The Lucky One (Carolina Connections Book 3) Read online

  “No, Charlotte,” I answered at the exact same time that Laney and Fiona said, “Yes, Charlotte.”

  I gave them both a look intended to invoke terror in their tiny hearts. It had no effect.

  Charlotte laughed and Laney continued, “There’s something going on between Bailey and Jake.” She looked like the cat who’d eaten a whole cageful of canaries.

  I gasped. “There is not! Don’t listen to them,” I told the southern redhead. She ignored me and kept her eyes on Laney. I sank down in my chair.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t see them at the wedding! They were about ten seconds away from putting on their own how-to sex demo at the reception.”

  Oh God. Had everybody seen us? I sank further into the chair until I was practically under the table.

  “How in holy hell did I miss that?” Charlotte asked, clearly disappointed.

  Was no one on my side here?

  “It was awesome!” Fiona piped up. “You should have seen Nate. He was calling Jake all sorts of names and was about to go hunt him down and kill him to defend Bailey’s honor. We had to physically restrain him while Mark went to throw water on them. At least, that’s what I assumed he did.” She winked at me with absolutely zero subtlety.

  Shit.

  “Come to think of it,” said Laney, playing with her long, dark hair. “I don’t recall seeing either one of you at the reception after that. Mark came back and I saw him give Nate a thumbs-up but…wait one damn minute! He was totally lying!” She leaned in suddenly.

  “And don’t think I didn’t make him pay for it when I found out,” said Fiona as she lifted her martini glass.

  This was clearly the wrong thing to say. Laney rounded on Fiona and pointed a finger right in her face. “You knew and didn’t tell me?! What kind of best friend are you?”

  Fiona set the glass down with a bit too much force. “I just found out this week! What did you want me to do, call you on your honeymoon and interrupt your tropical twat tangle to tell you Bailey and Jake had sex!”

  The last sentence was, unfortunately, spoken at a volume that carried across the entire patio. There was no need to look around to know that every single eye was directed at our table. The only good piece of news was that I was already three-quarters of the way to the floor so I really didn’t have far to go to literally hit rock bottom. I was already there, figuratively.

  Fiona’s voice sounded again from across the table, but this time it was much quieter. “Oops.”

  To escape the complete and utter humiliation that seemed to be my general lot in life, I eventually excused myself to the restroom. I kept my gaze on my shoes to avoid everyone’s eyes as I exited the patio, but I could feel them on me anyway.

  I splashed water on my face, took a few deep breaths, and then decided that a little alone time was in order. I slipped out the front door of the pub and leaned against the wall outside.

  It wasn’t long before Fiona found me.

  I should have hidden better.

  “I am so so so sorry, Bailey. I can’t believe I did that. I mean, I can believe it because that’s the type of thing I always seem to be doing, but I’m so sorry I did it to you. I promise nobody is going to talk about it anymore, and the guys have moved on, I’m sure—that is, if they even heard it in the first place.” She squeezed my arm.

  I gave her a look to let her know I was not born yesterday.

  “Alright, alright. They probably heard it. But they’re guys—pshhh—their attention spans only last a few seconds before they’re thinking about their own penises again, instead of someone else’s.” She paused and closed one eye. “Wait, that didn’t come out right.”

  I ended her misery with a pat to her hand.

  “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

  She leaned against the wall next to me. “So, um, you wanna tell me what’s going on?”

  I raised an eyebrow and looked at her sideways.

  “It’s just that I know you turned Jake down when he asked you out this week. Don’t you like him? I mean, the air practically sizzled up there.”

  I laughed, but it held no humor. “I like him too much. That’s the problem.”

  “That’s great! How is that a problem? He obviously likes you.”

  I couldn’t believe I was participating in chick talk with the girliest girl in the entire Triad. Instinct told me to shut my mouth, that I’d already said too much, but I pushed off the wall and faced her. She was dressed in some kind of silky top with a printed skirt and fuck-me heels. Her hair was practically floating around her head like a halo and her make-up was flawless. I threw a hand out and waved it up and down in reference to her ensemble and general adorableness.

