Page 11 of The Lucky One

It’s fine. I can fix this with a few phone calls. I’ve gotten brides out of more complicated double bookings and predicaments than this.

And I will. Because I will absolutely not be stuck in the same house as him.

No way.

four

WESTON

SeeingBridget was not on my BINGO card.

Well… maybe that’s more of a half-truth.

I hoped I’d run into her somewhere around town againat some point. There’s something about the way we go back and forth that I thoroughly enjoy.

But everything about this is all wrong.

I shouldn’t even be here, but that guy Sebastian assured me he’d take care of all the arrangements. By the look on her face—borderline murderous—I don’t think that’s a detail I should share yet.

Butshewouldn’t be here if I hadn’t shown her this place the last time we crossed paths. Would she? Questions flood my mind, but none of them feel safe or appropriate to ask given Bridget’s current mood.

In my defense, I didn’t realize that I’d keep coming back here. I’m not from here. Yet, it seems to be the only place I feel sort of like myself after my injury.

Clearly Bridget doesn’t share that sentiment.

She’s pacing the floor, the floorboards creaking beneath her precise steps. Is she counting to make sure she’s taking the same amount of steps in each direction?

“There’s bedrooms upstairs. Bailey and I took the one down here.”

She pauses and glares at me. “Can’t be too far from the food, I guess?”

I snicker at her snarky reference to our first meeting.

“More like I try to avoid stairs,” I reply, gesturing to the brace on my knee. “But the proximity to the kitchen is a pleasant bonus.”

Her cheeks bloom red in embarrassment, and she returns to her frantic pace.

“I can’t believe this,” she mutters. “I’m the only one that’s supposed to be here. Why would it let me book if someone else was booked?”

“Looks like the universe had other plans, Spitfire.” I stretch, leaning into the couch.

Her pacing stops like she’s run smack into a wall.

“Oh, that can’t be it.”

I am not a fan of the way she says that. “You realize I was innocently sleeping on the couch andyousat onme, right? Not the other way around.”

She turns to glare at me before she stomps to the front door. I’d laugh at how cute she is when she’s angry if I wasn’t afraid of her wrath.

“I’m going to go get my suitcase.”

“I’ll help,” I say, shoving to my feet.

“I don’tneedyour help.”

I smirk. “Listen Goldilocks?—”

“Excuse me?” Her mouth drops open, her perfectly manicured brows drawing together. “I did notbreak into this house.”

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