The Lucky in Love Collection Read online

  I raise a glass when he’s done. “Good luck with that. I can’t wait to hear how it goes.”

  Epilogue

  Derek

  A little later

  Shaw juggles some chocolate chip cookies that Arden made.

  “Look at that!” He tosses three in the air, spinning them in circles out here on the deck.

  I clap a few times. “You’re a master juggler, but I don’t think anyone wants to eat those.”

  “That’s cool. I do.” After he lets the cookies fall into his palms, he stuffs them into his mouth, one after another.

  “You’re kind of a pig, Shaw,” Vanessa calls out from the kitchen.

  He winks at her, and I make a note to talk to Perri again later about these two. Pretty sure I have a good inkling as to what’s up between them.

  Perri’s dad joins us on the deck, clapping me on the back as I help him at the grill on a Sunday afternoon.

  “How’s everything going at work, Derek?” he inquires.

  Perri’s dad is one sharp fellow. Smart, involved, and thoughtful. Her mom is pretty awesome too. I know because I go to her parents’ house most Sundays for dinner. They’ve welcomed me into the family and treated me like her partner from the first time we met.

  Sure, I’m still her roommate, but we share a room now. Her bedroom. Actually, we share the whole house, and all the bills. There is no more lease, no more month-to-month deal, and there are no more separate doors and hallways.

  There is only one home, and it belongs to us.

  “Work is good, sir. I landed a promotion and a raise, so I have zero complaints.”

  “Excellent. And how’s everything with your sister?”

  “Her husband is coming home in a few months, and Devon is walking, so Jodie has her hands even more full.”

  “But she has more hands to help her too,” Perri chimes in from her spot lounging on a deck chair. “I happen to like the kids.”

  “Maybe you can give me a grandkid, then,” her dad says, winking at her.

  “Dad!”

  He shrugs. “Just saying. Sooner rather than later would be good.” He leans in closer to me, whispering, “Maybe you could make her an honest woman, son.”

  I say nothing. I simply head inside and enjoy the meal with my woman, her family, and all our friends.

  Later that evening, I unlock the front door and toss the keys on the entryway table. “I’m thirsty. Want some wine?”

  She wiggles her eyebrows. “Wine is always a good idea.”

  “I’ll pour some glasses. You get comfortable, kitten.”

  She sinks down on the couch, grabbing her knitting bag, pulling out the hat she’s making for Jodie.

  I head to the kitchen and open a bottle, but it’s not wine. It’s a bubbly beverage. Call me confident, call me cocky. Or just call me certain of this love.

  I have a damn good feeling we’ll be celebrating any minute.

  I pour two glasses, set them down, and grab a piece of light-blue chalk. I write a message on the blackboard, then I call out, “Hey, can you help me with something in here?”

  She chuckles. “What on earth do you need help with in the kitchen, Mr. Chef?”

  “I need help pleasuring you on the kitchen counter. So get your sweet ass in here.” Sex works wonders on the woman, and I suspect it’ll indeed lure her.

  Her boots click across the hardwood, and she turns into the doorway.

  I drop to one knee and hold up the chalkboard.

  I love you madly and always. Will you marry me?

  Her eyes pop. She clasps her hand to her mouth. Tears well up. “Yes!” She nods vigorously, joins me on the floor, and kisses me passionately, even with the blackboard between us. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

  Happiness floods every damn cell in my body. “You haven’t even seen the ring.”

  “I don’t care about the ring.”

  “You better care. It’s fucking beautiful. Just like you.”

  Letting the blackboard fall to the floor, I stand, her hand in mine, then I give her a glass of champagne. Hers contains a sparkling diamond on a silver band.

  “God, it’s gorgeous.” Her green eyes twinkle with delight.

  “I knew you’d like it.”

  She dips her fingers in, tweezer-like, to fetch it, and when it’s in her hand, I take it and slide it on her finger. “Beautiful,” I whisper.