  “Have you seen him? Have you seen you? You’re much more his type than I could ever be.”

  “What in the hell are you talking about, you crazy bitch?”

  “Look at me! If you hadn’t intervened, I would have shown up tonight wearing a Panthers t-shirt and my oldest sneakers. Even with this outfit, which you know is the dressiest thing in my closet, I’m still band-camp to his quarterback.”

  Her face scrunched up in obvious confusion. I couldn’t really expect her to understand. And it was far from the whole story, anyway. “Forget it. It’s not something you could understand.”

  That got me a look—one that said she did not like to be underestimated.

  “Listen here, Bailey Murphy!” Oh no. Out came the wagging finger and the fist on the hip. It was time to get comfortable because it was gonna be a while.

  “Despite what you may think, you are no fascinating enigma. It’s an old story, as in, really old.”

  I was trying to decide if I should be insulted when she continued—without needing any invitation, I might add. “You may think you’re fooling everybody but you can’t fool me. You’re self-conscious and insecure around people—hot guys especially. You play down your looks and you amp up the snark and sarcasm in some kind of attempt to cover your insecurities.” Oh great. Now her head was weaving back and forth too.

  And she was not wrong.

  “If I had to guess, you probably even used to dress in all black and spout off about being a non-conformist and not wanting to be held down by ‘the man,’ whoever that is. And then you became an actual adult and realized if you wanted to eat and live in anything other than a cardboard box, you’d need ‘the man’ to pay you.”

  I tried to cut in but her other hand shot out to stop me.

  “And don’t even get me started on that job you hate.”

  I tried again but was intercepted once more.

  “And I know you’re aware of all this, so don’t try to play dumb with me, chica! You’re a fucking porcupine and you know it!”

  I finally got a word in. “May I speak now?”

  She nodded, having finally lowered her finger from my face. “You may.”

  “How the fuck did you just do that? Are you a profiler for the FBI in your spare time?”

  She started giggling.

  “Porcupine? Really?” I asked and, what can I say? It was contagious. Despite everything in me that resisted by habit, we were both a laughing, teary mess when Laney and Charlotte came to find us and coax us back to the patio.

  I had to hand it to Fiona—the girl was sharp. But she’d missed the part where my prickly outer nature also served to protect my heart from collecting scars. That was still my secret to keep.

  I managed to survive the rest of the evening, and everyone was extremely gracious about the giant sex elephant in the room, or patio, I should say. Even Mark managed to keep his mouth shut about it, which was shocking to a degree where I was almost worried for the state of our friendship.

  Another week began with me attending more boring-ass meetings and pretending I was elsewhere. Without Rocco to worry about, I was able to resume my normal schedule. I ran in the mornings, binged on junk food, sketched at night, and made my weekly stop at the Shearwater.

  I chose to go on Wednesday this
week, as I needed a mid-week boost. The paper arts exhibit was due to close this weekend so it was my last chance to experience my snowflake and all the other divine paper creations. I intended to get my fill since I had no other obligations for the evening.

  Alone in the gallery, I’d reached a perfect state of quiet calm when a familiar voice caught my ear.

  “I assume you’ll have the front gallery cleared by Sunday,” the voice demanded. It wasn’t a question.

  “Certainly,” came the curt response.

  “And don’t forget we need a few of the alcoves as well, Paul.”

  Two sets of footsteps sounded across the wood floor, coming closer than I would have liked. One was swift and sure while the other shuffled.

  Dammit.

  I turned quickly so my back was to the two men who’d just entered the space holding the paper sculptures.

  Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me.

  “Ah, I see the recycling hasn’t been taken out yet,” said the first voice, followed by a chuckle.

  I held in my gasp of indignation. Asshole!

  The second man, who I now knew to be Paul, the assistant to the curator, let out a nervous titter.

  Oh, get a backbone, Paul!

