Lucky For You

by Jayne Denker

  “Lemme see.” Jordan examined the device. “It’s upside down.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Instead of turning it right side up, he bent at the waist, trying to turn himself over to match it, which gave Jordan a fit of the giggles. “Shhh. Gotta . . . CAM!!!” He wasn’t sure why he was shouting as though he were trying to get his brother to hear him in Marsden all the way from Whalen even without a phone. But he didn’t stop. “CAM! We need a ride home, you bastard. Come an’ get us. CAM!!!”

  “Is he coming?”

  “I dunno. It was voice mail.”

  They waited, first in the parking lot, then in Will’s Jeep when they got cold.

  After a while, Jordan ventured, “I don’t think he’s coming.”

  “How long has it been?”

  “Dunno. Can you see the clock numbers?”

  “Nope.”

  “Me neither. I mean, I can see them, but I can’t tell what they are. Plus the windshield is moving.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Yep. It’s breathing. Your Jeep is alive.”

  “Do you think it can drive us home on its own?”

  “Maybe you should ask it.”

  “Wait!” Will burst out. “I’ve got it! Lola!”

  “Huh?”

  “Lola’s Taxi Service.”

  “Liar. There are no taxis around here.”

  “Yes, there are. Well, one, anyway. Lola.”

  It was a huge challenge to look up the number for Lola’s business and then dial it, but he and Jordan worked together and eventually accomplished it. Their Herculean efforts were rewarded with the arrival of a Dodge minivan with a grumpy, sleepy grandma behind the wheel.

  Lola sized them up as they climbed into the back seat. “No bodily fluids in here,” she snapped in a gravelly voice. “This is a school bus during the day. Keep your pants zipped—both of you—and if you’re going to puke, aim for the bucket.”

  There was indeed a clean plastic bucket on the floor of the back seat, apparently intended for that very purpose. No one ever used Lola’s Taxi Service—no one—but Will appreciated that she’d prepared for every eventuality, just in case someone ever did.

  Jordan tipped her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.

  “Gonna puke?” Will asked, hoping he was sounding chivalrous and not just rude.

  “Doubtful. I never puke. Just sleepy.”

  “Sleep, then. Lola’ll get us home.”

  Eyes still closed, Jordan nestled into his shoulder while he reminded Lola of his address. He wasn’t about to drop Jordan off at her house in her present condition. She could yell at him later if she was so inclined.

  The ride home took about twenty minutes—or, in Lola’s cigarette count, five. When they rolled up in front of the Nash homestead, Will gently extricated himself from Jordan to pay the driver, only to find his wallet was empty.

  “Never mind, honey,” she growled. “You can pay me later. And take the bucket with you.”

  With profuse thanks, Will jostled Jordan and tugged her, as gently as he could, out of the van and onto the sidewalk. Once he got her on her feet, he held her up as they walked up the driveway, through the gate, up the garden path, and—hardest of all—up the stairs to his apartment.

  “Puking status?” he murmured as he eased Jordan down onto the bed, knelt at her feet, and pulled her boots off.

  “What?”

  “Zero to ten, ten being projectile vomiting is imminent, zero being you feel like dancing in a field of daisies, what’s your puking status?”

  “Um . . . four. No, wait. Five. I think. What’s five?”

  “Five is you can make it to the bathroom in time.” He stood up and yanked on one of her coat sleeves, then the other, until she twisted out of it, then he threw the coat on a nearby chair.

  “Six.”

  “Lola’s bucket is on the floor next to you.”

  “I love Lola. I love Lola’s bucket.”

  “Me too.”

  He gently pushed on Jordan’s shoulder until she was horizontal, then tugged the bedclothes out from under her before lifting her feet and tucking them under the covers. He didn’t bother finding her, or himself, pajamas. He just stretched out next to her and closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth of her back pressing against his arm. Will listened to Jordan’s breathing, deep and even, and he started to drift off as well. Then she mumbled something.

  “What?” he asked, rising up on his elbow.

