The Lucky in Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  Grabbing a napkin, I dab at the remnants of tears on her cheeks, and she whispers her thanks.

  We dine, and we chat, and I steer the conversation to innocuous topics. “Favorite cheese? If you had to pick one cheese for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

  She shoots me a you-can’t-be-serious look after that question. “Are you trying to be cruel and unusual?”

  I laugh, waving it off. “You’re right. Having only one kind of cheese forever and ever does sound like a fresh new hell.”

  She nudges me with her elbow. “Exactly.” She rolls her eyes. “Next thing you know, you’ll be trying to get me to choose only one wine for the rest of my days.”

  I hold up my hands in surrender. “I’ve learned my lesson. I swear.”

  “Good.” She lowers her voice. “For the record, it’d be a white.”

  “Ah, so you do have a favorite wine?”

  “Not a wine-for-the-rest-of-my-life, but I do prefer whites. You?”

  “Beer.”

  She laughs, and it’s such a better sound than the sobs.

  A little later, I’ve polished off more cheese and crackers, along with some almonds and olives, and Arden has nibbled on a few strawberries and grapes.

  “Let me walk you to your car,” I tell her, after she packs up her basket. “Little red Honda down by the trailhead?”

  “That’s mine.”

  A few minutes later, I open the driver’s side door for her and then reach around to set the basket in the back seat.

  I wag a finger at her. “Now, don’t let him get you down, you promise me?”

  She nods and smiles, but it’s an apologetic one. “I’ll do my best. And thank you, Gabe. You helped so much.”

  “I’m glad I was there. I’m glad my chest was there too, so you didn’t knock any robins down with that sniper aim of yours.”

  She laughs then winces. “I’m sorry about that. Sorry you had to see me crying too.”

  “Don’t think twice about it. Just promise me this: don’t let any jerks win your heart again.”

  She holds up a pinky. “I promise.”

  I’ve never pinky sworn before, but now seems as good a time as any. I wrap my little finger around hers. “There. It’s a deal. I’ll be looking out for you.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  When she takes off, I turn around, pick up the pace, and resume my run, trying my best to think of other women. Like the cute little brunette from Whiskey Hollows I met the other night at a barbecue, or the leggy redhead from the gym who asked me to work out with her.

  Anyone.

  Anyone at all but the woman who’s had her dignity stomped on.

  The woman who is, for all intents and purposes, as unavailable as she was the day I met her.

  The woman whose heart is broken over another man.

  I shovel a hand through my hair as if I can rid myself of the inappropriate thoughts about how damn pretty she is, even with her tear-stained cheeks and sad brown eyes.

  Pretty and technically available.

  But I’d have to give myself the Jackass of the Century prize if I tried to take advantage of her right now, or anytime soon. And I’m not interested in collecting any trophies of that nature.

  I run like my pants are on fire for five miles, and that does the trick.

  For now.

  After I leave the woods, I jog past my parents’ home, dart up the stone path, and knock on the door. My dad answers quickly, clapping me on the back.

  “Can’t believe you didn’t invite me to join you on your run,” he deadpans. “I’m wounded.”

  “I’m only looking out for you. You’d get addicted if I did. You’d want to run marathons.”

  He ran plenty of marathons back in the day and kicked ass in every single one.

  I walk past the living room, stopping to give my mom a kiss on the forehead as she reads some book she surely picked up from Arden’s store.

  Fuck. I wasn’t supposed to be thinking of Arden.

  In the kitchen I grab a glass of water, down a thirsty gulp, then set it on the counter as my dad strides in. “Want something to eat?”

  “I already ate. Thanks.”

  “At Silver Phoenix Lake?”

  I laugh. “Yeah. Funny thing. I ran into a picnic.”

  He arches one eyebrow in confusion.

  I wave it off. “Long story.”

  “I have time.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  He grabs a stool and sits down, folding his hands in his lap, waiting for me to tell him the tale.

