Page 53 of My Lucky Charm

“Is it the crime or the corrupt politicians?”

I roll my eyes. “Stereotypes are so boring. You don’t really get to know a place until you’re in the heart of it. Eat its food. Walk its streets. No place is perfect, but it’s unique and special. And if you give it a chance, I think you’ll love it.”

“You sound like an ad.”

“I sound like a fan.”

He brushes me off with a shake of his head, and stares out the window across the room.

“Oh. You never answered me about the pasta,” I say.

“It was good,” he says, then smiles a little, maybe remembering how it tasted. “Really good, actually.” The smile fades, and then he looks at me. “Thank you.”

And those two words are everything.

And that’s how I know I’m in trouble.

Good manners are to be expected. But they shouldn’t make someone feel like the inside of a toasted marshmallow.

Gooey on the inside and burning on the outside.

But that’s exactly how I feel and all he did was say thank you.

“Poppy made it,” I tell him, getting my ridiculous brain under control. “I asked her to put some meals together based on your preferences.”

“She’s good. Tell her thanks,” he says.

I nod. And then, because I’m full of guilt and shame and curiosity and zero tact or ability to filter or read a room or have a sense of timing, I ask, “Is your girlfriend going to visit you soon? I could map out some romantic things for you to do together.”

His forehead pulls in confusion. “My . . . what?”

I dump out all the small words I know in a pile. “I mean, the, if you, if you’re not, it’s . . .” Then, in fantastic fashion, I start to leave and trip over that word vomit pile on my way out of the room.

“I’m going to just go into the room, back here, where the shower is and look for a spare toothbrush, and then we can, you know, figure out the thing, with, if it’s not. Wait. Hey. Can I use your bathroom? I’m just going to go use your bathroom.”

“You already helped yourself to my sweatshirt and my bed,” he says. “The bathroom is all yours.”

I smooth a hand over the stolen sweatshirt as heat rushes to my cheeks. And then I shuffle off, like a Roomba, starting toward a direction and then changing when I face a wall, wondering if dunking my head in the toilet can be the first thing on my agenda today.

Chapter Thirteen

Gray

It’s been almost two full weeks since Eloise started working for me. She sits in the stands during practice, waiting for me to finish, and then afterwards, gives me an update on what she’s done that day.

I only half listen when she gives me her progress reports, mostly because I never wanted an assistant in the first place, but my apartment is spotless, my suits are dry cleaned, my fridge is stocked. When I run low on protein powder, she replaces it without me having to say a word. She just knows. She also communicates with the team trainer, the chiropractor, and the nutritionist, setting up appointment alerts for each in my phone.

But we don’t talk much, which I think is hard for her.

Actually, I know it’s hard for her. She talks. A lot.

Unlike me.

Also unlike me, she enjoys conversation. I catch her chatting with people during and after practice—other assistants, other players, even the coaches. It seems like Eloise Hart has never met a stranger.

There’s something about the way she interacts with people. She has a way of making a person feel like they’re the only one in the room.

I shouldn’t want that, but sometimes, I do.

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