  Perhaps I should have told myself the same thing.

  I shifted to the left, hoping one particularly large sculpture would obscure me.

  No such luck.

  “Bailey?”

  I froze.

  “Bailey, is that you?” the asshole asked again, the intonation at the end of his question rising, almost assuming a British lilt.

  You’re from Virginia, douchebag!

  I turned around, feigning surprise.

  “Anton! I didn’t see you there!” Two could play at this fake-ass game. My smile was so artificial it could outlast a Twinkie.

  “Hello, beautiful,” he said as he leaned his blond head toward mine and kissed my cheek. His voice held too much weight, too much intimacy. His hand skimmed my waist as he bent.

  My stomach dropped and I couldn’t decide if the cause was butterflies or good old-fashioned bile. I half-heartedly returned his kiss, mine hitting only the air. My lips would never touch his skin again if I had anything to say about it.

  “You are a sight for sore eyes,” Anton said, taking in my face. Then his gaze moved down to my work attire and his expression almost turned to a sneer. “Although, I see some things never change.”

  Okay, we were done here.

  I forced my smile to remain in place as I boldly looked him over as well. Skinny jeans, ivory sweater—even though it was seventy-five freaking degrees outside—and black hipster glasses I had once found both terribly genuine and endearing. “No, indeed they don’t,” I challenged, feeling proud of myself for not letting my voice wobble.

  He exhaled through his nose and assumed a familiar expression—one that was probably meant to seem patient but felt only patronizing.

  Asshole.

  “Come now, let’s not squabble.”

  Again, dude, you’re from Virginia!

  “I don’t know what you mean?” He still wanted to play this game? Fine. “But I really do have to run.” I made a move to sweep past him.

  “Wait,” he said and grabbed my arm.

  I had to take a slow breath to keep from yanking it back.

  “Here.” He held a postcard out to me with his other hand. “Come to my show. I’d love it if you were there. If you remember, you did help inspire some of it.”

  My chest caught fire. I snatched the card out of his hand and he released my arm. I attempted a casual pace as I walked by Paul, wanting to sprint instead.

  “We’ll see you there, yes?” Anton called after me.

  I didn’t answer. I burst through the doors of the gallery and ran to my car. It was only a small relief that I managed to make it to the driver’s seat before the tears came.

  Chapter Ten

  The Great Wall

  BAILEY

  The first time I had my heart broken I was six years old. The object of my true love was none other than Andy Pulaski, the only boy in the first grade with red hair and the only boy who would ever hold my heart—or so I swore to myself at the time. I could see it all laid out before us. We’d get married as soon as we were eighteen and we’d live in the house right next to my parents. I wasn’t sure how one kept the stork away, so I figured he would deliver a baby boy and then a baby girl, and both would have red hair just like their daddy.

  Unfortunately, Andy and I weren’t exactly on the same page. Two things stood in the way of our happily-ever-after. The first was my theretofore unknown case of cooties. The second, and more troublesome, was the regrettable fact that his heart already belonged to Brittany Taggart and could not be swayed. Yes, Brittany Taggart of the shiny black curls and rainbow-striped tights—not Bailey Murphy of the sloppy blond ponytail and skinned-up knees.

  Upon discovering this news about both the cooties and Brittany, I marched up to Andy’s lunch table in the cafeteria and proceeded to spit right in his applesauce.

  To this day, I insist it was the other way around—that it had been Andy who’d been hopelessly in love with me and had chosen to show his affection by picking on me, as young boys will do. I’m the only one who knows the real story. Well, me and my parents. And, of course, Andy. And his parents. And the elementary school principal. And probably the secretary who’d arranged the parent conference. The point is, I had my little heart broken and I did not like it one bit.

  You’d think I would have learned from my first experience, and, indeed, I thought I had. The next time I chose to give my heart away, I selected a more mature candidate. Surely, an older boy would be more careful with my heart.