  I drag a hand through my sweaty hair. “So, Dad. There’s this girl . . .”

  3

  Arden

  One week later

  When someone helps you, you thank that person.

  That’s simple good manners.

  Perhaps it’s a thoughtful card. Maybe it’s a small gift. Sometimes it’s baked goods.

  By that same token, you should apologize properly when you inadvertently hit a person with a slice of cheese, even though I doubt Miss Manners has codified the protocol for that particular faux pas.

  But I figured this one out on my own, since I pride myself on please, thank you, and proper apologies, as well as delivering them in the right fashion to the right people. If this makes me too nice, so be it. I will wear the “nice girl” sticker with pride.

  Take that, David.

  “Ha! There’s nothing wrong with being nice,” I mutter as I put the finishing touches on the cookie-dough-stuffed pretzels I’ve just baked. This particular thank-you-for-the-shoulder-and-forgive-me-for-my-aim gift is taking the form of a sweet treat, since I bet they don’t sell those cards at Hallmark.

  And that’s a good thing, since these pretzels smell sinfully good. So good, in fact, I bet they taste the way naughty feels.

  Except I don’t really know what that feels like, so I shove the thought out of my mind, grabbing a Tupperware container. Baked goods are most appropriate for a man you don’t know that well. Sure, I’ve had plenty of conversations with Gabe prior to the Witness of My Tears Extravaganza. He joined the fire station a year or two ago, transferring from the city of San Francisco. Each time we’ve chatted, he’s seemed both friendly and thoughtful, easy to talk to. But beyond the interactions when he visited my store to pick up new mystery novels or crossword puzzle books, or the times I ran into him at Vanessa’s bowling alley, I don’t know him terribly well.

  Except I know he likes the ladies.

  And the ladies like him.

  If I were on the hunt for a one-night stand, or a real good time, he’d surely be the one I’d turn to. The man has charm for miles—a playboy with a heart of gold.

  But I’m not going to thank him with my body. Obviously.

  Food seems a close second on his list of favorite things. Even if he was eating the picnic to be polite, he legit appeared to appreciate the spread. Men who work with their hands and bodies seem to dig gifts of fuel more than others.

  Hence these kickass treats, courtesy of a recipe from my favorite Instagram baker, a fifteen-year-old in New York City who makes the most creative treats on her baking show. It’s amazing what you can learn on Instagram once you look past the endless selfie sea. I press the green plastic top onto the container, sealing in the goodies with a pop. I wipe one palm against the other. There.

  Tucking the treats into my shoulder bag, I leave my two-story yellow cottage with the wraparound porch I happen to think is the height of good living, lock the door, and walk six blocks to the town square where my very own bookstore sits proudly in the center of Oak Street. A New Chapter overlooks an expanse of emerald-green grass, park benches, and a statue of some old dude who founded this town in the gold rush era.

  I open the cherry-red door to A New Chapter to a twin chorus of meows.

  “Are you starving? Is that what you’re telling me? Twelve hours is just too long for your bellies to handle?”

  Henry and Clare answer with a duet
of cat yeses, so I scoop some food for the rescue kitties the local shelter manager asked me to take in. How could I resist? They were homeless after the wine country fires last year, so I gave them four walls and a roof amidst the books, since customers dig bookstore cats. They purr their appreciation—a gratitude that will only last for a few minutes since they are, after all, cats.

  When Henry’s done, the big orange beast parks himself in the window for a public bathing, while Clare, the calico, lounges on a shelf in self-help today, watching every customer as if she’s a guard cat, perhaps personally selecting the books for them. That one needs more self-esteem. She’ll knock the right book off the shelf. This one has mommy issues. Clare will bat the ideal title with her paw, even if she’s sprawled across the one slightly loose shelf.

  I cruise through a busy morning, leading a story time for four-year-olds then helping some customers find the best coffee-table books to give as gifts.

