Page 24 of Lucky's Trouble

“Honestly, I don’t fuckin’ know.” I sigh. “If you want me to take you home now, I will. I told you all you had to do was say the words, and I wouldn’t argue.”

She sucks in her upper lip, chewing on it for a long second. “It would be rude to leave now, so I’ll stay. But I swear to God, if you leave me alone—even to take a piss—I’ll stab you in the throat.”

Just like that, the fire is back in her eyes, and suddenly, I know exactly why I make every excuse to have her close. When she spews her piss and vinegar, I feel alive. She excites me in a way no woman has before, and I want more of it. But it has me wondering which version is the real her—the one from five minutes ago, or the one from five seconds ago. I hope I get to spend enough time with her to figure it out.

“Deal. If I have to piss, I’ll remember to take you with me.” I wink.

“You’d be so lucky.” With her head held high, she strolls past me and walks inside like she owns the place. Meanwhile, I watch the way her hips sway as she goes, mesmerizing me like a pendulum. “You’re already breaking our deal.”

My eyes lift to see her pointing at the ground next to her. And like a damn trained dog, I jump to attention, closing the front door and jogging to her side. Thank fuck my brothers aren’t here to see this. I’d never hear the end of it.

When we reach the dining room, my family is already wrapped up in conversation, their plates piled high with barbecue chicken, pasta salad, and roasted vegetables. Goddamn, I love home cooking.

I hand Tinleigh a plate before taking one for myself, encouraging her to dish up from where the food is laid out on the breakfast bar that separates the kitchen from the dining room.

“This all looks amazing,” Tinleigh says, grabbing the tongs and placing a chicken leg on her plate.

“My mom can really throw down in the kitchen. Being a nurse, she doesn’t get to do it often, so I basically grew up on frozen dinners. But no matter what, she always took Sundays off for church and family lunch. I looked forward to it all week.”

“What about your dad?”

“He’s an accountant, so he worked weird hours and basically lived at the office during tax season. But even if he had been around every night, he can’t cook for shit.”

She snorts. “My dad couldn’t either. One time, my mom went to a women’s retreat, and he tried to make one of those frozen lasagnas. He thought if he put it under the broiler, it would cook faster, but—”

“The top came out burned, and the bottom was still frozen?”

“You say it like you have experience,” she muses.

“My dad pulled the same shit once.” We share a look of commonality that hits me right in the gut.

Once we have food, we move to the dining room, and I say a prayer to whoever is listening that this will go well. The room quiets as I pull a chair out for Tinleigh, like the gentleman my mama raised, before sitting next to her. Dad and Mom sit at either end of the rectangular table while Carrie and Connie sit across, and I can’t help but feel all their eyes on us.

It’s not the first time I’ve brought a woman home—Myla’s come for two Sunday lunches—so I don’t know why they’re bugging out. Surely, I must’ve brought chicks around before that, too. Though now that I’m thinking about it, I don’t think I have. Still, they weren’t this weird with Myla.

“Tinleigh, tell us about yourself,” Mom says, and I glare at her for putting Tinleigh on the spot, but she ignores me.

“There’s not too much to tell. I grew up in Utah, I have a twin sister, which you already knew, and now I’m here. I’m really pretty boring.”

I huff at the lie, earning myself a kick to the shin.

“I doubt that.” Mom takes a sip of her favorite cheap wine cooler that she tries to fancy up by pouring in a wine glass. “Don’t you work at the Thirst Trap? That must be a fascinating job.”

Tinleigh blanches. “Um, yeah. I do.”

Mom leans in conspiratorially. “I’ve always wanted to know something: how do you manage an entire shift wearing those high heels? My feet would be a blistered mess after twenty minutes.”

Surprisingly, Tinleigh lights up. “There are some tricks of the trade. You buy shoes with straps and use a hair dryer to mold them to your foot. There are also powders and blister strips you can use, but even after all that, my feet are killing me by the end of the night.”

“I don’t know what you get paid, but I guarantee it’s not enough to deal with all that.”

“I’ve heard the same about nurses and what you all have to put up with.”

Mom beams. “You’re right about that.”

I settle in my seat, picking up my fork for the first time. It’s not that I worried about what my family would say, since I can’t ever remember there being a drop of judgment coming from their lips. I just didn’t know how Tinleigh would handle their honesty and unfiltered mouths.

“I do the taxes for a couple girls in your profession,” Dad says. “Even some who work at your club. I’d be happy to take a look if you ever need it.”

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