The Lucky in Love Collection Read online

  Vanessa sticks out her tongue. “Only you would have an epic first kiss. You do realize most first kisses suck?”

  I wiggle my eyebrows. “I do, but mine didn’t. And I’ve been a devotee of epic first kisses ever since.”

  Arden raises a hand like she’s in church. “Preach, sister. No other kind allowed.”

  I take the ball, start at the end of the lane, and let it fly, knocking down five pins. When I turn around, I resume the report. “So today, it was a full-on make-out sesh on the bench in the town square. Which made me think . . . when was the last time you did that? The kind of endless kissing and groping that is only that—endless kissing and groping?”

  Arden lowers her blonde head, a guilty-as-charged look strolling across her face. “Last night.”

  I roll my eyes as I wait for the ball. “You don’t count. I know you do that all the time with Gabe.” She is ridiculously happy and in love with Gabe Harrison, a local fireman.

  “We like making out. What’s the big deal?”

  “But it always leads to sex, doesn’t it?” I grab the ball and send it down the lane again, knocking over two more pins, since my bowling game is incredibly, ridiculously average.

  Arden scoffs as she grabs a bright-green ball from the return. “Isn’t that sort of the point? We don’t have to make out behind sheds anymore, or stop above the waist. We can go . . . wait for it . . . all the way.”

  Vanessa sighs happily. “Sex is seriously one of the best parts of being an adult.” She heads to the ball return. “Or so I’m told. It’s been ages since I’ve done it. The penis still goes into the vagina, right?”

  Arden nods, her face serious. “Yes. I can draw you a diagram if it would help. It’s basically insert-this-tab-into-this-slot, and you’re good to go.”

  Vanessa taps her temple. “Good to know it all still works the same way it did circa 2017, should the opportunity arise again. But for now, I’ll live vicariously through your Kissing Bandits.”

  “Me too,” I say as Vanessa takes her turn. “They were into each other, the kind of into that leads to tabs going into slots. But it turns out they were simply practicing for this kissing contest fundraiser in Whiskey Hollows, in the marathon division, they said. My boss is entering the contest too.”

  “Ooh, the chief of police will be competing,” Vanessa quips.

  “And he wants our precinct to win. Don’t get me wrong—I love how the wine-country towns have banded together since the fires to raise money for those on the front lines, but I can’t imagine wanting to make out with somebody for that long. Eventually you’ll run out of spit.”

  “Or interest.” Vanessa snags her phone and taps the screen. “But there are other categories. My sister and I were talking about it the other night. You can enter the marathon one, you can do sweetest kiss, or even the most passionate kiss category. And attendees bid on who they think will win each category—that’s where the money comes from. If you bid correctly, you win prizes donated by local businesses. But all the money raised goes to first responders.” Her eyes light up as she scans her phone. “Ooh, they have a category for the best reenactment of a movie kiss or book kiss. I’ll have to mention the book kiss to Ella.” Vanessa’s sister is the town librarian.

  Arden pumps a fist. “Book kisses for the win.”

  I peer over Vanessa’s shoulder at the phone, reading the details. “That’s a good reason to make out, come to think of it.”

  Arden gives me a quizzical stare. “Is there someone you want to enter a kissing contest with? Maybe have a kissing marathon with and give that couple a run for their money?”

  I scoff. “Like who?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. How about that guy Toby you went out with a few weeks ago?” She heads to the end of the lane and sends the ball down the hardwood.

  “The hotel clerk? He was nice and all . . .”

  “But not enough bad boy in him?” Vanessa teases. My girls know me so well.

  I laugh. “Yeah, duh.”

  After knocking eight pins, Arden squeezes my shoulder and adopts a serious voice and meets Vanessa’s gaze. “Vanessa, have you met our friend Perri? She only likes bad boys.”

  I raise a finger. “Correction. I like the look of bad boys. I don’t mind if they’re actually good underneath the bearded, inked, and smoking hot exterior.”

