Page 23 of The Lucky One

“You are. I’m sure it’s a fine line, and I respect that. But if nothing else, remember that house seems to sense how we are around each other. And if you want the rest of your stay to be a pleasant one, webothshould be a little nicer to each other.”

He’s right. On all counts.

I don’t want to say anything, so I simply nod and start walking back toward The Magic Crumb. He quietly falls into step beside me, and I realize I’m deeper in over my head than I want to admit.

Holden’s bakery looms ahead, a charming old brick building that stands out against all the white Austin stone that’s most common in Texas downtown areas. In the huge bay window in the front, food takes up the entire display, little stands labeling the fresh baked goods. Trays of braided houska bread sit next to Irish soda bread. The frosting on the pecan cinnamon rolls glistens in the sunlight, and he’s got a rainbow of macaroons fora pop of color. Clover garlands are tucked around the bottom of the stacked trays, creating an even cozier atmosphere against the warm woods.

Not to steal credit from Holden’s brilliance, but I sense Laila’s hand here.

There’s a hand painted sign above the door, an elegant script with a swirl of magic in the background that looks like flour. The daily specials are handwritten on a chalkboard sign on the sidewalk, hoping to lure festival goers inside to grab a bite.

“What’s a faerie apple tart?” Weston asks, as he opens the door for me.

My heart skips a couple of beats at the gesture as I step across the threshold, and I hope it’s not written all over my face.

“Ah, that speciality is inspired by Irish folklore. But you’ve got to be careful with that one.”

Weston bumps into my back since I’ve stopped right inside the door, and he grips my forearm to prevent me from toppling forward. I know that voice. And if he’s here, I should probably be a little worried.

Sebastian Gold.

eight

WESTON

I nudgeBridget forward with a hand on the small of her back, curious about her shift in demeanor. I’ve met this guy before, but now I’m wondering if there’s more to him than I thought.

He was nice when we talked back then, and he offered to let the owner of Wanderlust Refuge know about my change in travel plans. Which clearly didn’t happen.

I should probably have a conversation with him later about that.

There was probably a lapse in communication somewhere, and I’m not sure where else I can stay so Bridget can have the quiet trip she wanted, but I’ll worry about that after breakfast. I’m starving.

And the colliding scents of all the baked goods and strong coffee aren’t helping.

“Why? It’s just a pastry.”

Bridget jabs an elbow into my side, a clear sign that I’m wandering into dangerous territory. An unflattering gruntescapes before I stoop close to her ear. “I thought we called a ceasefire.”

She turns so our faces are inches away. I miss the fresh face from this morning, despite the fact that she’s still blindingly beautiful with makeup on. But this version of Bridget is someone she thinks people want to see.

I’m convinced there’s a playful girl beneath the surface that matches the one I saw over coffee, but something tells me she’s forgotten she exists. I recognize myself there, too.

Sometimes adulthood forces us to shove that inner kid aside for the sake of being ‘responsible’. Sometimes it’s other circumstances.Maybeon this path of finding ourselves again, we can strike a new balance.

I think that’s something we both need.

“He’s not the one to mess with,” she whispers.

Interesting.

“Or maybe youshouldembrace a little folklore,” Sebastian says.

His comment draws my gaze away from Bridget to back across the room where he’s watching us with a tilt of the head, a small upward curve on his lips. I can see how it probably looks to him, and I’m not sure I like the combination of her quiet warning and his demeanor.

But I’m not one to let a challenge go, and I’m not afraid of a little nudge. Or whatever we’re talking about here. We’re staying in an enchanted vacation rental for crying out loud.

“We’ll take one of the faerie apple tarts. That bread looks good, too,” I say, pointing toward some braided bread that’s lightly dusted with sugar and shaped like a shamrock. My stomach growls in appreciation. “And maybe one of the pecan cinnamon rolls.”

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