Page 50 of My Lucky Charm

But the door is an elevator.

That takes forever to get up here.

Wait. Stop. I’m a grown-up, and grown-ups do grown-up things. Grown-ups confront their mistakes.

They also sleep in their own beds.

Never mind that. I’ll tell him I’m so sorry I passed out on his bed—it’ll never, ever, ever happen again.

And then I’ll grab my shoes and run straight out the door.

Which is an elevator.

That takes forever to get up here.

I take another step and hear Gray walking across the kitchen floor. I can smell coffee brewing, and I realize I have no idea what time it is.

“I know, hon, I miss you too. A lot.”

The words stop me. Oh, lord. I should not be here. I should not be hearing this.

“I’m not sure, but when I find out I promise you’ll be the first to know.” His voice is steady, calm, and quiet. It’s almost soothing and nearly gentle. It’s a side of him I haven’t heard before. “Yeah, it’s nice. The place they found for me is great.” A pause.

I’m a burglar and the light’s just been flicked on. Totally caught. I can’t keep going toward the kitchen, but if I turn around and go back to the bedroom, he might hear me.

So, I stand there, like I’m carved in marble, my expression chiseled in stone.

“Yeah, I know. I love you too.”

Retreat! Retreat!

I turn as quietly as I can, but I hit a creak in the floor that purposely lay dormant and silent until the most effective time to embarrass someone. I hear Gray stop moving in the kitchen.

I freeze. Again.

I’m not even here. I’m not dropping any eaves. I’m a ghost.

And then a thought hits me in my rigid panic.

Oh my gosh. I kissed someone else’s boyfriend.

Because Gray is so ridiculously private, my strictly for work Google searches turned up nothing about his romantic life. Like, nothing. It’s as if the man has never dated anyone in his life.

There are plenty of articles about his hockey playing, about how he was a childhood phenom, about how he started playing when he was three and hasn’t stopped since. About accolades and awards, and yes, plenty about his temper and his mistakes.

But now I have my answer. And that answer has me frozen. Because if I had known, I never, ever would’ve asked him to be the one to help me make Jay jealous.

“Hey, I gotta go, Scarlett. I’ll call you back later, okay?”

Scarlett? Who is this woman? Is she holding a candlestick in the billiard room?

I can tell he’s no longer in the kitchen. He’s in the hallway. And I don’t have to turn around to know he’s looking at me.

I slowly—very slowly—turn around, but I don’t meet his eyes. I can’t. The bed thing was bad enough, but listening in on his private conversation? I’m so fired.

Should I volunteer to pack my things and go, or will he have them sent to me via messenger?

“Good morning,” he says.

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