  The guy on the bike has the audacity to invade my thoughts. He keeps doing that.

  “Talk about specific.” Arden laughs. “Sounds like you’re describing the hottie you pulled over the other day.”

  “Oh, gee. Was I? I hadn’t realized,” I say playfully, since I told them about Mr. Speedy.

  “Have you looked him up?” Vanessa asks.

  I don’t know a thing about Derek McBride, except that he’s someone who moved to town to help out his sister, or so he said. “No, I’m not going to look him up,” I scoff.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not going to pick up someone I pulled over. And I’m not interested in getting involved with anyone, since I have a promotion to focus on.”

  “Fine. But you should still enter the kissing contest,” Vanessa says as Arden finishes her frame.

  “Who would I enter it with? Whether I do the marathon, the reenactment, or the most passionate, it doesn’t matter. Jump the recording back ten seconds—I’m not involved with anyone, and I don’t want to be involved right now.”

  Vanessa stares at me. “Please, girl. You don’t need to be involved to enter a kissing marathon. Plus, I bet you can find someone who’d lock lips with you for a good cause. In fact, why don’t we have a little gentlewoman’s bet and see who can raise the most money for charity?”

  “In a kissing contest?” I ask. “Arden’s totally going to reenact Scarlett and Rhett, right?”

  Arden stares down her nose. “There are many fantastic book kisses. The Great Gatsby. Romeo and Juliet. The elevator kiss in Fifty Shades.”

  “It can be whatever, as long as it’s a competition and it raises money for a charity,” Vanessa adds. “That’s what we want—any sort of contest. That’s what we can do for this year’s birthday gifts.”

  The three of us decided a few years ago not to give each other birthday gifts. All through grade school, middle school, and high school we did, but now we’re adults, and we don’t need gifts from each other. Instead, we donate or raise money for some sort of charity. We all have fall birthdays, so it’s time to start planning.

  Last year, Arden hosted a tea at her bookstore, raising money for underprivileged kids. Vanessa held a bowl-a-thon and donated the proceeds to a pediatric cancer charity. And I did a 10K walk to support don’t-text-and-drive efforts. They were our gifts to each other, and to ourselves too.

  Vanessa’s brown eyes spark with excitement. “I could do a bowling competition for charity.”

  “But you’re naturally good at that,” I say.

  “And you were naturally good at kissing in high school.”

  “Hey, don’t get on my case just ’cause I liked to make out with boys back then.”

  “You like to make out with boys all the time,” Arden chimes in. “Anyway, I’m spearheading a reading competition among the book clubs at my shop. Most books read equals most money raised for literacy programs.”

  Having lobbed the ball into my court, she stares at me expectantly, and Vanessa prompts, “And you should enter the kissing contest. It’s a slam dunk for you. It supports all the causes near and dear to your heart. Plus, your boss will like it. He said he wants your precinct to win.”

  I raise a skeptical brow, even though she makes a good point. “I don’t want to horn in on his territory. What if he wants to win?”

  Vanessa grabs my phone. “Just ask him.”

  I sigh but grab the phone back and fire off a quick text to Jansen.

  Perri: Question for you. You said you wanted our precinct to win the kissing contest. Would it help if you had more entrants?

  His response is instantaneous
.

  Jansen: I didn’t want to ask you or anyone to enter, but my answer is the more the freaking merrier.

  I show his response to my girls, and they smirk in tandem at me.

  “See?” Vanessa says.

  “Plus, I dare you to,” Arden adds.

  “And I dare you to as well,” Vanessa seconds.

  “You dare me? Are we in high school again?” I ask.

  “If we were, you’d put up both hands to volunteer,” Vanessa teases, and she’s got me there.

  It’s for a good cause.

  And maybe I’d like to be a girl who loves spending her days kissing again without a care in the world.

  “Now I’m going to have to find a guy I want to kiss for that long.”

  Or at least long enough to raise a little dough.