  “I like you more than I should,” she said, a little clearer.

  Will couldn’t help but smile. “How much is that?” What the hell—she’d never remember in the morning anyway.

  “Liking you at all, probably. But I can’t help it.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I like you more than I should too.”

  Silence, then, “Yes.”

  “Yes what?”

  She rolled onto her back to look at him. “I’ll go to the wedding with you.”

  “Good,” he said, distantly realizing the wedding was in a little more than twelve hours.

  Then he forgot that, and everything else, when Jordan reached up, cupped a hand at the back of his neck, and pulled his head down to hers. Then she was kissing him, and he tried to keep his distance but he couldn’t or he didn’t want to or he was too drunk to know the difference and the next thing he knew he went willingly, wherever she was going to lead him. Because why not? Because he wanted her, and spending all evening with her without touching her had been absolute torture and he wanted so much to give in. Jordan raised her head off the pillow, and he met her in the space between, resistance and promises to himself be damned, and dear God what was that thing she was doing with her tongue?

  Then Jordan softened, and her head drifted back down. Will followed and kissed her again, this time gently, because it seemed to be what she wanted now. He drew back to look into her beautiful eyes . . .

  Which were closed. And she was breathing softly, evenly. Jordan was asleep.

  Chapter 24

  “Oh God.”

  Jordan usually liked those words, especially when they were moaned, especially in bed . . . but definitely not in this context. Her head felt as though it weighed three hundred pounds and was fused to the pillow. Her right arm and hand were numb from being mashed under her body all night. And her stomach . . . well, best not to think about that. It was rocking and rolling like a tall ship on the high seas. In a hurricane.

  Nope. Shouldn’t have those images in her head right about now. Bad for the constitution.

  She couldn’t even open her eyes. Or maybe she was afraid to. What if, when her seared-dry eyeballs were exposed to sunlight, they turned to powder, like in a horror movie? Or what if they exploded? She could picture that happening. She really could.

  She rolled onto her back and let her dead arm dangle over the edge of the bed. There was a loud thud from below, and she had the vague notion she’d knocked something over. Groaning softly, she cracked one eye open and looked down to find a plastic bucket on its side, its teal color a sharp contrast to the dark wood planks of the floor.

  “That is not my bucket,” she muttered. “And that is not my floor.”

  She tried to raise her head, failed, and just rolled onto her back and closed her eyes again. Then the bed moved, which was a little alarming, because she hadn’t budged. And then there was a groan. One that hadn’t come from her. At least, she was pretty sure. Nope, definitely not from her. She had to open her eyes again. Do it, she commanded herself. Do it now.

  Her eyes didn’t obey.

  “Morning.”

  Okay, now they did. They really hopped to it, in fact. Jordan whipped her head to the left—oh God, mistake—and . . . Oh God.

  Will was right next to her, looking sleepy and rumpled and possibly just as hung over as she was. At least, she hoped so, because she sure didn’t want to be going through this alone.

  Curly hair all over the place. Dusting of stubble. Full, reddish lips. If she did
n’t feel like death, she would have been all over that. Even as bleary and bloodshot as he was at the moment. All she was able to do, however, was stay very, very still and look around the room with just her eyes. And even that hurt.

  She was in his room. In his bed. And it was morning.

  Say something, she told herself. She wanted to, but she had no idea what. And besides, someone had snuck in in the middle of the night and stuffed her mouth full of gauze. So she just stared at him, probably looking sort of wild-eyed, if she had to guess.

  “Uh . . .” she finally croaked out. She couldn’t manage any more, but it didn’t matter. Will understood anyway.

  He fell back onto his own pillow. “Yes, we got wasted last night. No, you didn’t puke. Neither did I. Maybe we should have. Yes, you’re at my place. No, we didn’t . . . you know. Have I covered everything?”

  She started to nod, thought the better of it, and said, “Yep.” A pause as she tried to piece things together. One memory leaped to the forefront of the jumble. “I kissed you.”

  A half-smile curled the corner of his lips. “I didn’t mind.”