  She throws her arms around my neck. “By the way, have I mentioned how awesome this kitchen is?”

  “This kitchen is everything.”

  I lift her up on the counter, and we enjoy another one of the great pleasures of this room.

  Another Epilogue

  Derek

  A few years later

  There are lies, damn lies, and then there’s everything I’ve ever said about love at first sight.

  It wasn’t Perri who changed my mind. I didn’t love her at first sight, and definitely not at first touch. It was after I got to know her and learned she was funny, sarcastic, flirty, and dirty, and had a heart I wanted to cherish the rest of my life.

  But then, after we married, something changed in me.

  Because something changed in her.

  As soon as she told me she was pregnant, I was head over heels for the baby in her belly.

  Now, as I hold my baby girl for the first time, I take it all back. This is love at first sight—a fierce, powerful love that I know will only grow stronger every day. This little angel is perfect, and I’m going to take care of her and her mother for the rest of our lives.

  “I love you madly,” I say to the tiny creature in the crook of my arm. She grabs my hand, and it’s fitting—I’m already wrapped around her little finger.

  I gaze at my amazing wife, who gave me this gift. Who gives me so many gifts. No one’s ever made me feel this good. “And I love you so much too, kitten.”

  Perri smiles back at me, tired and beautiful. “Good, because you’re stuck with me.”

  And that’s exactly where I want to be.

  THE END

  Nobody Does It Better

  His Prologue

  Shaw

  Some women are just forbidden. Like . . . oh, just off the top of my head . . . say, my sister’s lifelong best friend. Forbidden, as in if I touch her, it’s sayonara favorite-body-part.

  Do I kid?

  No, and I don’t want to test my sister’s resolve, so I stay far, far away from lovely Vanessa. Sweet Vanessa. Vanessa who wants the real deal. Keep your dirty hands off my best friend Vanessa.

  Hey, that’s what my sister said.

  Look, I’m not scared of my sister.

  But I do respect her. I was raised right. I was taught respect, honor, and duty. And above all . . . family comes first. When Perri told me years ago she’d have my balls in a sling if I put my ladies’-man paws anywhere near her bestie, I listened, because I happen to like the boys a helluva lot.

  Honestly, though, I followed her guidelines not just for the sake of my intact nuts. I did it because she asked. If it’s important to Perri that my dirty hands stay far, far away from Vanessa, I can abide by that.

  I can resist sexy, alluring, flirty Vanessa.

  Witty, clever, oh, look, there’s mistletoe above us Vanessa.

  Oh, did I say that?

  Well, Vanessa did, and I’ll never forget that Christmas party when we were home from college.

  But I swear, it was only a kiss. A sweet, tantalizing, drive-my-body-insane-with-wanting-more kiss. I’ve mostly stayed away, and that’s not been easy, so give a man some points for stellar restraint.

  Especially since I’ve had it bad for Vanessa for years.

  As in decades.

  But sometimes, over the decades, you slip a little bit when you want something. You bend to the left, to the right, and you steal another kiss. Fine, fine. There was one more time—a year ago, when we were at Vanessa’s bowling alley for a New Year’s Eve party, lifting glasses and toasting to the new year.

&nb
sp; It wasn’t like we got it on right there on the bowling ball return.

  (It was beside the dartboard.)

  And it was a chaste New Year’s kiss.

  Too chaste for me.

  When I was home alone in bed, though, nothing was innocent that night. In my mind, it was one hot, sexy, filthy kiss that made us both rip off clothes.

  Except, even then, those words—balls in a sling—echoed.

  I listened. I’ll keep listening. After all, it’s only lust I feel, right?

  I can set that aside, no problem.

  Until the weekend before my sister’s wedding . . .

  Her Prologue

  Vanessa

  Is there any sadder adjective to describe a man you’re jonesing for than off-limits?

  Okay, fine. There might be a few worse qualities in a guy, like woefully dumb, boring AF, and, say, rude to his mama.

  Also, dislikes dogs.