  As we finish the game, I keep wondering what it would be like to want to kiss someone for that long.

  And I keep coming back to Mr. Trouble.

  I have other matters to deal with before I find a man to kiss.

  Namely, getting a little more money flowing into my coffers.

  When I return home that evening, I call my brother Shaw, catching him up first on the potential good news about the patrol sergeant position.

  “That’s what I’m talking about. You’re the woman,” he says, in the same tone you’d say you’re the man.

  I turn on the light to the kitchen. “Thank you. I’m excited. I need to nab this. But do you know what else this means?”

  “That you’ll finally crack down and arrest me for not paying back taxes on my secret after-hours stripping job?”

  I laugh as I pour a glass of water. “As if anyone would pay you to strip, secretly or publicly.”

  “Oh, ye of little faith. I have lines of ladies waving small bills in my direction. That’s what happens when you’re one of the stars of a very popular firefighters calendar.”

  “You do realize the money is to get you to stop?”

  “Yet all they say is ‘Go, go, go.’”

  “Like I said, they want you to go away.”

  “Fine, you win the smackdown,” he grumbles. “Anyway, what does the potential promotion mean?”

  I glance toward the stairwell at the back of my small house and draw a deep, excited breath. “It means—drumroll—I won’t have to rent the room above the garage much longer. I won’t need the extra money.” The possibility is tantalizing. A good renter is gold. A bad one is the worst, and I’ve had the worst. I don’t ever want to share living space again with someone who cooks with onions, bathes in Obsession, and talks dirty all night long.

  “That’ll be a relief for you, considering your last renter.”

  I cringe, remembering the deceptively sweet Cassidy. “But that also means I need your help finding a new tenant until then. I haven’t had one for a few months, and I could use the extra income till I know what’s going on with the promotion. Can you find someone who won’t baby-talk on the phone to his or her significant other every single night?”

  “It wasn’t just the baby talk, if memory serves.”

  I do my best to try and forget all the things I overheard Cassidy telling her boyfriend she wanted him to do to her. And, evidently, all the things he did to her over the phone. Though in retrospect, it could have been worse if her boyfriend lived locally instead of dialing in from the other side of the state.

  “Exactly. So you’ll find me someone I’ll hardly ever see, hear, or smell? Someone I barely realize is sharing space with me?”

  “Piece of cake.”

  5

  Derek

  After my Saturday-night shift, I head to my sister’s home, crashing on her couch as quietly as I can, hoping this temporary living situation doesn’t last much longer. I love my sis, and she’s the only reason I’m in Lucky Falls. But she has three kids, including an infant, and I cannot handle sleeping on a couch much longer.

  My greatest love, besides family, is a fancy-ass mattress, the kind that’s smart enough to conform to your body. I slept on one once in a hotel, and it was heavenly.

  This couch? It’s hell on my back, and my back is kind of important to my job.

  I toss and turn, trying to get comfortable, searching for a position that won’t radiate pain down my neck. Somehow I find one, then drift into the land of Nod.

  But not for long.

  At three in the morning, a shriek awakens me. I bolt upright and head for the baby’s room.

  My sister, Jodie, is right behind me, rubbing her eyes.

  “I got it,” I tell her as I scoop up little Devon.

  My sister yawns canyon-wide. “No, I’ll take care of her.”

  But I give Jodie the heave-ho, shaking my head. “It’ll be my pleasure.” I know how hard it is for her, with her husband overseas for a year, a first grader, a four-year-old, and an infant. Our parents are gone, and that’s why I’m here. We’re close, and I want to do what I can for her, especially when she needs it most.

  “You’ve got a crazy day at the farmers market tomorrow. Your bread waits for no one. Get some sleep.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I pat the baby’s shoulder. “Please. I’ll take care of this perfect little angel.”

  “I’ll find you a place soon, Derek. I promise.”

  “I know, I know. I’ve asked around at work too. Got a few leads. Finding a rental in this fancy town is harder than differential calculus.”

