Page 51 of The Lucky One

My life was flipped upside down, but not to the degree Weston’s was. If we keep talking about this, I’m sure I’ll learnhow much, but I can’t fathom it. It would be hard to not fall down that rabbit hole of questions.

This week with Weston is the first week I’ve seen a glimpse of what it’s like to find someone who likes you in spite of your flaws. Who encourages you to be a better version of yourself instead of trying tochangeyou.

“You’re still Weston, whether or not you’re a professional football player.”

“Thank you for reminding me of that,” he says softly.

“Just returning the favor.”

We switch to lighter conversation for a while, and it truly drives home how much I enjoy time with Weston. No matter what we’re doing, who we’re with, or how long we do it. I’m not just catching feelings for the man, he’s becoming my closest friend.

I didn’t realize how much I needed that since Ella and Laila have moved on with their lives. Sure, they’re around and we talk but it’s not like before. I didn’t realize how far behind I’ve felt until all the time he and I have had this week.

With a start, I realize we’re nearing the end of the Shamrock Shuffle festivities and I wish we could stretch out what time we have left just a little longer.

Maybe there really is magic happening here—not the Enchanted Hollow kind—the once in a lifetime kind.

But—again—that’s crazy, right?

I should really quit focusing on how unlikely this all is, and focus on what itis. Special and surprising.

After the day at the farm, we checked off a couple of stops on the pub crawl map and I still think it’s wild how many places are shoved into this small town. Maybe there’s a type of magic here that makes it feel bigger than it actually is on a map.

The place we’re in now is called The Tipsy Toad.

From a quick google, Jax Blackwell is the owner. I’m thinking he’s probably the tall mysterious looking man behind the bar, with his shirtsleeves rolled up and the tattoos on his forearms moving as he makes drinks and laughs.

Weston grabs us another round and I flag down a waitress for food.

Another half hour later and the pub is still packed, and we’re still trading secrets like valuable baseball cards.

Weston taps me on the hand. “Alright Spitfire—we talked about football. Your turn. What made you finally decide to walk away from that loser?”

I stifle a laugh because I secretly love the names he calls Andrew. It probably makes me a terrible person, but it makes me feel better because I haven’t been able to wallow in the misery of the breakup with anyone. I don’t miss him, I just want someone to commiserate with and hear all the ways he messed up—like sisters and friends often do.

But this isn’t that. He’s asking for brutal honesty and the vulnerability he’s asking for is scary.

Weston’s eyes urge me ahead, reminding me of that moment in the greenhouse where he told me I was enough.

I desperately want to believe him.

“Don’t judge me.”

He gives me that signature crooked grin again, and my heart rate quickens. “We listen and we don’t judge.”

The fear of the conversation dissipates as laughter spills out of me. Of course he’d take something serious and flip it on his head. That’s who Weston is through and through.

He’s been thebestkind of surprise.

“The Wedding Singer.” I pause, debating how honest I want to be. “Fine. That Thing You Do, too.”

His brows draw together. “Are we just naming off random romcoms? Uh—Clueless.”

“My concern for your fashion interest is growing.” I warn.

“Alicia Silverstone is hot. I’ve got a thing for blondes.” He shrugs and my cheeks heat. “Besides, it’s a pop culture must watch.”

I squint at him. “I’m starting to see why you’re so good at trivia night.”

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