The Lucky in Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  Derek stares at my work attire. “You don’t need to change. You can draw in that, right?”

  I toss him a flirty look, remembering his comments from the other night. This man clearly has a thing for a woman in uniform.

  All the more reason to change. Best to avoid temptation.

  “Be right back.” I head inside the house and turn the corner to my bedroom. I strip off my uniform and tug on exercise pants, a sports bra, and a tank top.

  Then I go to the kitchen, pour a glass of water, and take a deep breath.

  I can handle sidewalk chalk–drawing with a hottie pushing a baby and tending to his precocious four-year-old niece. After all, I don’t even want to have kids.

  Yet.

  Maybe someday. But I definitely don’t have baby fever, so there’s no reason the sight of him with two absolute cuties should make my heart speed up or my skin sizzle.

  I return to the front lawn, where the man looks me over again from stem to stern. “Nice yoga pants, but I still miss the uniform.”

  Spotting Molly twenty feet away, I whisper, “That’s because you have some sort of uniform fetish.”

  He wiggles his eyebrows. “A big one.”

  “Why’s that? You want to be cuffed? Told what to do?”

  He scoffs and stalks closer, shaking his head. “Not at all, kitten.”

  The way he says kitten—so raspy, so commanding—sends a shiver over my flesh. “Not at all?”

  “What I want is the complete opposite.”

  Holy hell, he can tell me what to do all night long. Tie me up, pin me down, cuff me.

  Except I can’t go there. We can’t go there.

  Fortunately, Molly skips to her Lou right on over to us, thrusting a bucket of sidewalk chalk at me. “You do a giraffe, and I’ll do a hippo.”

  “Sounds like a deal.”

  And it sounds like what the doctor ordered to stop the quick spread of a lust relapse.

  Molly squats on the stretch of sidewalk in front of my house.

  “Giraffe time,” I declare as I bend down to the concrete, working on the shape of the long neck as Molly draws a big bulbous blob for a hippo head. “That’s not too bad.”

  She smiles. “I want to be a vet.”

  “For safari animals?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s awesome,” I say as I outline the tall creature’s face. “So you’d be a big-game vet.”

  “Or I’ll be a cowgirl.”

  “That could be fun too.” I draw giraffe ears next, as Molly works on the hippo’s belly.

  “Or a ballerina, or a rock star.”

  “What if you’re all four?” Derek chimes in as he joins us on the sidewalk. In the stroller, the baby’s eyes flutter, and she stretches her little legs and arms, looking too adorable for words.

  “Yes! I can be all four.”

  “You can be anything you set your mind to,” I add as I finish the giraffe’s tail.

  “Whoa!” The praise comes from Derek as he surveys my handiwork. “You sure can draw.”

  “Thank you. It’s just something I do for fun.”

  “That’s a helluva talent for fun.”

  “Uncle Derek, you said a bad word,” Molly calls out.

  “Want me to arrest him?” I offer as I stand, dusting one hand against the other.

  Derek offers me his wrists, his eyes twinkling. “Yes, please lock me up.”

  And I walked right into that one.

  Devon’s eyes flicker open, and I brace myself for a scream, but Derek swivels around, scoops her up, and peppers kisses on her cheeks.

  And, I’m a ghost pepper. I’m the hottest jalapeño in history. Wait, nope. I’m the surface of Mercury because of the way Devon coos and tugs on his beard.

  That’s it. I’m a goner.

  “She sure likes you,” I say as casually as I can while he nuzzles the cutie-pie.

  “The feeling is quite mutual.”

  “How old? Six months?”

  “She’s six months and two days,” Molly interjects as she scoots down the sidewalk to work on the hippo’s tail. “Come join me.”

  I make my way to Molly. “You do his face,” she tells me.

  I swivel around and fill in the hippo’s eyes. “And how old are you?”

  “I’m four years, eleven months, and sixteen days.”

  “Wow. You sure are a very specific counter.”

  Derek bounces Devon on his hip. “Molly also loves to talk. Shh. Don’t tell anyone.”