  “Fortunately, you were good at math.”

  I smile, send Jodie back to bed, and warm up a bottle as Devon grabs my finger. “You’re going to be fine, sweet pea. I’ve got your favorite drink right here.”

  Devon cries again, but it’s softened to a mere whimper. She knows the food is coming. I rub my forehead against hers. “I promise. Would Uncle Derek lie to you?”

  She coos at me and grabs my beard with her chubby fingers.

  I bring her to the couch, give her the bottle, and pop the new Stephen King book open on my phone as my little niece sucks down her food.

  When I wake at the crack of dawn, I have a wicked crick in my neck.

  “Morning,” my sister says, cheery as can be as she heads into the kitchen, tucking her brown hair into a neat bun. Molly, her four-year-old, follows behind, hopping like a frog.

  “Ribbit, ribbit, Uncle Derek,” Molly says, jumping her way to the kitchen.

  “Morning.” I pull the covers back over my head as dark-haired Travis bounds down the stairs and into the room.

  “Hey, Derek,” says the six-year-old with the gap-toothed grin. “Want to go play basketball?”

  “Travis, give him a break,” Jodie calls out to her son.

  “Later for basketball, okay, buddy?”

  “Okay,” he says, seeming a little sad we’re not playing now, and a little happy we’ll do so later.

  I hear Jodie start a pot of coffee. She returns to the living room and bends over the couch. “Thanks for helping last night. You’re a godsend. By the way, have I ever mentioned that a local cop works the face-painting booth at the market?”

  I sit up straight, my thoughts zip-lining to one particular officer of the law. “Why are you telling me this?”

  She wiggles an eyebrow. “She’s just your type.”

  I throw off the covers, get in the shower, and head to the market.

  6

  Perri

  Some girls can never have enough butterflies.

  They want them in emerald green, in sapphire blue, in candy pink.

  A platoon of three-, four-, and five-year-olds skip and jump around the market with painted butterflies on their faces, courtesy of the local police department booth, where residents can learn about our community initiatives and not be freaked out by cops, thanks to face painting and lemonade.

  It’s a strategy Jansen implemented, and it seems to be working so far. We have a great relationship with the citizens of this town.

  They know our names. We know many of theirs, and I believe that plays a p
art in keeping crime lower than low.

  “What if I drank the rest of this lemonade all by myself?” My colleague Elias Nicholson holds up the pitcher, a glint in his brown eyes. We joined the department around the same time nine years ago and have been moving up the ladder together. He’s running the booth with me today, pouring lemonade as I decorate faces.

  “Then there’d be nothing for the kids, so get your mitts off it.”

  “But it looks so delish.”

  “That’s because your wife makes amazing lemonade from scratch for you to give away to children.”

  “She is a wizard in the drink department.” He pours himself a cup and downs it.

  “You’re the worst, Nicholson.”

  He wipes his paw across his mouth. “She’ll bring me more.”

  “She’s seven months pregnant, and she’s going to bring you lemonade? Shouldn’t you bring her whatever she needs?”

  “I brought her chicken wings and caramel popcorn last night. And I rubbed her feet. I’m damn good at the husband gig. To wit—I put the baby in her belly the first month we tried.”

  “TMI!”

  “It’s the truth though. We went to our favorite spot for brunch—the Silver Tavern—and then once we were home . . . Bam.”

  “I don’t know how she puts up with you,” I say, but I’m smiling.

  “It’s a miracle to me too.”

  The par-for-the-course ribbing ceases when a curly-haired blonde in a tutu wanders over to my tent, surveying the paints. “Can you paint my face?”

  “You bet I can. Let me guess. You want a butterfly, a unicorn, or a rainbow?” I suggest with a smile.

  She laughs, shaking her head. “No.”

  I tap my chin, looking skyward. “Maybe a kitty cat? Meow.”

  She giggles. “No. No. No.”

  “I see we have a tough customer here. Maybe a doggy?” I bark.