Page 22 of The Lucky One

His smile hitches up in the corner and the high school version of me that had a crush on the football captain sighs contentedly.

“I think I may have said something like that to you at least once.”

“Holly and Cade’s wedding wasn’t exactly one of my better days.” I shrug. “It’s not an excuse, but it’s true.”

His smile widens. “And St. Brigid’s Eve?”

I want to pop off a canned customer service answer because it’s still raw and painful. But there are two things stopping me. Weston stepped in unprompted yesterday on the call with Andrew, and there wasn’t anything in it for him.Hugereason to be at least a little more honest with him. And we’re about to go eat breakfast with my future brother-in-law and this could be tricky.

“Things hadn’t ended with Andrew yet, but I knew they were coming.”

“So you were stressed about the wedding, then.” His chin dips in understanding. “But not about planning it.”

We start forward again, and I try to focus on the details of the hand painted shop windows as we walk. Someone has a serious talent in this town. One shop has a whole scene in a forest, with a leprechaun peeking out of his door in a tree trunk, clovers peeking out of the grass and will-o’-the-wisps hovering in the air.

“No. My twin sister, Laila, is planning her wedding.”

He clears his throat. “The dress appointment?”

Is he always this attentive? That was one conversation like… six weeks ago. Andrew couldn’t remember plans I put into his calendars.

“How do you know it wasn’t mine?”

His elbow brushes mine playfully. “Just a gut feeling.”

“I’m used to planning weddings,” I say, pushing ahead. We’re not far from Holden’s bakery, and this isn’t something I want to talk about there. “I mean, it’s my job. Or it was. Ella got married at Christmas, then Laila got engaged at New Year’s, and it’s just me now.”

“The third musketeer.” He chuckles.

I stop and gaze up at him, taking note of the little laugh crinkles around his eyes. “How do you do that?”

“What?” He stops beside me, a step ahead.

“You’re so perceptive. I say one thing, and you’re reading between the lines almost immediately.”

It’s a little unnerving if I’m being honest. I’d expect this from Laila since we’ve been by each other's sides our whole lives, or Ella from all the hours we’ve worked together and our relationship as adults. But I’ve never experienced a man paying such close attention to what I doandwhat I don’t say.

“Football players get a bad rap, you know.” His gaze holds steady on mine, and I think I could disappear in his eyes. “But I take my job very seriously. I’ve gotta pay attention to everything that’s going on. Every play. I know what play Cade called, but I’ve also got to think ahead to what he might do if something changes. If a player goes a different direction, if a hole opens up. Do I need to block? Or do I need to be ready to catch it instead?”

I’ve never really given a thought to a football player’s IQ level, but I’ve also never taken the time to appreciate how the game actually works. Friday Night Lights was just something you did when living in a small Texas town like this, and I enjoyed the energy of them. The way the whole town would come together for the Phoenixes and the stadium would be almost alive with that energy.

It was an experience.

“Being good at your job doesn’t always translate to how you interact with people.” I swallow. “You could be a hall-of-famer on the field and still oblivious to the people in your life.”

And there’s that look again. That unyielding ‘I see you, Bridget’ way he sees me. The way he’s seen meevery timewe’ve run into each other.

“We’re stuck together in that house for the time being, Spitfire.” He says softly. “So I think it would be best for both of us if you leave your preconceived notions and experience with horrible people here. At the wishing well. Somewhere else.”

I try to let out a laugh because his symbolistic suggestion feels dumb. But it dies on my tongue, because it’s clear he’s serious.

“It’s not that simple,” I say.

“It is. You stop comparing me to your jerk of an ex-fiancé?—”

“I’m not?—”

He takes a step toward me and I can’t finish the sentence.

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