  She needed another moment to sort out the rest. “I . . . fell asleep.” “That, I minded.” The roiling lump that was her stomach constricted, and she stole a guilty look at him. But now he was truly grinning. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t think we were exactly at the top of our game last night anyway.” With a furtive glance of his own, he added, “Rain check?”

  She nodded, and while the tension in her belly eased, it was replaced by a nervous anticipation. Not now, but eventually? Maybe soon? Nice.

  “Your phone has been going off. Repeatedly. Why did you pick the ‘boi-oi-oinnggg’ sound as a text alert?”

  “I’ll kill it with fire first chance I get.”

  “I support your decision.”

  Boi-oi-oinnggg.

  Jordan groped around for her phone with her newly half-awake and tingling right hand, flailing but failing to come in contact with it. Will reached across her to pick up the phone on the nightstand. His plaid flannel shirt dropped away a little, and she caught a glimpse of a nicely molded chest with a smattering of dark hair. She reached up and . . . covered her mouth and nose.

  “Ack. You smell like ass.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re no fragrant rose yourself, you know.”

  “Whose idea was that? All the getting drunk stuff.”

  “Yours.”

  “I’ll deny it at every turn.” She took her phone from Will and looked at her texts. They were all from George. “Oh, shit.” Jordan lurched to a sitting position, which made her stomach heave and the room spin. She immediately flopped back down. “I’ve gotta go. George is waiting for me.”

  “Yeah, you look like you’re ready to prep for a wedding.”

  “If I’m not there, she’ll fire me. Again.”

  “If you go out looking like that, you’ll scare small children.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “I just call ’em as I see ’em. Look, you need . . . water, coffee, more water, ibuprofen. A disgusting, greasy, alcohol-absorbing breakfast. And a shower. Not necessarily in that order.”

  “Fine. I’ll get most of that on the way.”

  “Hang on. What time is it?” He grasped Jordan’s wrist and lifted her hand that was still holding her phone. Nine twenty-two. “Perfect. My parents go to the market every Saturday morning. The house will be empty. Let’s get you some breakfast.”

  Jordan really couldn’t say no. In fact, she couldn’t say much at this point because of her dry mouth. She was willing, at the very least, to accept one or two or twelve bottles of water for the road. Even if the thought of swallowing said water made her want to clutch the plastic bucket to her chest all the way to the house.

  She forced herself to her feet, found her shoes, then was grateful to have a reason to sit back down to put them on. She wasn’t sure how she was going to make it across the yard to the house, but the promise of remedies that would help her stop feeling like death was pretty good motivation. Behind her, she heard Will rustling around in the bathroom, and she was jealous that he had a toothbrush while hers was a mile and a half away in her grandmother’s house.

  He came out of the bathroom brushing his teeth, extending another one, toothpaste already on the bristles, to her.

  It was like he’d just presented her with a dozen long-stemmed red roses. Dusted with diamonds.

  “Yay yay yay yay it’s Christmas Eve!”

  Jordan’s head lifted from where she had been holding it, oh so gingerly, as she sat at the kitchen table, and she looked wildly at Will standing by the stove. “Fucking serious?” she whispered hoarsely.

  Before she knew it, the room was filled with Nashes, their winter coats giving off the chill from outside as they brought in bags of groceries. Pickle and Lucas, the urchins screaming about Christmas, continued screaming as they ran laps around the table, slapping the back of every chair, including Jordan’s. Mercifully, Will intercepted them with a kinder version of clotheslining, catching one in each arm instead of knocking them to the ground. Jordan strongly believed she would have been fine with the more traditional method.

  “Do you really think Santa is going to go in for that kind of behavior? Huh?” They squealed and squirmed, but he held onto them until they calmed down, at least a little bit. “Where are your parents?”

  “At home,” they chorused.

  “We took them for the morning, so Gabe and Katy could . . .” Annie mouthed the rest: “Get some stuff done.”

  Jordan smirked, until she realized the woman meant assembling toys and wrapping gifts instead of what instantly came to her mind.

