of a jacket, it was easy to tell that whoever this was, he wasn't planning on coming out in the rain.
His giant arms flexed as he helped me to my feet. My throat went dry as I mentally traced his incredibly well-defined pecs, shoulders, and abs. Catching his eyes suddenly returned the weak feeling to my knees, and it didn't stop until it tore a shiver through my pussy that no cold weather ever could.
Who was this guy?
“Your car's seen better days,” the man calmly remarked.
“What?” I followed his gaze to Carrie. Plumes of ashy smoke billowed out of her hood. My heart somehow found a way to sink even lower. “Oh no!”
“Let me take a look,” the man said, already moving toward my car.
“It's okay. I have Triple A coming, they'll be here... eventually.”
Ignoring me, he pulled a diesel-looking multi-tool out of his pocket, bent over the engine and started tinkering. The new angle highlighted the dark designs that covered his thick back. The tattoos teased me beneath his near see-through silk shirt. I found myself biting my bottom lip and wishing for a better look.
Without a thought to ruining his nice clothes, he dropped a knee into the muddy, cracked asphalt and slid under the car.
“Seriously, it's fine! You don't have to—” I started, but it was clear this guy wasn't taking no for an answer. I tried to insist, but he wasn't having it. I'd always had trouble accepting help from people. Something about feeling indebted to someone made me extremely uneasy, almost to the point of physical pain. I had worked so hard for the little I had. It wasn't much, but it was mine.
Frantic and buzzing with too many warring feelings, I looked around and spotted the storage pod. “Even if you fix my car, I'm stuck leaving it here until morning. Some asshole took my spot with this… tuna can excuse for an apartment unit... thing.” I sighed. “I'll get a parking ticket for sure.”
After a loud bang and a few grunts of exertion, which I was ashamed to admit thrilled me way more than it should have, he said, “Try starting it.”
Skeptically, I turned the engine over. Carrie roared right back to life like nothing was ever wrong.
For a moment I was stunned speechless. My car purred smoother than she had in years. Holy crap, I was going to make it in time for the bridal shower luncheon after all! Maybe even a little sleep, if I dared to dream.
“It’s worse than I thought,” he said. “When's the last time you had any work done on it? A check-up, oil change, anything?”
It struck me how dangerous it was for him to be working on what was basically a two-ton lightning rod during a rainstorm. Maybe it was just because of what my life had been like these past few years, but it was hard for me to wrap my mind around the concept of the kindness of strangers.
“Maintenance, what's that?” I chuckled sarcastically. I ran a hand over my sopping wet face and hair, realizing I was coming off more sad than funny. I sighed. “It's uh, been awhile, unfortunately.”
A long while.
One glance at his rain-slicked thigh muscles sticking out from under my car made me realize it'd been a long time since a lot of things. When was my last trip to Jiffy Lube? The oil change place. Totally not a synonym for a quickie. Damn it, brain! I flushed with heat and turned away.
It was hard to think about things like an oil change when I could barely keep the lights on in my apartment. I couldn't remember a time when I wasn't just scraping by paycheck to paycheck. Marcos had helped me out with a pay advance a few times, but that was only when things got really bad.
“Thank you so much,” I stammered. “I'm sorry, I don't think I caught your name.”
“Vetorian,” he said with another grunt. “But call me Veto.”
What kind of name is Vetorian? The question didn't linger in my mind long when I saw that the rain had basically painted his clothes to his skin. Watching all the corded muscles in his arms and thighs flex as he pulled himself out from under the car was enough to melt away my money concerns, and everything else that wasn't an overwhelming desire to jump him.
“Can I give you some money... or something.” I couldn't yank my eyes away from him as I turned off my car. His clothes were ruined, but damn, he still looked amazing in them.
He wiped the grease and mud from his hands on his pants, then
glanced up at me. Water dripped of the ends of a few strands of hair that covered his cool, dark eyes. The look he gave me made me tremble down to my toes.
It was hard to believe Veto was real. I wondered what was wrong with him; there had to be something. That's how the world worked. Perfect guys like him didn't exist, especially not in my depressed little town.
“Don't mention it.” His lips curled in a hint of a smirk. “Even assholes can do nice things every once in a while.”
My brain ticked along, trying to understand what that meant. But then I followed his coy smirk, his quick glance at the storage pod, and my heart crumbled into my stomach. “That moving van is you.”
I scolded myself softly, feeling like the real asshole now. “I'm so sorry. I've just... been having the day from hell.” Or years from hell. Yeah.
“It's fine.” Veto closed my hood with a sturdy thump. He turned to me and slicked back his shock of black hair. The rich blue of his eyes was a thin layer of ice over a deep, dark lake. “Carrie, was it?”
“Oh no,” I laughed, glancing at the name on my vanity plate. “Carrie's my car's name. It was a joke present from my friend, Zenya. She named it when we were roommates and—” I caught myself nervously rambling. I paused and started over with a small smile. “Hi. My name is Calli.”
“What did you say your friend's name—” Veto began to ask as I walked over to shake his hand. One of my low heels slipped into a crack in the pavement and snapped clean off. I squeaked out a cry as I stumbled, tripping over my own feet.
I pinched my eyes closed and braced. As I fell, all I could think about was how terrible the bruises were going to look in the pretty bridesmaid dress.
A pair of strong arms caught me before I hit.
Veto stood over me, water tracing his perfect nose, irresistible lips and hard jawline. He held me for a few seconds. The scent of his cologne mixed with the fresh rain and thick, earthy tang of the car's oil; it made me forget how to swallow or even breathe.
To my surprise, Veto looked thrown off by the contact, like he wasn't at all prepared for us to touch. There was no way a man as confident and devilishly handsome as him didn't have a different girl in his bed every night.