  But, again, it was not to be, as I learned in the course of another parent conference when Mr. Adler explained to my parents that declaring one’s love to one’s science teacher was not appropriate third-grade behavior and he’d truly appreciate it if they would instruct me to cease my attempts to kiss him after class.

  My dad had consoled me by taking me out for ice cream and telling me that Mr. Adler wasn’t good enough for me anyway. To his credit, my father did also tell me to cut the kissing shit out. But he assured me my love was a gift to be earned by the right candidate—that candidate not being a thirty-two-year-old elementary school teacher.

  It was quite a while before cupid’s arrow struck again, but his aim was true when I lost my heart to Corey Snodgrass (I know, I should have expected bad things given the unfortunate last name). We held hands at a junior varsity football game and shared our first kiss outside a smelly men’s restroom by the snack counter. Neither the stench nor Corey’s Dorito breath could dampen my thrill at the monumental milestone.

  Shortly thereafter, an ill-fated meeting between a car and Corey’s bike resulted in a compound fracture of his leg and hip, causing him to miss two weeks of school. My fourteen-year-old soul longed to be by his bedside nursing him back to health. But having both a newfound fear of bike-riding and no driver’s license prevented me from wiping my love’s brow and whispering soothing words in his ear.

  These obstacles did not, however, hinder Jennifer Shelton, and upon Corey’s return to school, the two were joined at the hip—one recently healed and the other clad in skirts that were way too short, in my opinion. Slut.

  I vowed to protect my heart at all costs from there on out. Never would I let myself be so vulnerable again.

  That was, until I was sixteen and Jacob Silverstein told me he loved me. I handed my virginity over to him on a silver platter and invited him to take all he wanted and come back for seconds. Predictably, all Jacob had been after was a certain cherry and not the whole sundae.

  I cried into my dad’s neck, cursing Jacob’s name while my father told me once again that there was nobody good enough for his girl. He even quoted Yeats, because being Irish made Yeats an expert on all things, including love. “Hearts are not to be had as gifts, hearts are to be earned,” my
dad advised. I assumed the same went for virginities but didn’t ask for confirmation. My dad assured me I’d always have him, but that didn’t soothe the sixteen-year-old heart as much as it had the six-year-old one.

  I did not confess the extent to which Jacob had taken advantage of me, of course. But boys will be boys, so it wasn’t too surprising when, a week later, some locker room talk ended with Jacob sporting a pair of shiners and my brother some bloody knuckles.

  I’d learned my lesson for good. Love was for suckers. Sex, on the other hand, was not.

  I maintained a reasonably healthy sex life throughout my college years and my twenties, preferring short, casual relationships with my fellow art nerds, carefully selecting my partners so as not to risk more damage to my most vital organ. A vague mutual attraction was all I required, but anyone who made my pulse quicken and my palms sweat was immediately taken out of the running. Fool me once and all that.

  After a time, I fancied myself impermeable, and I eventually let my guard down. That, of course, was when Anton Germaine spotted me sketching on a park bench in the Tanger Family Bicentennial Garden. He was so slick, I hadn’t even realized I’d agreed to go out with him until it was too late.

  I convinced myself I could handle it—I was a grown woman, after all. Twenty-nine, in fact, and surely I could control my emotions. I’d had enough practice by that point.

  But the thing I’d forgotten was that love doesn’t care about your plans or your barriers. It doesn’t care that you’ve built a virtual Great Wall of China around your heart to keep the scars to a minimum. All defenses are useless in the face of a quickened heartbeat, an offered hand, and a devilish smile.

  And for a girl who’d always been critical of her abilities as an artist, Anton wielded the most powerful weapon to break down any and every wall. He praised my artwork and assured me I had limitless potential.

  The evening I ran into Anton at the Shearwater, I did something I seldom do. I got shit-faced.

  Around the third beer, the brilliant thought (because all notions born of alcohol are brilliant) occurred to me that I should invite someone to drink with me. After all, everyone knows that only alcoholics drink alone. Pshhh.