  As the clock ticks to noon, I grab my bag and find Madeline shelving books. I hired her a few months ago, and she’s a go-getter—best employee ever.

  “I need to run a quick errand. Can you handle the store?”

  Her green eyes twinkle behind her red rhinestone-studded glasses. “Of course. Can I also work on the bestsellers display if no one’s here?”

  Boy, do I love go-getters. “Go for it.”

  I take off.

  The guys usually wash the trucks now—a scheduling tidbit I only happen to know because of the number of times I’ve heard bookstore customers remark about the eye candy value of our local firemen—so this should be a good time to find Gabe. The firehouse is only a few blocks away, and as it comes into view, I spot Shaw and Gabe, who’s dipping a cloth into a bucket and polishing the engine to a bright, gleaming shade of red.

  My flats click-clack across the pavement. Gabe looks up and smiles at me, and for a brief moment, my chest flutters. The man is as handsome as a movie star. We’re talking Hemsworth-brother handsome, which is about the best thing any man anywhere can look like. He wears dark pants and a blue T-shirt with the number of the firehouse on it: 212. He makes those clothes look better than a simple tee and slacks should, courtesy of a tall, hard, muscular frame with broad shoulders, strong biceps, and flat abs.

  And I believe I’m ogling.

  Maybe that’s because there’s just something about a fireman.

  But I’m not here to admire him, or anyone, I remind myself. I’m here to be a gracious citizen of the town of Lucky Falls.

  Look out, Gabe. The nice girl is coming for you.

  4

  Arden

  I raise my chin, wanting him to see the confident side of me, rather than the snot-slipping-down-my-nose side. “Hey, Gabe. Just wanted to say thank you for helping me the other day. I have a little gift for you.”

  He drops the rag into a bucket, wipes his hands on a clean cloth, and strides across the driveway, out of earshot of the other guys. When he reaches me, he takes off his sunglasses, and those blue eyes . . . whoa. They’re dreamier than I remembered. They’re the color of the sky on a cloudless day, when all you want to do is soak up the rays.

  “You didn’t need to do anything,” he says, and those baby blues—are they taking a quick stroll up and down my body?

  Did he just do that?

  There’s no way he gave me a once-over.

  I must be seeing things.

  “Of course I did. You were amazing, and I appreciate it so much,” I say, keeping my focus on my mission—courtesy—rather than on deciphering the hieroglyphics of men.

  He waves a big hand dismissively. “I was happy to do it. Though, to be fair, the robins did seem quite pissed at me for running smack into their lunch plans.”

  I laugh. “Were they a little peeved or were they completely annoyed?”

  “Oh, we’re talking Angry Birds level,” he says, and I crack up. “I suspect they were hoping to abscond with more of your picnic.” He pats his belly, trim and flat. “Apparently, I’m now public enemy number one among the birds of Silver Phoenix Lake.”

  He’s doing it again. Making every moment so damn easy—sweet and carefree, like his deep voice, his confident stride, his casual manner. “Is there a wanted poster up in the woods?”

  “I believe there is. Those birds were raring to go—ready to fight me for the rest of those picnic goodies.” He narrows his stare, intently serious. “Now, tell me, have you chucked any more crackers since then?”

  I shake my head, smiling. “Nope. Not a single one.”

  “Hit any other joggers on the trail?”

  “None at all. I’m going clean, I swear.”

  He offers a fist for bumping. “That’s what I like to hear. I’m glad you’ve had no need to turn snacks into projectile missiles. But you do know if you ever want to chuck something, you can call on me for target practice.” He taps his chest. “I can handle it.”

  “Deal. And I’ll try not to take you up on it.” I dip my hand into my bag, taking out the Tupperware. “I made these for you this morning. Fresh out of the oven.”

  He lifts his nose and sniffs. “What have you got there? They smell like heaven.”

  “Just a little treat.” As I give him the container, his fingers brush mine, lightly enough to deliver a little spark along my spine, like a low hum of possibility. “Cookie-dough-stuffed pretzels.”

