Page 17 of The Lucky One

WESTON

MARCH10

An enchanted vacation rental.

It’s the first time I’ve experienced any of the magic I’ve heard about existing here, and it’s been highly entertaining. Bridget doesn’t agree, but to be honest, it feels like the house is semi-trolling her at this point.

Not to boast, but I’ve got exceptional pattern recognition and the more Bridget pulls away from me, the less access she has to anything here. The music system is moody, flip-flopping tracks like an over-excited deejay and appliances won’t even cooperate for her.

It’s clear the house is sending a message:you two need to get along.

I gaze at the ceiling that’s plastered in glow-in-the-dark stars like my old childhood bedroom and grin. The glow is barely visible in the growing morning daylight, but I think it’s pretty cool.

It takes me a few minutes to get going, but I finally get dressed enough to start a pot of coffee. There’s not much I know about Bridget, including her last name, but I figure coffee can solve just about any problem. Even ones with pompous ex-fiancés.

Before long, she trudges into the kitchen in the cutest purple robe, her blonde hair in a neat bun. Her face is scrubbed clean of makeup and I feel a little honored she’s letting me see her like this. Based on our few interactions, she’s almost always painfully put together. Like she’s not allowed to have a flaw.

The longer I’m around her, the higher the questions pile up.

I’m not usually interested in the inner workings of people, especially women, but Bridget is a mystery I want every single detail on.

She’s fidgety this morning as she watches me. Wary. “Do we have sugar or creamer?”

“Do you have a preference on a type of creamer?” I ask, pushing off the counter and heading for the fridge.

“No,” she says. Her voice goes a little flat, so I know she’s lying, but after the way the house messed with us yesterday, I can’t blame her for being cautious.

I open the door enough to get a peek inside, and there’s an assortment. Different from what was there when I checked while the coffee was brewing.

Interesting.

“Vanilla, caramel, white chocolate?—”

She lets a tiny whimper escape as she scurries toward me. “Please.”

“White chocolate?” I ask, peering over my shoulder.

Her bun bounces as she nods vigorously.

I pull it out of the fridge and set it on the island, and then pour coffee into a cup for her. It’s taking immense willpower tonot pepper her about this house. Her new-to-me single status. Why she’s here.

But I figure—for both our safety—she should caffeinate first.

“This is the best thing that’s happened to me since I got here.” She sighs.

“What about Louie?”

She peers at me over the edge of her cup as she takes another drink. “Louie is steadfast. He’s always there, does his job, looks pretty. No notes.”

“Should I feed you before we chat?”

She fidgets with the edge of the cup, suddenly intent on a spot on the granite counter. “What do we have to chat about?”

I’ve been in this kitchen a lot. Between St. Brigid’s Eve and now, I went home and took care of some business, grabbed a few more of Bailey’s things and came back. But the kitchen looked exactly the same both times I was here.

Now, the countertop is a different color. It was earthy before, shades of brown and beautiful dark veins that ran through the rock. Now it’s a lighter gray.

“Huh.”

---