Lucky in Love Read online

  Lucky in Love

  By Kristen Brockmeyer

  Amazon Edition

  Copyright 2013, Kristen Brockmeyer

  Amazon Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover photo courtesy of Jennifer Martin and Intuitive Images Photography.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Meet the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  The growl of my 1948 Roadmaster downshifted to a throaty purr as I pulled into the jam-packed parking lot of the Spring Valley Wesleyan Church. I was so busy worrying about the serious bodily harm Addy was going to inflict on me if I didn't get in there in time to do my maid of honor thing that I didn't see the black and white blur that dodged out in front of me from between two cars. I mashed down on the brake but my reflexes weren't quick enough. There was a brief thunk and a moan loud enough to carry over my Sinatra-blasting stereo.

  Oh, no, I thought, instantly panicked. Did I just hit a Saint Bernard?

  Images of a bloody Beethoven lying broken beneath the wheels of my Buick popped into my brain in appalling Technicolor. I threw it in park and jumped out of the car, tears already blurring my eyes. The tears dried up fast when I realized that, instead of a giant cuddly dog, I'd run over the guy who'd taken my virginity the night of my senior prom before abruptly moving to Illinois.

  I nudged Chance Atkins with the toe of my shoe and fervently thanked God that he wasn't a Saint Bernard.

  My morning had started off surprisingly great, which should have been my first clue that some major bad luck was in the works. I woke to the sound of birds chirping, the neighbor's dog barking and kids playing in the street, everyone apparently enjoying the unseasonably warm April weather. Granted, I immediately knocked a half empty beer bottle over on my alarm clock, frying it dead with a sizzling, popping hiss. And shortly after that, I stepped right into a cold, slimy puddle when I swung my legs over the side of the bed to feel around for my slippers. Louie, my one-eyed stray of indiscriminate origins, was apparently having hairball issues again. But a dead alarm clock and an icky gift from Louie were small potatoes, compared to what I was used to.

  I wiped my foot on the rug and stumbled to the bathroom to flip on the little coffee maker I kept in there, hotel-style. I cranked the shower on for its usual five-minute warm-up, and squinted into the mirror to take stock. My reddish-brown hair corkscrewed out in various directions. There was a pillow pattern on my left cheek. Freckles stood out in stark relief on my small, pale nose. Normally a very nice shade of cornflower blue, my eyes looked almost purple today and clashed badly with the cluster of visible blood vessels that all shouted in unison: "You had too many beers last night!"

  But it was nothing I couldn't work with. That was what makeup and eyedrops were for.

  After my shower, I wrapped my pink satin housecoat around myself and sat down at my Formica and chrome kitchen table to sip my second cup of coffee. The table was the latest phase of my furniture rescue project and went nicely with all the rest of the hauté crap that I'd rescued from the side of the road. Garbage-picking was kind of a hobby of mine. I was constantly amazed at some of the cool stuff people threw out.

  Following habit, and cursing as I sliced my pinkie on the Entertainment page, I flipped the newspaper open to the horoscope section. Against my better judgment, I felt optimism rear its stupid head.

  The cosmic spectrum is nearly aligned with Jupiter and you will begin to reap the benefits today. Your luck is changing!

  Tell that to my poor alarm clock. But wait, there was more.

  Keep your eyes open—true love will soon cross your path!

  Uh-huh.

  Last time I read something true love-related was in a fortune cookie. It said, "Your true love will bring you joy and happiness." That was the night I found Brent Hall, my boyfriend of fourteen months, boinking my Journalism professor on my living room couch.

  I quit taking relationship advice from baked goods that day, but I still hadn't quite kicked the habit of playing the Massive Millions lottery. You're not supposed to bet more than you can afford to lose, and at $2.00 per week, I had a borderline gambling problem, but I couldn't help myself. Someone had to win it, right?

  I scanned the back page.

  14-16-26-43-52 and the Big Money Ball… 18!

  A couple of the numbers looked promising, but I'd have to check the Quick Pick ticket in my purse to rule them out. I lived in glorious anticipation of the day when I would win anything. Even the lowest prize of three dollars would be gratification at this point.

  But I didn't have time now. According to the retro cat clock on the wall, whose shifty eyes refused to meet mine, I realized that if I didn't take some drastic measures, I'd be late for a wedding. Resolving to check my numbers later, I trudged to the bathroom like a prisoner on death row.

  I dreaded getting ready every day.

  Invariably, one of several things would happen: I would snag my nylons, poke myself in the eye with a mascara brush, burn my finger on the curling iron, slip in a puddle of water and bang my shin on the tub, or drop my toothbrush in the toilet.

  If all that failed, there were always spills. I would spill nail polish on whatever I'd planned on wearing, spill nail polish remover too near a candle and ignite the tissue box, or spill scalding coffee on myself and let out a string of swears that would make a frat boy blush.

  Today, nothing happened.