  “Uncle Derek!” Molly chides.

  I smile. “That’s cool. I like to listen.”

  Molly chatters on about her favorite animals, her favorite friends, her favorite clothes, and her favorite games as we illustrate an entire savannah in front of my home while Derek holds the baby and plays with her.

  It’s weirdly . . . domestic.

  It’s also thoroughly unexpected.

  I didn’t anticipate coming home and finding my hot housemate playing with his nieces.

  “Where’s your nephew? Doesn’t your sister have three kids?”

  “He’s playing basketball,” Molly answers.

  “At a friend’s house,” Derek adds, and Devon cuts him off with a wail.

  “And someone is officially hungry.” He glances at the time on his watch. It’s past six thirty. “We should go. Make you guys some dinner.”

  Molly claps. “Can we have dinosaur nuggets and french fries?”

  Derek shakes his head. “No, you can have chicken and broccoli.”

  Molly’s nose wrinkles, making it clear what she thinks of that idea. “Pretty please.”

  He shakes his head. “If you don’t like that, you’re welcome to have a delicious salad of beets, carrots, and organic apples.”

  “Gross.” Molly makes a gagging sound.

  “C’mon, then, porcupine. Time to go.” He glances at the artwork, then turns to me, his eyes landing on mine. “Guess I’ll see you later, officer.”

  A strange feeling envelops me—the wish that he’ll say, “Let’s have a drink,” or “Want to watch a show?” or “Should we grab a bite?”

  But those are crazy thoughts, so I shake them off.

  My stomach doesn’t though.

  It rumbles loudly.

  “Someone wants chicken and broccoli,” Derek teases.

  “Seems I do,” I admit.

  “I’ll make you something later if you’d like.” The offer is sweet and completely welcome.

  I smile and say yes.

  As I head inside, I feel a little buzzed, a little tipsy.

  A little like my feet don’t touch the ground.

  I’ve seen a whole new side to Derek, one I never imagined existed when I met his flirty, cocky, handsome ass on the bike. Just a few days ago, he was a typical bad boy, dirty to the bone. But I’ve learned he’s determined, straightforward, and giving too.

  He cares deeply for his family, and he dotes on his nieces. He’s devoted to his sister.

  And we share a passion for work with the community. We both wake up every day and help others. Being a cop—and being a paramedic, I presume—can be thankless, emotionally draining, and woefully underpaid work.

  And yet, I wouldn’t change it.

  It’s not my hormones banging the drum inside my body as I go into my house.

  It’s some other part of me. A part I haven’t exercised in a long time. A part I don’t let out to play very often.

  That dumb heart.

  Even though I told my brother I have a type, the problem is, that type doesn’t usually work out in the end. I’ve dated, and I’ve had some semi-serious boyfriends, but the last person I liked—really liked—was Nick, who ran a tattoo shop in Santa Cruz. I’d met the growly, inked artist on the boardwalk one weekend when I was there for a girls’ getaway.

  Nick and I hit it off in the way that two people who don’t live in the same place can. Our connection was instant and electric. He was 100 percent my type, and I was utterly gaga over
him.

  So gaga, I managed the three-hour drive to Santa Cruz as often as I could, visiting him on weekends and whenever I had time off, this little arrangement going on for several months.

  He was sexy and funny and hot as sin.

  Turned out he had a girlfriend too. Just hadn’t mentioned her to me. Slipped his mind.

  Oops.

  I was the other woman.

  Since then, I’ve been as cautious as I can, dating locally, screening men online through and through.

  What the hell? Why am I thinking about dating? Derek and I aren’t dating. We aren’t an item. He just offered to make me dinner.

  I head to the gym to work out and work off these silly hormones.

  Yes, they’re just hormones.

  That’s all.

  When I return, I don’t see him. I take a shower, loop my wet hair in a ponytail, and tug on shorts and a tank top. I dust on some powder and add a pinch of lip gloss, then head to the living room where I turn on some music.

  It’s eight thirty, and I’m ready to eat the table.

  What the hell?