  “Nice to see you again, Jordan,” John rumbled.

  The Nash patriarch meant it kindly, she knew, mainly because he didn’t have a mean bone in his body, but she couldn’t help feeling mighty uncomfortable in front of this wholesome family, sitting there having breakfast in their kitchen, her appearance a dead giveaway that she’d just fallen out of Will’s bed. Yet if they figured it out, they pretended not to.

  Except Cam, of course.

  He came in last, shuffling sideways behind his parents to drop the bags he was carrying onto the table. When he spotted Jordan, he lit up brighter than the Nashes’ giant Christmas tree. “Well, well, well—”

  “Stuff a sock in it, Cam,” his brother growled.

  Hey, Will had anticipated her. What a guy.

  But of course Cam would not, in fact, stuff a sock in it. “What’s up, big bro? Rough night?” He looked downright gleeful as his leer flicked from Will to Jordan and back again. “Apparently you took my advice, then?” When neither Will nor Jordan answered him, he prompted, “You know. What I kept telling you: to go for—”

  “I’ve gotta go.” Jordan jumped up, ignoring the stomach flopping and head spinning it incited, and pulled on her coat. “George was expecting me an hour ago.”

  The inn was always nice looking; after Casey took it off his parents’ hands a number of years ago, he’d revamped the old Gothic monster inside and out to make it attractive and comfortable for visitors. But Jordan had never seen it looking as breathtaking as it did right now.

  The place was spotless, if Jordan did say so herself. Because of her limited capabilities in the kitchen, George had banished her to the other rooms to clean, so clean she did. She was good at it, thanks to her parents’ obsession with keeping their own home immaculate. Even when they had a housekeeper, Jordan’s mother got a certain amount of satisfaction out of scrubbing the hell out of every room herself, and Jordan had been enlisted into the cleaning brigade at an early age. It was a challenge for sure, what with her mother’s unforgiving decorating scheme of white and cream and dove gray everywhere—the furniture, the draperies, even the carpets. So yeah, Jordan had skills.

  She’d used her know-how to make the inn sparkle over the past week, including the guest rooms, because several people, including both sets of parents, the Downs and the Bowens, we
re coming into town for the wedding. Casey’s parents had moved to Florida after he’d taken over the farm, while George’s mom and dad had made the entire world their playground after Phil Down retired. Although they usually never bothered to return to Marsden very often, especially in winter, the parents couldn’t resist the overwhelming, unquestionable pull of their offspring finally tying the knot.

  Phil and Barb Down were flying into Albany, Ken and Margie Bowen into Syracuse, and neither set of parents would hear of Casey—or any of his friends—driving to either airport to pick them up. Casey said something about hoping his parents still remembered how to drive in the snow, George just shrugged (since her parents had done nothing but travel for the past several years), and they refocused their efforts on making the inn welcoming.

  Now it was close to four o’clock, and dusk was falling. It hadn’t snowed today, but the hillsides sported a fresh several inches from a couple of days before. The stunning winter sunset, all coral and salmon and lemon, tinted the landscape a gentle pink. The pines cast long shadows on the fields, and dry, broken cornstalks left over from the last harvest poked through the snow here and there. It was quiet, with only the occasional caw of a crow echoing across the valley.

  Inside, the rooms glowed with the light from antique lamps and pillar candles and strings of Christmas lights reflecting off mirrors and silver trays and crystal vases filled with white and red roses and white pine branches. Pine garlands wound around the staircase banister and stretched across tables, fireplace mantels, and window ledges. Casey lugged in more wood for the fires roaring in the sitting room, front parlor, and dining room while George refused to budge from her post in the kitchen.

  “Go get dressed, would you?” Jordan dared to scold her boss.

  “As soon as we’re done down here.”

  “We’re done down here,” she insisted, shooing the bride away from fussing with the food and drink. “Put your damned dress on.”

  “But the wine—”

  “I’ll uncork the wine,” Casey said, shrugging off his jacket.