The Lucky in Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  Checking my phone for the time, I bounce on my toes in excitement. He’ll be here any minute.

  I whistle a short tune.

  Fine, he’ll be here in one more minute.

  I peek inside the basket once more. A perfect spread for a Sunday lunch here along Silver Phoenix Lake, the water reflecting the bright sun and the birds chirping in the trees.

  Another minute ticks by, and I smooth my hand along my skirt and double-check the wineglasses. The crisp sauvignon blanc I picked out is delish for today’s festivities. I happen to be fantastic at wine pairings, and I know this one is ideal.

  I stand, crunch across the twigs and grass to the trail, and peer down the path.

  No sign of David.

  No matter. He’ll be here soon. I return to the blanket. I shield my eyes as I look to the sky, reminding myself to enjoy the view, to savor the great outdoors.

  I do that for fifteen stinking minutes.

  I try not to get wound up. It’s entirely possible he received a call from the hospital. That happens, and I’m used to it. I’m a good ER resident’s girlfriend.

  I check my phone. Odd. There’s no message from him. But if there’d been an emergency, he probably wouldn’t have had time to call me. And really, don’t we all want a society where doctors are focused on saving lives rather than alerting their women of their whereabouts?

  But he is off today, and there’s also this cheese.

  I don’t want it out all day, especially since I already sliced it.

  I should send him a text. What if he has the location wrong? I check the message I sent him yesterday, where I asked him to meet me in this little nook of the woods, a few feet off the trail, then tap out a quick text.

  Hey, handsome. Can’t wait to see you! Just wanted to make sure—

  I stop typing when I hear footsteps, and my heart runs in circles.

  “Hey, Arden.”

  I smile giddily. He’s here at last, walking past the tree, and when my eyes land on his handsome face, his dark hair, his eyes that I know so well, I chide myself for worrying.

  Of course he’s here. The fact that he’s been a little busy, a little distant lately means nothing. I pop up and practically run to him, throwing my arms around his neck.

  He’s stiff at first then hugs me back. “Sorry I’m late. I was at the gym.”

  What?

  He was at the ever-loving gym?

  “I hope you had the best workout ever, then,” I say, keeping my tone chipper, even though inside I’m thinking that’s rude with a capital R. But I have things to do and plans for us, so I move on. “And I’m glad you made it. I have a picnic lunch with all your favorites.” I jut out my hip then whisper, “Including me. It’s private here too. We can eat and chat and maybe more . . .” A flush spreads across my cheeks as my voice trails off in invitation. The suggestion feels a little risqué to me, but I’d like to try a little risqué-ness. I’ve never had sex outdoors, and I honestly wouldn’t mind trying something new. I shiver at the thought.

  David looks away, scratching his jaw. “Yeah, that’s the thing, Arden.”

  “What’s the thing?” My pitch rises as worry shoots up in me. His tone is saying something before his words do, and that something isn’t what I want to hear.

  He sighs, smiles sympathetically, and then fingers a strand of my blonde hair. “You’re so sweet. Seriously. You’re like the nicest girl I’ve ever met.”

  There’s a but coming. A big fat but.

  I swallow past the stone in my throat. “Nice is good, right?” I sound as if I’m white-knuckling a steering wheel so I don’t drive a car off the side of the road.

  David leans closer, lets go of my hair, and drops his voice like he’s prepping to say something grave to a patient. “But I like naughty better, so I don’t think this is going to work out.”

  The earth slips beneath me. The sky falls. My plans crater. This was not on my schedule for today.

  Especially since he has no idea how much I’d be interested in trying something new in bed. But he’s never asked.

  “You never said you liked naughty better,” I point out as my stomach twists and hurt claws its way up my throat.

  He shakes his head, making sure I don’t miss his meaning as he points from him to me. “I shouldn’t have to say it. Naughty should come naturally.”

  “What? You shouldn’t have to say it? How else would I know what you wanted?”

  He laughs gently. “Even if I said it, it doesn’t matter. You’re too good. It’s your natural state. You don’t have a naughty bone in your body.”

  “Oh, I do. I definitely have several.” He’s wrong. He’s so wrong. All my naughty bones are just waiting to be used.