  This girl has had a long, hard day, and she’s hangry.

  That’s when I hear a key clicking in the back lock—the door that leads directly to the room above the garage. Will he go straight upstairs or come downstairs to the kitchen? And why do I care? Why do I even want to see him? I like living alone.

  I flip through my sweater patterns, and when his footsteps fade, telling me he went upstairs, I grit my teeth and try to tamp down my disappointment. I shouldn’t be disappointed. In fact, I’m not disappointed at all.

  I study my patterns, trying to decide what to make and who to make it for, when I hear water running.

  The shower.

  He’s taking a shower.

  He’s naked in my house.

  What the hell was I thinking?

  What the hell was Shaw thinking?

  I head to the kitchen, pop a frozen pad thai meal into the microwave, and grab it before it’s fully cooked. I take the dish, a napkin, and a fork to my room and shut the door.

  Sitting on my bed, I shovel the half-warmed pad thai into my mouth, then I grab my laptop and open up the reports I’ve been working on. Work. That’s what I’ll do. Work on reports to impress the chief.

  I don’t think about Elias. I don’t entertain the dash of guilt. And I definitely don’t think about my roomie who ditched me.

  It’s not like we had a date.

  Not really.

  Well, maybe it felt a little bit like one.

  And that’s just the problem.

  16

  Derek

  The next day, Hunter slams the door of the ambulance, getting in after our third ER visit, then breathes a sigh of relief.

  Scrubbing a hand over his jaw, he says, “For a while there, I thought we were about to be anointed the new angels of death.”

  “It can feel that way some days.”

  It’s been a rough morning so far. We came close to losing our first patient en route to the hospital after a heart attack, then our second when a woman had a severe allergic reaction to a bee sting, and came even closer with this call—a scary-as-shit workplace accident. The guy lost a ton of blood after falling off a ladder, but we made it through the ER doors in time. He’s in the capable hands of the doctors and nurses now, and all we can do is hope for the best.

  My stomach rumbles. “And it’s lunchtime.”

  Hunter pats his belly and cocks his head as if listening to his stomach too. “Yup. Mine says it’s time for In-N-Out Burger.”

  “Dude, you can’t live off burgers and fries.”

  “Like hell I can’t. I’m going to get me two double-double burgers today.”

  During my first week on the job, my partner has plowed through an astonishing amount of fast food, devouring enough fried chicken, wings, and burgers dripping with fixings that I feel in danger of a second-hand coronary. “Are you trying out for one of those all-you-can-eat contests?” I ask as he puts the van in reverse to pull out of the hospital parking lot.

  Hunter waggles his eyebrows as he steers. “Hey, that’s a damn fine idea. I can put down more hot dogs than you can dream of.”

  “I assure you, I do not dream of hot dogs.”

  “But I like this food contest plan. Maybe I can meet a nice new lady at a hot-dog-eating contest.”

  “Do those type of contests have ladies in them?”

  Hunter flips the blinker as we head toward the street. “I don’t know, but I imagine a woman who can scarf down hot dogs is my kind of lady.”

  I groan. “I haven’t eaten yet, and you’re already ruining my lunch.”

  He laughs as he heads to the nearest In-N-Out Burger. I love that place, but I can’t survive on it every day, so I pop into the grocery store next to it, grab a chicken salad, and meet Hunter outside.

  He eyes my meal suspiciously. “Are you a vegetarian?”

  “One, you say that like it’s a bad thing. Two, there’s meat here in this salad.” I point. “Right there on top of the lettuce is a food known as . . . wait for it . . . chicken.”

  He lifts his supersize soda and takes a thirsty gulp. “But where’s the bread, man? No way can you survive on greens and meat.”

  I shield my eyes from the bright noon sun. “Have you never heard of Paleo eating, man?”

  “Eating dinosaurs? More power to you—I bet those things have tough skin.”

  “I assure you, I’m not eating velociraptors. But if I were, I’d opt for a skinless, boneless breast.” I spear another piece of chicken. “I do eat bread, but not too often. I’m all about fewer carbs and more veggies and protein.”

