Page 27 of Third Time Lucky

LUCY

What a freaking loser I am! Ugh. Why can’t I stop thinking about this? I flip on my bedside lamp, hoping the light will chase away the thoughts from my past that are now storming my head after the awkward night I just endured, refusing to let me sleep. It doesn’t work. But you know what might? More booze. I’m sure I’ve had enough, because my mind evaded me most of the evening, while champagne filled my word hole. It was a disaster. I can’t imagine what Asher thinks of me.

I navigate through the dark house to the kitchen, unsure if I truly want to drown my thoughts or face them head-on, flipping on the lights over the kitchen island. It doesn’t really matter which bottle I choose – Mitzi has exquisite taste, and I know every one is exceptional.

As I close the wine fridge after making my selection, I notice a business card held up by the yellow smiley face magnet on the refrigerator – something I hadn’t seen before. Which makes sense because everything from earlier now feels surreal, like I was outside my own body watching two trains collide.

Grabbing the card, I read the words aloud. ‘Asher Wright – Private Chef & Catering.’ My gaze then lands on the numbers beneath his name.

Oh my God, this is his phone number. Should I call and try to explain myself, or would that just make things worse? I floundered through this evening, and I can’t even recall exactly what I said. There’s no way he didn’t notice me almost have a stroke at the sight of him in my kitchen. Humiliating.

I place the business card on the island counter and open the bottle of wine, feeling the corkscrew twist into the stopper until the satisfying pop of the cork brings a fleeting smile to my lips. I skip the glass and take a swig straight from the bottle, my eyes fixed on the card.

Did he intentionally leave this, or was this Mitzi’s doing? I could wait until morning and check with Mitzi –orI could just ask him? I take another swig, conflicted. Honestly, what do I really have to lose? He’s already witnessed me at my worst. How much more awkward could things get?

Another sip, dang this is good. The crisp, refreshing taste of the white wine lingers on my tongue, a perfect choice since it doesn’t need to breathe – thankfully, because I don’t have a minute to spare. I need to make this phone call before my courage dwindles away like a fading sunset.

I flick off the kitchen light, casting the room into shadows, clutching the bottle and Ash’s card tightly as I head back to my room. The door clicks shut behind me, sealing me in my own little world. Settling cross-legged on my bed, I take another long, satisfying drink, feeling the cool liquid slide down my throat as I gather my resolve and courage.

He probably won’t even pick up, especially since it’s so late, but the least I can do is leave him a voicemail. I’ll explain that I’m actually quite normal – if such a thing exists – and it would mean a lot to me if he didn’t judge me based solely on the situations he’s witnessed me in.

That’s it. Just one more sip, and I’m going through with it. At the very least, I owe him thanks for getting into a tricky situation in Vegas on my behalf.

I hesitantly tap the phone number into my cell phone, placing it on speaker, my heart racing with uncertainty as I take another swig of wine, trying to calm my nerves. But once I hear it ring, I slightly panic realizing I can’t take it back. One way or another, he’ll know I called.

‘Hey, you’ve reached Asher. If it’s not an emergency, text.’ BEEP.

‘Oh, thank God, voicemail. OK – this works. Hi, this is Lucy. I, uh, wanted to explain why I was so weird earlier, but I’m slightly torn about what to say. Partly because I’m sure I said I was fine. But obviously, I’m not fine. Now I’ve got both of my worst memories weighing me down and I’m not sure how to— Ugh! Should I even be doing this? It’s not like you gave me your number personally, I just stole your card off the fridge and invited myself to call you because I feel like an idiot. But you don’t have to answer. I mean, call me back if you want to…? God, this is so embarrassing. How do I delete this?’

As I speak, my fingers fumble to exit the call, my mind racing with urgency to Google how to delete a voicemail. Suddenly, a tremor runs through my hand as my phone vibrates insistently, displaying a number not stored in my contacts. My eyes dart to the business card on the bed, its crisp edges and bold print confirming exactly who I suspect it might be.

‘Hello?’ I ask, feigning ignorance.

‘Lucy?’

‘Um— no…?’

He laughs softly. ‘Are you sure? Because I just heard your message, and I swear you sound just like a Lucy I know.’

I take a swig from the wine bottle and exhale heavily, feeling caught.

‘Fine, yes, it’s me,’ I admit. ‘I found your business card on our fridge, and even though you didn’t ask me to call, I did. And to be completely honest, since you appeared in my kitchen earlier, my mind’s been in a whirl. I can’t sleep, and here I am, halfway through a bottle of wine I opened just five minutes ago.’

‘You’ve got my attention,’ he says, clearly entertained.

‘Tonight sort of unraveled not at all how I’d envisioned. Not that I’d pictured it. In fact, I didn’t because I wasn’t expecting chef three to be you, so it’s completely thrown me off balance. So, fair warning, in case you didn’t notice earlier, I’ve got issues.’

‘Issues, eh?’ There’s a warmth in his voice that puts me at ease. ‘We all have our quirks. It’s what makes us interesting.’

I let out a nervous laugh, feeling the tension in my shoulders ease slightly.

‘Well, I can guarantee I’m more than just interesting. I’m a whole mess of worry, overthinking and awkwardness.’

‘Worry, overthinkingandawkwardness, you say? That sounds – relatable.’ There’s a pause on the other end, but it’s not uncomfortable. It feels like he’s taking a moment to process everything I’ve said. ‘You don’t need to worry because I’m sort of a mix of the same things.’

‘You are?’

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t find me weird, to be honest.’

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