  For the record, no dog-disliker is getting under my skirt.

  But let’s say you really dig a guy. The last thing you want is for him to be unavailable.

  That’s the trouble with Shaw. That’s always been the trouble with him, ever since I crushed hard on the guy way back in seventh grade.

  I fell for him because he cracked me up.

  Like that time in history class, when we were studying the English monarchy and he raised his hand and asked in an intensely curious voice, “Excuse me, Mr. Wabash. Which king of England invented fractions?”

  Mr. Wabash turned from the board, his white chalk suspended mid-stroke, his brow furrowed, and said, “I’m not sure that was a king of England.”

  Shaw leaned back in his chair, a naughty grin creeping across his thirteen-year-old face, and coolly quipped, “It was Henry the Fourth.”

  I chuckled.

  Maybe I laughed loudly.

  Fine, I snorted.

  We were both sent to the school office, where he proceeded to fire off round after round of jokes in a murmur as we waited side by side for the principal.

  How did the Vikings send secret messages?

  By Norse code.

  Why should you never trust an atom?

  Because they make everything up.

  They were corny jokes, but hey, that was comedy gold in seventh grade.

  The principal called us into his chambers and folded his hands the way annoyed adults do. He reprimanded Shaw for disturbing the class and rebuked me for laughing too loud.

  He sent us back to class with a warning.

  I was so glad Shaw was only eleven months older than his sister, putting the three of us in the same grade in school.

  He kept up his cute jester routine all through high school, during college when he became more of a sexy jester to me, and even now, as I’m pushing thirty. Like when he juggled five rawhide bones at his parents’ house a few months ago. Their dog was quite taken with his skills.

  Or when he performed a comedy act at the fireman talent show last year. Though, in all honesty, I spent most of his routine focusing on his V line rather than his punch line.

  He was shirtless. I had no choice.

  Big surprise that somewhere along the way, I fell for him.

  For his humor, for his heart, and for his big, strong body.

  That’s the problem.

  He’s fall-for-able, and I’m not the only woman who’s noticed.

  The ladies love him, and he seems to love them too.

  So, stolen kiss or two aside, I simply can’t think about him any longer.

  For many reasons, but first and foremost, this—he’s my best friend Perri’s brother. She’s never said it to me, but I know she doesn’t want me with him. And I hate keeping secrets from her.

  I must be done with this years-in-the-making secret.

  So when I have the chance to meet a new guy who’s coming back to town, a man who’s simply perfect for me, I seize the opportunity.

  So what if there are nearly two decades of longing for my best friend’s brother to get over?

  1

  Vanessa

  I have this fantasy.

  The details vary a little. Sometimes I’m in the town diner, other times I’m walking across the square. Most of the time, I’m right here at the one-stop check-in and shoe counter at my bowling alley.

  The rest of it goes like this: This guy strides up to me. A rush of tingles spreads down my chest at the sight of his dark hair, his five-o’clock shadow, and his big, burly frame. He drums his fingers on the Formica, lifts a brow, then smiles.

  I mean one of those world-class, panty-melting grins that make you swoon.

  But the real swoon is what comes next.

  He’ll say, “Level with me, Vanessa. I’ve had it bad for you for most of the last two decades, and I’ll wager it’s the same for you. If you feel even one ounce of what I feel, let’s shed this whole ruse and make it official. Go out with me. Go out with me tonight.”

  The rest? It’s a montage of oh yeses; hot, wet kisses; and messy lipstick.

  That’s the fantasy. My reality on a Wednesday evening in February?

  The door opens and a familiar figure strolls in. Even from a distance, he catches my gaze then tips his chin and mouths hey.

  My stomach flips, and then it somersaults again when he reaches my post, winks, and asks for a pair of shoes. I know his size, so I hand him the fourteens.

  “You know what they say about big shoes?” His deep, raspy voice makes my chest flutter.

  I quirk up my lips. “That they’re perfect for clowns?”