  Hunter digs into his double-double burger and gives me a knowing nod. “Ah, I get it now,” he says around a mouthful. “You’re probably a tree hugger too. I bet you’re even a pacifist.”

  I chew, then answer. “I like trees. I like veggies. I like protein. I like peace. So sue me.”

  He cracks up after he finishes his bite. “Just giving you a hard time, man. I dig trees too, and peace is cool. But I am also a burger and bread man, and nothing is going to change that.”

  I shrug with a smile. “I say potato.”

  “I do not say po-tah-to,” he says indignantly, making the second syllable rhyme with ha. He grabs a french fry. “But I definitely say ‘french fry.’ I also say you can indulge in a fry now and then, Mr. I-Have-a-Twelve-Pack,” he says, mocking me.

  I pretend to check out my abs. “Yup. Definitely a dozen lady-killing abs working overtime underneath this here shirt.”

  We laugh and joke as we finish our lunches.

  This is good. It feels like I can settle into this town with guys like Hunter. I don’t know where I’ll wind up long-term, or if I’ll ever stay in one spot. But for now, with my sister and the rug rats and the guys from work, Lucky Falls feels doable.

  Except for the little issue of living with Perri.

  That’s not a long-term solution. Living with a chick you want to bang is more complicated than I’d thought.

  Or maybe it’s just that living with a woman at all is complex. They’re like those math riddles on standardized tests—if a train leaves at noon, and there are ten passengers, which one is Mr. Red? And the answer is five, or who the fuck knows.

  I figured she’d get a kick out of yesterday’s new chalkboard note, but nope. She didn’t even respond to it this morning.

  That afternoon, we’re called to what Hunter tells me is a regular’s home.

  “Mrs. Jones has emphysema. We take her in a couple times a year. She’s a sweet old bird, but she still smokes.”

  I shake my head. “Wish that shit didn’t even exist.”

  “We can agree on that for sure.”

  After we take her to the hospital, Hunter tells me he needs to make a quick phone call, and that he’ll meet me at the van.

  As I exit the hospital, I spot a police cruiser pulling up, and the possibility that it might be Perri
has me more excited than I care to admit.

  The driver cuts the engine and steps out, and, oh yeah, there she is.

  Looking edible.

  I wait outside, enjoying the view of her walking toward me. The way her uniform fits her gets my blood going. Maybe she’ll respond to my note now. Her face is impassive, though, and her eyes are obscured by her aviators.

  “Hey, officer.” I wink. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  She lifts an eyebrow. “It is the hospital. I’m here from time to time.”

  “And what brings you in today?”

  “I need to take some additional statements for my report on the three-car accident,” she says.

  “I don’t think I was called to that one. Any serious injuries?”

  “Broken arm only, but there are some issues I need to dig into.”

  “Good luck with the issues.”

  “Indeed.”

  Indeed? What the hell? Are we operating on an indeed level now? I step aside, and she strides by, nodding. “Gotta go.”

  Then she turns and heads through the sliding doors.

  I scratch my head, get into the van, and wait for Hunter. When he slides into the driver’s seat, I say, “Women, right?”

  Hunter nods, even without any context. “Women.”

  Some days, that’s all you can say.

  Women are just too hard to figure out.

  Especially when they give no flirty replies to your clever chalkboard messages.

  As I get ready to clock out, the boss man strides over to me and parks a hand on my shoulder. “Good work on your second week,” Granger says. “It’s almost like you’ve done this before.”

  I smile, since he knows I’ve put in a decade. “Yeah, just a little bit.”

  Granger’s expression turns more serious. “Hoping you like it here. We need regulars. We need guys to stick around.”

  “Sure,” I answer. What else can I say? My situation hasn't changed since lunch. But this job and this town work for now.

  Granger squeezes my shoulder. “Let me know if I can do anything to help you settle in.”

  I’m tempted to ask if he knows any long-term places to stay, but I need to handle this Perri awkwardness first. I won’t run without reasoning it out—or trying, at least.