Page 4 of The Lucky One

There’s an underlying tone to his words; something that makes my pulse pick up in pace a little.

“Very lucky.” I lift my chin, hoping my words match my outward confidence.

At some point, the song shifted to ‘Any Man of Mine’ and I know I’m within seconds of being kidnapped to the dancefloor by my sisters.

But Weston just tucks his hands into his pockets and watches me, like he’s trying to figure out the puzzle.

Good luck, Buddy.

I clear my throat. “I’m going to go. Work awaits.”

“Seriously. Too much work will drive a person crazy. Did you not see The Shining?”

“I’m not snowed in at a massive creepy hotel.”

A server passes by with pies, and Weston plucks two mason jars off his tray, followed by two forks.

“So dancing is off the table, even if I am pretty good at line dancing. Can we settle for a peace offering, then?” He offers me a dessert with that slow, easy smile I’m recognizing as his trademark.

My stomach growls in protest and I suddenly question when the last time I ate was. It’s been an absolutely chaotic day.

I eye him warily. “You really have a thing for wedding food, don’t you?”

“I recognize that the small things in life are worth paying attention to. Good food, good company.” He winks and extends a jar in my direction.

He’s so smooth it’s ridiculous, but I’m starving, so I cave and take the apple pie.

Laila met with Holden, the owner of a charming little Czech bakery called The Magic Crumb, pretty often to get this menu just right. It’s only fair that I taste it to give them both feedback.

Weston grins like he won the lottery. “It’s a small win, but I’ll take it.”

“Don’t let it go to your head, Mr. First Down, Last Nerve.” I scoop into the jar and shovel a heap of cinnamon apple goodness into my mouth. I’m hungrier than I thought because this is the best thing I’ve ever had in my life.

Eager to put some distance between us, I take one step toward the dancefloor. Then two.

“One day you’ll like me,” he says from behind me, his voice quiet but teasing.

I glance over my shoulder, shaking my head. “Not likely.”

“‘Night, Spitfire,” he says, his grin lazy and unbothered.

With that, I stride away, leaving Weston Reilly in the rearview mirror where he belongs.

two

WESTON

JANUARY31

The Super Bowl is next weekend, and I needed a place to escape.

I want to be supportive of my teammates. I do.

But gnarled hands of anger and grief grip my insides and I’m not a huge fan of who I am right now. They don’t need this version of me around them.

I know that every time I step on the field, I’m rolling the dice. There’s always a chance that I could have that career ending injury that I don’t recover from. The doctor has reassured me on more than one occasion that I should make a full recovery from my ACL tear, but there’s one question that plays on a loop in my head:what if I don’t?

There’s never been a second choice for me.

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