Page 83 of Best Served Cold

Probably some seltzer water and stale bread.

“That’s a little intrusive, don’t you think?” I tease.

“Well, you could make yourself a sandwich in the kitchen downstairs. You did say you’d raid the fridge.”

I smile at her. “You can’t help yourself, can you?”

“I’m just providing you with the information. What you do with it is up to you.”

She sounds a little pissed, though, and I don’t want to leave her like that, so I decide to give her my gift.

I pull them out of my pants pockets—a bunch of folded-up scratchers, just like Ann said to bring.

“Scratch-off lottery tickets?” she asks, clearly confused.

I shrug. “I had a pretty weird experience with Dottie and her friends this morning.”

“Uh, you’re not getting away with just saying that…”

I was going to leave, Ishouldleave, but I sit on the side of the bed. I tell her nearly everything, leaving out only Dottie’s conviction that I’ve got a thing for her.

“So you got me lotto tickets?” She’s grinning now.

“The drugstore had some temporary tattoos, but I wasn’t sure Hello Kitty would be sexy to a twenty-eighty-year-old woman.”

“You downplay the influence of Hello Kitty on women of my generation.”

I smile at her and run my open palm across her bare thigh, needing the feel of her again. I’m allowed that, aren’t I?

“You think you’re unlucky, but luck’s a game. It doesn’t care who you are. I figured you’d probably at least win a couple of bucks off ten scratch-offs. It could be our luck fund.”

She gives me a look that reaches into my chest and holds on tight, and it feels like I’m in some trouble here. Maybe deep trouble. She gets up on her knees, still naked aside from that shirt, and says, “Do you have a coin?” Her eyes are bright with excitement, like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Coins. Condoms. What do you take me for? A convenience store?” I joke.

“I don’t think I have any,” she says, her expression crestfallen. “I get cash tips sometimes, but no one leaves coins.”

“I’ve got something you can use.” I pull my wallet out of my back pocket.

“You kept the bad luck penny?” she guesses.

Yes, actually. I’ve kept it tucked away in my wallet. I can’t bring myself to spend it or throw it away. It feels like it’s become part of this thing with Sophie. But I don’t tell her any of that. “I have something else in mind.”

Releasing a breath, I pull out my lucky guitar pick. I’m not a man for superstition, but Travis got me this one when we first started the band. I don’t use it for its intended purpose anymore, but I carry it around always. “It’s my lucky pick,” I admit.

“You believe in luck,” she says, her tone almost accusatory.

“Right now? Hell, yes, I do.”

I can tell this, at least, was the right thing to say. She takes the pick from me, our fingers brushing, and leans over the side of the bed to the desk, pressing the scratcher onto the flat surface. She looks up at me, her eyes eager. “Do you think luck can change, Rob?”

“Yeah,” I say, feeling a little choked up. “I’m starting to think just about anything can happen if you keep your mind open to it.”

She looks lost in thought for a moment, but then she leans down to scratch the ticket. Her lips form a pout. “I think I lost, but it’s a bit confusing.”

I scoot over next to her, our thighs pressing together. “Oh, you definitely lost.”

We make our way through seven of the tickets before we get to a winner.

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