Page 7 of My Lucky Charm

His hands move deeper into my hair, then rest at the back of my neck, and when he finally pulls away, his eyes search mine.

Good. Lord.

Did he feel that? Did he feel the fireworks?

I’m breathless and so dazed I’m not sure I could tie my shoes right now if I had to.

I don’t think I could even find my shoes. Or remember my name.

He looks unfazed, like everything about this is normal. Like it’s no big deal. Like he’s done this a million times, and maybe he has.

That’s why you don’t kiss strangers in bars on New Year’s Eve. You just never know.

His eyes drift from mine to something behind me. “I think he noticed.”

“What? I’m sorry . . . what? Who?” I try to focus and breathe, wondering if it would be greedy of me to ask him to kiss me again.

His brow quirks in the same direction as his gaze. “Your ex.”

“Oh,” I say, nodding as if that will help put the room back on its axis. “Good.”

He pulls his hand away, and I want to grab it and put it back.

“Um. . .” I clear my throat, and mindlessly fix my hair. “Thank you for your service.” Thank you for your service? I turn away, looking for a rock to crawl under.

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet and drops two twenty dollar bills on the counter, nodding at the bartender. He looks at me and says, “Happy New Year.”

And then he leaves.

Yes, I think, touching my lips, wondering if what just happened actually happened.

Happy New Year.

Chapter Two

Gray

Two weeks later

“Idon’t need a babysitter.”

“Not a babysitter,” Coach Turnrose says. “A tour guide.”

“I don’t need that either.” My muscles tense. “I can find my way around Chicago.” I resent the implication that I can’t.

“You’ve been here two weeks already,” Coach says.

“What’s your point?” I’m annoyed.

“My point is that there’s friction, and we think this might help.”

I look at him, more annoyed now.

“Look, we’re not trying to tell you how to live your life here. It’s not about finding your way.” The captain of the Chicago Comets, Dallas Burke, is sitting in the chair next to me, both of us across from the coach. He leans forward, probably trying to take control of this conversation. “It’s about acclimating.”

I scowl at Dallas. This is all his idea, and he can shove it.

Acclimating. Whatever. I’m not happy about any of it. About being here in Chicago, about getting traded, about being assigned a babysitter because my team captain doesn’t think I can acclimate.

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