Page 1 of Lucky
CHAPTER 1
Lucky
If I’ve saidit once, I’ve said it a thousand times—lighting is everything.
I angle my phone slightly toward the brass-framed mirror in the men’s room of Lux, a swanky Pittsburgh steakhouse that caters to professional athletes, hedge fund managers, and women in dresses that are practically sprayed on.
Not that I’m complaining.
I adjust my position slightly so viewers can better see my reflection from the side—my profile is always the best—and hit the record button.
“This is a get-ready-with-me for another night of being emotionally unavailable but devastatingly hot,” I say into the front-facing camera.I smooth a hand over my hair, tilt my head dramatically, and wink.“Step one—deodorant.But just on the left side.Gotta keep ’em guessing.”
I hit stop, throw a filter on it, and post it with the caption: “Still a better love story than my last situationship.”
Within seconds, comments start rolling in.
Fire emojis.
“Marry me.”
One user writes, “Daddy?”which, honestly, feels a little aggressive before appetizers.
And there’s always a critic.“Bet you’re a 10 until you open your mouth.”
I snort.Fair enough.People either love my egocentric posts or they hate ’em.But if you put yourself out there, you have to take the good with the bad.My true social media fans know that I can go over the top, but when it boils down to it, I’m really very charming.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself, and I haven’t been sued yet.
I tuck my phone into my pocket and head back out to the private dining room where the guys are waiting.The energy in the room is easy, loud and a little reckless—the kind that always follows a win on the road or a week with too much travel.We’re home for a bit, and we’re celebrating like we mean it.A handful of times a month, the entire team—players only and no SO’s—get together to have a nice meal in an expensive restaurant.
Foster’s at the head of the table I’m sitting at, already halfway through a whiskey neat.North and King are arguing about whether the bartender is flirting with one of them or both, but both agree they really don’t care since their girls are perfect in every way.Rafferty’s shoving truffle fries into his mouth like he hasn’t seen food in days, and Atlas is hunched over his phone, grinning like a jackass.
“There he is,” Foster says when I slide into the empty seat beside him.“Took you long enough.What were you doing, filming another thirst trap?”
“Gotta keep the internet hydrated.”I gesture to my jaw.“I mean… have you really looked at this thing?”
“Your narcissism is getting out of control,” King says, shaking his head, but his lips twitch to reveal his amusement.
“That’s rich coming from a man who’s googled himself in front of me.”
“Once,” he grumbles.
Penn strolls in then, looking smug and suspiciously well sexed.He drops into a chair across from me and steals a fry from Rafferty, who grunts in protest.
“You’re late,” North says.
Penn shrugs.“Blame Mila.She—”
“Nope,” Foster cuts in, raising his glass.“Whatever you’re about to say, we don’t want it.”
We laugh.It’s good to see Penn like this—carefree, happy, in a relationship that clearly suits him.And more importantly, fitting in with a comfort level that I didn’t think possible from a man like him.I credit Mila with teaching him about loyalty and love.They’ve been dating for a little over a month and it’s been a game changer for my man.
We order our entrees, settle in, and somewhere between my steak tartare and Foster’s third drink, he taps his spoon against his highball glass lightly enough to quiet the guys at our table.“I bought the ring.”
I blink.“For Mazzy?”
“No, for the hot hostess,” he says.Then he grins.“Yeah, for Mazzy.”