  I was relieved, but apprehensive. My hair looked better than I'd ever seen it. It waved softly around my face and the nondescript reddish-brown looked downright auburn, shining with glinting gold highlights. Some eye drops had cured the hung-over look and my perfectly made up eyes were sultry and mysterious. I looked like a vintage Hollywood starlet. I shook my perfectly-coiffed head in disbelief, and the stunning woman reflected in the mirror shook her head back. Yup, it was definitely me.

  My dress—that must be it.

  I searched every inch that I could see, twisting backward a
t an impossible angle, sure that somewhere in the powder-blue satin there was going to be a gaping hole, a cigarette burn, or a tear as long as the Mississippi. Nada. The dress wasn't even tucked into the back of my panties.

  Really nervous now, I slipped into a pair of high heels dyed delicate blue to match the dress. No one thought the high heels were a good idea, given my coordination skills, but it was Addy's wedding and we didn't want to stress her out any more than necessary. She was already a basket case. One messed-up flower arrangement away from homicidal maniac, actually. A safe and sensible pair of flats might throw her right over the edge.

  Mission accomplished without so much as a broken shoe or a broken ankle, I grew more and more disturbed. As I gathered my keys and clutch purse, I felt like Chicken Little waiting to get squashed by an asteroid-sized acorn. But no ten-car pile-up occurred on the way to the church. Was I destined to pass out during the ceremony? Throw up on the minister? What was the deal?

  So it really came as no surprise that I mowed over the best man in the parking lot.

  Now, he lay spread-eagled on the pavement, looking dead. Chance Atkins had been a fixture in my life ever since he and my twin brother, Jack, were both annoying little second graders eating worms and looking up the art teacher's skirt, but I hadn't seen him in almost a decade. Good old loved-me-and-left-me Chance.

  He groaned again and cracked open one eye.

  "Jeez, Lucky, is that you?"

  Chapter 2

  My actual name is Paige MacFarlane, but ever since it became obvious that I was the most unfortunate red-headed child ever born, I've been saddled with the nickname, Lucky. I know it's not very original, but Jack started it shortly after I took a tumble into a rusted-out septic tank in our back yard when I was three and it stuck.

  "I see that fancy college in Chicago didn't make you any smarter. Still haven't learned to look both ways before you cross the street?"

  "Gosh, I missed you, too," Chance muttered and tried to struggle into a sitting position.

  I ignored the little pricks of guilt needling at my conscience and bent down to help him. I gripped one arm, trying not to notice the muscles snugly encased beneath his tux, and hauled upward.

  He yelped and turned accusing green eyes on me.

  "You dislocated it!"

  "I didn't pull that hard," I shot back and let go. He sagged back against the chrome fender.

  "No, but you did hit me with a big freakin' car. Isn't that the same one you were driving in high school?" he asked, looking up toward the Buick's hood ornament, cupping his injured shoulder protectively. "It looks different."

  Well, duh, it had better look different. I'd been restoring it for the last 10 years. But the way Chance was eyeballing it wasn't admiring—he was looking at the car like it had just rolled out of a Stephen King book or something. Or maybe he was just remembering what had happened in the backseat and hoping to hell that I didn't.

  I was saved from a response when the front doors of the church opened and my mother peeped out. Damn. She'd always liked Chance. She'd mothered the guy more than his actual mother had. Wait until she heard I tried to kill him.

  "Lucky, what are you doing? You're supposed to be in there helping Addy get ready. Did you accidentally set something on fire again?"

  Mom asks me that stupid question every time I see her, but I love her, so I accept it and try not to let my teeth grit too audibly. Also, it's kind of hard to get angry at a pretty little bird and that's what she's always reminded me of. Chirpy voice, teeny-tiny build, and feathery blond hair make for a look that just cheeps "parakeet." She tends to wear a lot of parakeet-like colors, too, and her floaty yellow, green and blue mother-of-the-groom dress was a prime example.

  "No, Mom. Still haven't burned anything down since the bleachers in high school, and everyone knows that that wasn't my fault. Teachers shouldn't teach kids chemistry if they don't intend for them to use it."

  Despite the pain in his shoulder, Chance let out a bark of laughter.

  Oh, yeah. Chance.

  "Mom," I sighed and braced myself. "I just hit Jack's best man."

  Her mouth dropped open. "My God, Lucky, you didn't." She fluttered down the steps to where Chance was still sitting, the front of the car car almost eclipsing his big, hard body. She covered her mouth with one shaking hand and I grabbed her elbow, thinking she was about to pass out. She did that sometimes. Especially around me.

  "Deep breath, Mom, he's okay."

  "Hey, Mama MacFarlane." Chance's smile was strained around the edges, but sincere. He acted legitimately glad to see her, but I knew better. He'd had plenty of time to write or call if he really missed us. Or Mom, rather.

  Mom crouched down to enfold him in a careful hug. "Oh, Chance, it's so good to see you."

  "Lucky, Addy is going to kill you," she whispered, looking up at me, her bright blue eyes welling with tears.