  He whistles in appreciation. “Damn.”

  “You can share them with the guys. Even Shaw,” I say, mentioning my best friend’s brother, who works at this firehouse.

  “I’ll do no such thing. I don’t believe in sharing.” He says it almost flirtily, and I’m surprised at how much I like that tone. As much as I like the accidental brush of our fingers. Translation: more than I should.

  But since I’m one week post breakup and still missing the good things about David, I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t be liking anyone’s tone or touch.

  Note to self: find a pill that makes you immune to handsome men making flirty comments when you’re still licking your wounds.

  “Hey!” a familiar voice calls out. “You’re not keeping those to yourself.”

  “Speak of the devil,” I say as the dark-haired Shaw walks around the truck.

  “I smell something good.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Gabe promptly stuffs the Tupperware under his shirt.

  Shaw stops a few feet from me, lifting his chin. “Hey, Arden. What will it take for you to bring me some treats?” He waggles his eyebrows. “What did this fucker do to deserve some?”

  No way am I going to tell Shaw—or anyone for that matter—how Gabe earned all the treats in the world, so I offer up another truth. “He bought a book from my store. Wait. Correction. Many books.”

  “Ah, so that’s the trick. Maybe if I buy a tale or two sometime, you’ll make me something tasty?”

  Gabe claps him on the back, shaking his head. “You’d have to learn to read, then, Shaw. I know that’ll be mighty tough for you.”

  “Just like two plus two is for you.” Shaw flips him the bird as he returns to the other side of the truck.

  Once Shaw is gone, Gabe frees the Tupperware from its hiding place. “I’ll savor these, and maybe if I’m feeling generous, I’ll dole some out to the guys. But that’s highly unlikely since I’m a greedy bastard when it comes to delicious goodies. Which means I also ought to thank you for giving me new inspiration to run ten miles.”

  “Are you going to run off every single cookie-dough pretzel?” I ask, laughing.

  “Every damn one. I believe in working out so I can both save lives and never ever have to count calories.”

  “That’s because you can’t count,” Shaw shouts.

  Gabe rolls his eyes, sets a hand on my back, and walks me down the sidewalk, farther away from the guys. He opens the Tupperware and takes a bite of a pretzel. He rolls his eyes and moans in pleasure, and the sound of his appreciation sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. Or perhaps it�
��s not so unexpected, given how I reacted to the brief touch, then to his sexy tone.

  “Holy shit. These are criminally good,” Gabe says.

  I beam. “I’m so glad you like them.” Then I clear my throat and lower my voice so my next words are definitely only for us. Part of my thank you. “Also, if you ever need anything . . .” I say, and before it veers into coming-on-to-him territory, I pick up the pace, “like a book, or a crossword puzzle, or a wine recommendation, let me know.” And that might still sound like a pickup line. He probably thinks I’m an emotional wreck anyway, so it’s best to let him know I’m not trying to make a move. “As friends. If you need a friend.”

  My nerves somersault. I’m twenty-nine, and I just asked a guy to be friends with me. That’s not normal, is it? That’s either awkward or weird or . . . nice.

  I shudder at the last one.

  But Gabe seems to make everything look simple. He motions for me to come closer. “Do you like Words with Friends?”

  A smile tugs at the corner of my lips. “Like gin loves tonic.”

  All the nerves fly away.

  We exchange handles—MustLoveBooks for me, and CurveballorBust for him—and he thanks me once more for the treats, holding my gaze. “I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

  And that’s exactly what it becomes over the next year, proving there’s nothing at all wrong with being nice, since that’s how we met—him being nice to me, and being nice in return.

  Except I can’t shake the feeling that being nice isn’t all there is, especially when I start to feel I might like a little naughty.

  5

  Gabe

  One year later

  “Your mom was here earlier. Let me see if Michael is ready for another visitor,” the redheaded nurse tells me.