  “You’re so adorable. That’s why I don’t think you and I will work out.”

  Of course we can work. All we have to do is talk. Maybe he’s been working too hard in the ER. Maybe he’s stress-tired. Surely that must be it.

  I place a hand on his chest. “We can talk about this. Work this out. Try all sorts of new things in the bedroom, or even here. This is the first time you’ve mentioned it, but I’m up for it. I was literally thinking about other uses for this blanket before you showed up. I know we haven’t had sex outdoors, but we should try new things in the bedroom and out of the bedroom.” I take a deep breath and go for it. “After all, I love you and I want you to move in with me. Isn’t that where we are headed?”

  Not exactly how I planned to ask him, but clearly I have to launch the parachute quickly and try to save our plane from tumbling out of the sky.

  He smiles even more sympathetically, quite possibly full of abject pity for me. This isn’t going to end how I want it to at all. I am the biggest fool in the land.

  “Look at you. So good to me up until the end. That’s why it took me so long to say this. Because you treat me like a king, and you’re so damn sweet. It almost makes me want to stay.” He sighs. “But you’re too vanilla.” He pats my head like I’m a pet, and evidently I’m the Maltese he’s not taking home from the pound instead of the chocolate lab he really wants.

  I jerk my head away from him. “Don’t pat me like a dog.”

  “I was just trying to be nice.”

  “Oh, don’t even use that word with me right now. ‘Nice,’” I hiss, even as tears threaten my throat, clogging my voice.

  He ignores me, gesturing to the picnic spread. “Food looks good. Can I grab some cheese and crackers before I go? I do love Gouda.”

  Shock slams into me, radiating to every pore. I can’t even speak or scream—no, you can’t have the Gouda, you jackass—because I’m so floored by his callous request.

  The hungry jerk takes my silence as a yes and helps himself, bending to grab a few slices of cheese from the basket and a couple of crackers. My eyes burn with tears, and I want to smack his impromptu snack out of his hand, but I can’t because my blood has turned sluggish.

  David turns to go, and I’m in quicksand, unable to move or speak. As his footsteps fade, something new replaces the shock.

  Anger.

  He took my cheese.

  He took my freaking Gouda cheese.

  “You don’t deserve cheese. You don’t deserve chocolate. You don’t deserve vanilla,” I shout between sobs, then grab the bottle of wine, open it, and guzzle a needy gulp.

  A crunch of leaves sounds from the trail, and my heart speeds into overdrive.

  He’s returned. He realized his mistake. He’s going to ask me to stay with him. I fasten on a smile, swipe my cheeks, and prepare to let him grovel.

  First, he’ll apologize for taking my Gouda.

  Second, he’ll take back that stupid vanilla comment.

  Third, he’ll say he’s sorry he never piped up before about all these naughty bones that need tending to.

  Then, and only then, will I let him enjoy the picnic of me.

  I peer down the path, searching for my man.

  But he’s still gone, and I’m still alone, d
umped at a picnic lunch, when I planned to ask him to move in with me. My only company is a bird, an industrious robin, scouring the trail.

  Why should he suffer because I’ve been ditched? I toss him a cracker and he pecks at it.

  “Have a snack,” I mutter.

  Another robin swoops down, joining his buddy on the dirt to enjoy the unexpected snack I’d planned to share with David.

  The bastard.

  How does he know I’m too sweet? He never asked me to be naughty. I wouldn’t mind trying. But he didn’t say a word about what he wanted. Am I supposed to be a mind reader? I don’t think so.

  “You could have asked,” I mumble.

  But I’m not in the mood to mumble. I’m in the mood to shout and stomp and throw. I don’t give a damn if this is childish. It’s cathartic, and right now I need to let go. I spin around, grab more cheese slices, and fling them in David’s direction, even though he’s probably miles away now.

  “Take that.” I catapult one through the air.

  “Here’s another.” I launch a cracker, then a slice of cheese.

  More. I need more. This feels good. This feels so damn good. I bend to grab another hunk of cheese, then spin around and slingshot my arm to send it down the trail. Like a gunslinger, I fire, sending the dairy flying.

