Page 2 of Getting Lucky in London

My heart thudded to a stop and then thundered into a gallop. I swallowed. “Who?”

“Michael Winters. You remember him, right? We played football together.”

Remember him? Like I could ever forget. He’d been the love of my life as a teen, though only from afar. I’d met him once but hadn’t seen him in eleven years. And he was here in London. “How did you two reconnect? I mean, you haven’t talked about him in years.”

“He was the architect on the remodel for this place when I bought it, and we’ve been hanging out, getting to know each other again.” His gaze scanned the two rooms. “I thought I told you.”

“No.” I definitely would have remembered.

He shrugged. “Anyway, I told him you’d be there with us, but I’ll let him know you’ll be alone. I’m sure he’ll be happy to show you around.”

The last thing I wanted was Michael Winters obligated to hang out with me, to babysit Dominic’s little sister.

“You should go to the show,” Dominic went on. “Get out. Have fun.”

Panic bubbled inside me, but I tamped it down. I’d never told my brother about the silly crush I’d had on Michael. Dominic needed a friend back then, and I couldn’t jeopardize that with a teenage infatuation.

I faked a yawn. “I’ll probably just crash. It’s been a long day…er, night.”

“Well, if you change your mind, there’s money in here, too, for a cab.” He gave the envelope another tap.

“What am I? Twelve?”

He picked up his keys and put them in his pocket, then shook his head and pulled them out again. Flipping past the little black fob and a half dozen keys, he picked out the square one. “This opens the deadbolt. Be sure to lock up when you leave and especially while you’re here alone.”

I started to tell him I was twenty-four fucking years old, a grown-ass woman, and he knew full well I’d taken over the parenting role as soon as he left for college. And I’d moved to New York and been living on my own since our mother died of alcohol poisoning, just before he’d taken off three years ago to finally live his dream.

He held up a hand. “It’s a safe neighborhood, but you never know.”

He’d been overprotective since our father skipped out on us when I was five and he was ten. I’d picked daisies every day for a year and plucked the petals to see if my daddy would come back.

Every day, Dominic would ask, “Well, Daisy, what do you say today?”

No matter the answer, my father never came home. Dominic had donned the role of man of the house, and I had become Daisy.

“Would you just get out of here?” I gave him a teasing shove.

He snagged the handle of his suitcase and made his way to the door. He was halfway out when he turned around. “Love you, Daisy.”

“Love you, too.” Following him, I shooed him with both hands. “Call me when you get there.”

“Will do.” He started to shut the door, then added, “Lock up behind me.”

I leaned against the casing as he jogged the four steps from the tiny porch to the sidewalk. “Tell Sarah I hope her father recovers quickly and that I look forward to meeting her.”

“I will. Bye,” he said with a wave as he climbed into the waiting taxi and shut the door.

“Bye,” I whispered, knowing he didn’t hear me but needing to say it anyway. I waited for the taxi to pull away, then closed the front door and exhaled a long sigh.

I could feel the jet lag setting in, but I shook it off and went back to the kitchen to collect my things. Unpack first, then a nap. Odds were Dominic didn’t own an iron, and my suit probably looked like Grandma Moses’ face.

Dominic’s key ring caught my attention. Three inches of pewter, it had large chunky letters carved into it and painted with the Union Jack pattern. Curiosity beckoning, I flipped the key ring toward me to read,Britain’s Bitch.

I smiled. Someone had a sense of humor, but it certainly wasn’t Dominic. Sarah? I hoped so. He needed someone to yank the serious out of him now and then.

My fingers brushed the envelope containing tickets to the exhibit, but it wasn’t the art on display that made my insides swirl. Michael Chandler Winters, Three Time All-American Wide Receiver turned highly sought-after architect.

Dominic had received a football scholarship at a university five hundred and fifty-some-odd miles away from our little hometown near Tulsa, Oklahoma, and I’d missed three seasons. I’d only been able to watch him play on TV if the network picked up the game. My mother blew every penny she received from welfare on booze and cigarettes.

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