  And that smile? Oh boy. It spreads into the sexiest grin. “Vanessa Maria Marquez, are you saying I’m a clown?”

  I shrug, a little playfully, looking at the shoes in his hands. “If the shoe fits . . .”

  He leans closer. “The other thing they say about big shoes is that it’s hard . . .”

  I wait for him to make a dirty joke, to lob an innuendo. Breath held, I wait for him to say Let’s do this, because hope never dies. And then I wait for the abject guilt of keeping a secret from Perri to subside. Perri, one of my two best friends in the universe, the girl who’s been there for me through every up and down, who attended the theatrical productions I worked on in high school, the friend who rushed to my side in the hospital room when I broke my leg skiing in college, even though she was two hours away, the woman I gave the kick in the pants to last year with her guy when she needed it.

  Shaw’s hazel eyes flicker, and I know he’s waiting for me to set up his dirty joke.

  My guilt hardens—and my hope deepens too. The longing for this man beats on.

  I return to his “hard” comment. “Hard for what?”

  “Hard to find socks.”

  I laugh, shake my head, and shoo him off. “Go bowl some strikes, Shaw.”

  He gives me a tip of the imaginary hat and heads off to lane twenty, joining a few fellow firemen. I do my damnedest not to stare at his sexy butt, or admire his big frame, or, honestly, even think about him like that.

  It’s something I’ve been trying to do for years.

  When a group of older ladies—twice my age and totally fabulous—comes in, I shift my focus, setting them up at one of the lanes and serving them wine.

  For the next thirty minutes, I don’t even look at lane twenty.

  Well, maybe I peek once or twice.

  2

  Vanessa

  Doris Day had it right.

  Whatever will be will be.

  The future is coming at you, so you just damn well better make the most of your present.

  That’s why I dress the way I do, listen to great tunes, and spend plenty of my days and nights here at Pin-Up Lanes, where I’m living the American dream.

  I love bowling, I love retro clothes, and I love people.

  So this suits me fabulously, thank you, Doris Day.

  As her soulful number pipes through the place later that evening, I carry a tray of chardonnay-filled wineglasses past my cartoonish Let’s go b
owling, it’s great for a date sign, and head straight for the vintage scoreboard.

  I don’t glance at lane twenty.

  Instead, I deposit the tray at the ladies’ table, set a hand on my hip, and shoot Miriam a playful look, tapping the toe of my Mary Janes. “You do know that to bowl, you have to send the ball down the lane.” I sweep my arm toward the very empty lane that Chanel-No.-5-scented Miriam and her two friends are not using since they’re gabbing. Which is fine by me. I’m also a gabber, and I love to gab with my besties too, whatever chance I get.

  Miriam laughs—a rumbly, rich kind that matches her presence as the leader of the group. “Then we’d have to take a break from discussing Sara’s new coconut-cake-baking skills.”

  The women break out in peals of laughter. They usually assemble for a book club at my friend Arden’s store, but tonight they brought the book club here.

  Narrowing my eyes, I tap a finger against my lip. “Hmm. Something tells me coconut cake is a euphemism. I wonder.”

  From behind her cat eye glasses, Sara lifts a brow as she grabs a glass of the wine. “Not true. I did make a coconut cake after I read this book.” She grabs a paperback from the green-and-white plastic bench seats, slapping a dog-eared The Coincidence of Coconut Cake against her thigh. “Then, my boyfriend and I wanted to see if it was true what they say about coconut.”

  Miriam arches a brow. “Coconut?”

  Sara’s pure deadpan when she answers. “That it makes certain substances taste better.”

  Chuckling, Miriam shakes her head. “Honey, that’s pineapple.”

  Sara wiggles her brows. “No, coconut does the trick too.”

  From her spot on the bench, CarolAnn adjusts her messy bun, shaking her head while laughing. “Ladies, if you don’t watch your euphemisms, we’re going to get kicked out of Pin-Up Lanes.”