  Only it doesn’t land on the trail.

  The Gouda lands square in the middle of a chest.

  A man’s chest.

  Oops.

  I cringe, lifting my gaze. I’m greeted by the sight of the man known as the Lucky Falls Panty-Melter. Star of the fireman calendar. Resident charmer. All-around ladies’ man. Dark-blond hair, soulful blue eyes, and a body that could advertise all the workouts in the world.

  Kill me now.

  Of all the people to run into. Of all the guys in this godforsaken town to inadvertently thwack with a piece of cheese. The bare-chested Gabe Harrison wears running shorts, sneakers, and a fine sheen of sweat glistening on his pecs.

  As well as a slice of Gouda that sticks momentarily to his chest.

  Stopping short, he surveys me and what’s left of the cheese and crackers, then his sternum, plucking the food from his skin like this happens every day and it’s no big deal. “If you’re going to turn more of the cheese and crackers into projectile missiles, allow me to help.”

  “I’m so, so sorry,” I choke out, and the dam breaks.

  The waterworks have been let loose, and anger has turned to sadness.

  Tears fall as I sink down onto the blanket, crying into my cheese and crackers. Who cares if he’s the town playboy? It’s not like I’m on anyone’s naughty or nice list right now anyway. It’s not as if I’m looking for anything but a shoulder to cry on.

  He drops down and wraps a strong arm around me. “Hey there. You want to talk about it?”

  I can’t talk because I’m too busy crying the Nile onto his broad, slicked chest, the site of the cheese bullet I lobbed at him.

  2

  Gabe

  Some women are silent criers. Some are snifflers, gently dabbing away at barely-there tears. And some are epic bawlers. Snot, soaked tissues, streams of water sluicing down their cheeks—the whole nine yards.

  Then there’s Arden East. She’s going to need a new category. Because holy shit. I’ve encountered more than my fair share of tears in my line of work, but never enough to refill a reservoir.

  She cries and cries and cries, and when she’s maybe, possibly, almost finished replenishing the Pacific Ocean, she launches another pair of geysers from her eyes.

  Judging from the picnic blanket and the food, I have a wild hunch her man disappointed her.

  Badly.

  In my field, I’ve learned plenty about how to handle this kind of sadness.

  You need to let the tears fall, plain and simple.

  After a few more minutes, she starts to quiet. “I’m so stupid,” she blurts, the first sign that she’s nearing the end of the crying jag.

  “Of course you’re not stupid. Why would you say that?”

  “I thought . . . he wanted . . . to be . . . with me.”

  David.

  She’s been dating one of the ER docs. He’s a solid doc, but that’s about all I know of David Green. Except now he’s most likely a dickhead, since he’s the one who disappointed her badly. Who makes a woman cry like this but a guy who deserves the Dickhead of the Year Award?

  “I made a picnic for him, and he dumped me.” She swipes her palms against her cheeks. “He showed up and broke up with me, and he still asked for a piece of cheese.”

  My brow knits. “Seriously?”

  “He said I was too nice. He didn’t want to be with me, but he still wanted a cracker. Apparently, my food is enough for him, but I’m not.”

  I scoff. “I’m pretty sure that goes against all the codes and bylaws in the handbook of How to Treat A Woman.”

  Arden’s chocolate-brown eyes are shot with red, but they twinkle the slightest bit. “I’m pretty sure I’d like to chuck that handbook at the back of his head. Please tell me it comes in hardcover?”

  I smile, pleased she’s retained her sense of humor in the face of the ultimate bonehead move. “It does, and also, on behalf of all men everywhere, I want to let you know that he’s officially won the Dickhead of the Year Award. The guy committee has unanimously voted for him to receive it because the kind of shit he pulled gives men a bad name.”

  She offers a contrite smile. “That’s why I was throwing the cheese. I’m sorry I hit you.”

  “I’m just glad it wasn’t the bottle of wine you were practicing your shot put skills with. Wait. I don’t want to give you any ideas.” I grab the open wine bottle and hide it behind me.

  “I promise I won’t throw the wine at you.” She cracks a grin through the tears.