  Addy is my very best friend, who, for reasons unclear to the rest of the world, went temporarily brain dead and agreed to marry my evil twin. She's a curvaceous little brown-eyed blond who barely tops five feet, and the most patient, compassionate, kind-hearted person I've ever met. Pretty much Jack's polar opposite.

  But once she started planning her own wedding, she became a stark raving bitch with psychotic tendencies. That was about the time I began to see the side of her that attracted my brother.

  To call my future sister-in-law/long-time gal pal a neurotic bride-to-be would be putting too nice a face on it. Three months ago, Addy launched a vicious verbal attack on the cake decorator for questioning the fleur-de-lis pattern she'd chosen for her wedding cake. I've never seen a grown woman cry like that. The cake decorator, not Addy.

  Then, last month, it was the wedding dress. It was my job to pick it up from the bridal boutique, and me being me, I dropped the thing into a mud puddle in the parking lot. The protective covering was on it, but how do you get a pristine white wedding dress out of a mud-covered bag? In a moment of panicked inspiration, I took it to a dry cleaner. The dry cleaning man promised me that he could take care of it, and he did, but then managed to temporarily lose the dress.

  I had to pay the dry cleaning man a lot extra not to press assault charges on Addy.

  "Okay, on your feet." I helped him, tugging on the other arm this time. His skin had gone a sickly shade of pale under his tan by the time he was standing.

  "Anything else hurt?" I asked briskly. When he shook his head, I started at the top, finger-combing his short, dark crew cut, licked my thumb and wiped a smudge off his smooth-shaven cheek, brushed the dirt off of his coat. Turning him around, I checked him for any visible stains or tears and finished by swiping a bit of gravel off his butt. And, oh, what a butt. The least he could have done was gained 75 pounds and grown a mullet, instead of that close-cropped, sexy, Daniel Craig-as-James Bond thing he had going, for Pete's sake. But no. Grown-up Chance was even hotter than the boy version I'd known so well. I sighed.

  Turning him briskly around again, I took a deep breath and began rattling off commands like a defensive line coordinator. "Okay, you're gonna go in there, suck it up, and be the best damned best man you can be. You are then going do the toast, dance with the maid of honor (oh crap, that's me), and stick around long enough for the first piece of cake to be cut. In return, I will give you a free ride to the hospital and hold your other hand while they pop your arm back in."

  Chance shook his head, a glint of amusement temporarily cutting through the pained expression on his face. "Lucky, you haven't changed a goddamned bit, have you? Still a bossy little brat."

  "Hey, you're the one that can't cross a parking lot without getting hit."

  He looked to my mother to get her take on the blame situation, but Mom just dug a flask out of her voluminous lavender purse and handed it to him with a tentative, "Schnapps?"

  Smart enough to know when he was outmaneuvered, he saluted me with the flask and a wry grin, twisted off the top, and took a healthy swig. Together, the three of us
marched through the doors of the church.

  Chapter 3

  "What was in that flask?" I demanded.

  Chance was supposed to be dancing the traditional bridal party, first slow dance thing with me, but instead, he was doing this slack-jawed, squinty-eyed, leg-humping excuse for a bump and grind. I reached up to grab his chin, forcing him to look at me instead of my décolletage.

  "Sssschnapps," he slurred. His gorgeous green eyes were at half-mast and his smile was blurry around the edges. "Hey Lucky, wanna find a coat closet?" he breathed in my ear, almost choking me with alcohol fumes.

  "I could get Lucky!" He laughed loudly, causing several heads to turn in our direction.

  Schnapps, my butt. When my mother felt like drinking, she brought out the big guns and always called it Schnapps. Plus, I had seen her reload his flask. During the ceremony, I thought Chance had just been swaying in time to the Wedding March. Thankfully, he'd held it together and only stumbled over a few words during the toast to the radiant (but slightly manic) bride and the handsome (but still evil) groom.

  Suddenly, I spotted a cloud of white taffeta and lace drifting purposefully in our direction. Chance slung his good arm around my shoulders and I steered him behind a potted fern. Cupping his face in my hands, I tried to enunciate slowly and clearly:

  "We need to get out of here."

  "We sure do," he enunciated back and slapped his big hand right down on my breast. Ignoring the jolt of sensation that sent shivery tingles through me (left over high-school infatuation, I told myself), I removed it and tried again.

  "Addy is coming this way. We can skip the rest of the reception and get you to the hospital."

  "I don't need a hospital, I need a toilet," he murmured, before turning and puking in the potted palm.

  Sighing and blaming my rotten karma, I patted his back as he heaved again. I suppose this was sort of my fault since he wouldn't be drunk if I hadn't run him over. As soon as he was finished, I fished him out two pieces of gum from the stash in my clutch purse, grabbed his good arm and dragged him around the other side of the plant. Suddenly, I detected a rose-scented, frigid breeze of Arctic air, and instinctively knew it was Addy. She'd found us.