Page 9 of The Lucky One

As soon as I step inside, things feel a little off. It’s dark, save the fire in the fireplace. I don’t know why there would be a fire already burning, with no extra light to welcome me, but Laila and Holden mentioned the rental could be a little moody with the enchantments.

I was wishing for warmth, not light so I let it go and hustle straight for the flames.

The heat from the fire in the stone fireplace feels a little like Heaven. Neither sister mentioned it being cold when we talked last, but I also didn’t tell them I was coming in early for the Shamrock Shuffle.

So that’s on me. I’d have packed better if they’d known mywholeschedule.

But I wanted a couple of days to myself. Well… notalone. Just not with them. Not that I’ll be spending a ton of time with them anyway, they’re both busy with all the events this week. We’ll get to see each other a couple of times and I’ll get to enjoy the festivities.

Alone.

I’ve loved every minute of planning weddings—their weddings—but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m alone now. And they want me to be as happy as they are, so if they know my engagement is toast, word will get around this town.

Fairy godmothers have zero boundaries and I’m not loving the idea of being fixed up by one. Maybe someday, but not now. I’m here to enjoy St. Patrick’s Day festivities and to love on my niece and catch up on time with my family.

I sigh as the heat from the fireplace replaces the cold in my body. Exhaustion creeps in to replace the shivering sensation. Maybe I can order some soup and crawl into bed.

First, I’ll just sit for a few minutes. Then, I’ll head back out to the car and grab my suitcase before I bring it in and unpack everything.

I take a step back, lowering myself onto the couch, only to land on something solid.

Something warm.

Something that lets out a groan beneath me.

Someone.

A yelp escapes me and I dart forward, slamming my shins into the coffee table I didn’t previously see.

This is exactly how people are murdered.

My pulse climbs as my heart jackhammers against my ribs.

The blanket-covered mass on the couch shifts, mumbling something unintelligible and I panic a little more. They sound like a male voice, which is only verified by the muscular arm that swings out from beneath the fabric.

There’s amanon my couch.

My true crime podcast inner voice takes over and shouts all the possibilities into my brain:Intruder. Serial killer. Kidnapper.

The words flash through my mind like neon signs.

“I’ve got pepper spray!” I shout, right before I do thenextthing that makes the most sense in this exact scenario.

I scream bloody murder.

In my defense, it does the job. My shrill, horror-movie worthy scream forces the stranger in my house into motion. Somewhere, Jamie Lee Curtis is giving me a standing ovation. And then I go slack-jawed as the blanket falls away to reveal rumpled auburn hair, broad shoulders, and a very shirtless, irritated Weston Reilly.

For a second I forget I’m supposed to be terrified and stare, because it’s like seeing Jack Reacher shirtless for the first time.

I can’t help it. It’s impressive.

Then my brain finally shifts from panicked overactive imagination to absolute horror.

“You,” I hiss, my eyes narrowing.

“Who else would I be?” he rasps, his voice thick with sleep. He scrubs a hand down his face before pinning me with a bleary-eyed gaze. “Why are you screaming at me? I was enjoying a perfectly good nap.”

On my couch. In my rental.

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