  Carefully, I set the wine back on the blanket. “Or almonds. Those can pack a punch too. You might have taken an eye out.”

  “I do have good aim.” She laughs, then it morphs into a mournful sigh as she swats at the remnants of a final tear. “And I was going to ask him to move in with me.”

  I drop the attempt at humor, squeezing her shoulder. Even if the guy’s a first-class jackass, she truly liked him, and that’s nothing to joke about. “I’m sorry, Arden. You must be hurting a ton right now.”

  An errant sniffle sounds from her, and she nods. “I am. I wanted it all to go so perfectly.”

  My heart aches for her, for the effort she made, for the hope she must have had when she planned today. “It does look perfect.” I take a cursory glance at the meal.

  “He didn’t think it was perfect enough.”

  I peer behind me, impressed with the spread she packed, from the wicker basket, to the wine and the glasses, all the way to the cloth napkins. Damn, this woman is a thorough planner and some kind of sweetheart in the girlfriend department. Inside the basket, I spot a container of hummus and three kinds of olives, along with the almonds and more cheese and crackers.

  My stomach rumbles. “Any man who doesn’t realize the value of you, almonds, and olives doesn’t deserve to have lunch, breakfast, or dinner with you. Ever.”

  “Thank you.” Her whispered voice is soft and pretty.

  Hell, even with her splotchy, tear-stained cheeks, she’s still so damn pretty.

  Fact is, I thought she was lovely to look at the night I met her a year ago, shortly after I moved to town. Pretty and witty and sharp, but very taken, so I didn’t think twice about her.

  Today, she’s still pretty, and now she’s single.

  Wait.

  Chill the hell out, Brain. It’s not cool to think a woman is pretty when she’s crying her eyes out over another man.

  I wipe those dickhead thoughts from my head. I don’t want to give David competition for the dickhead prize.

  “You really think he doesn’t deserve me?” Her tone is wobbly.

  “I know he doesn’t.” I point at the food. “Every decent man knows when a woman makes you a picn
ic, you damn well better eat it, and you will most certainly enjoy it.”

  A small smile seems to sneak across her face. “It was a nice picnic.” She unleashes a sob again, tripping over that adjective. “Nice. He said I was too nice. Who’s too nice? How is it possible to be too nice?”

  I set a hand on her lower back, gently rubbing. “Nice is what we should all aspire to be.”

  She breathes heavily, clenches her jaw, and nods fiercely as if she’s deciding she’s done with tears. “Exactly, and my picnic is awesome, and he doesn’t deserve it.”

  “No way. He doesn’t even deserve a cracker that fell on the ground or the cheese from my chest.”

  Her lips quirk up, and she laughs in spite of herself, it seems. “Don’t tempt me, Gabe. Now I want to serve him sweaty cheese and dirty crackers if he ever shows up for a wine and cheese night at the store,” she says, and I picture the bookshop she owns in the center of town.

  “It’ll be our little secret that you have such a naughty side.” Her eyes seem to sparkle appreciatively when I say that word—naughty.

  I gesture to the meal. “This delicious spread should not go to waste,” I say, hinting not at all subtly, since I’d like a bite of some of these goodies. “Don’t know if you’re aware, but I have had a bottomless appetite since I was born. I can pretty much always eat.”

  “And I like to reward hearty appetites.” She grabs a slice of cheese and a cracker then hands them to me. “This picnic is definitely not for any recipients of the Dickhead of the Year Award.” She gives a tough little lift of her chin.

  “That’s the spirit.”

  I smile widely at her, then pop the treat into my mouth. After I chew, I declare it the best cracker in the land.

  It’s a cracker, for fuck’s sake.

  But Arden is smiling again.

  And that’s the least I can do.

  I don’t know David from Adam. I don’t know their relationship whatsoever. But I know this: the woman made him a meal, put on a pretty dress, and placed her heart on this red-and-white checkered blanket.

  However he ended things, leaving her like this was a jackass move of the highest order. If he didn’t have the sensitivity to know that, the least I can do is show her that some men do have the common courtesy to enjoy a feast prepared by a good woman.