Luck on the Line (6 page)

“He did you a favor. Stay out of his hair and he’ll stays out of yours. Then, you go back to New York and I have a place to crash on the weekends. Even if the Yankees still suck.”

I know he’s trying to be playful, but it’s not working on me today. “I just don’t get her. She was never this way. If Husband #3 wanted to get her on TV, why couldn’t he put her on Real Housewives? When did she think she could be the perfect homemaker? It’s such a lie.”

“Listen to me.” He maneuvers a spoonful of strawberry cake into his mouth, the frosting clings to the
v
of his upper lip. Part of me wants to lick it off, but he does it first. “If things go wrong it’s not your fault. You just do the best you can until the opening. Then you’re home free. Don’t sabotage yourself like you usually do.”

“I do
not
sabotage yourself. I mean myself.”

He purses his lips as in
yeah right.

“One, freshman year. Husband #2 got you a Maserati when they were getting divorced. You decided to wreck his front lawn with it.”

“I was angry. He brought another woman home the same night. They hadn’t even signed their divorce papers.”

“That was a sweet car, Luck.”

“Priorities.” I sip my coffee. It’s still too hot and burns the tip of my tongue. In my mind, Bradley leans over and kisses the burn away.
Stop right now, Lucky. Bradley is off-limits. Focus your sexual energy on food. Food that can be eat off—

“Still sabotage. I’m not even going to mention all the boyfriends you don’t deem worthy enough. That’s a boatload of sabotage right there. You are the Queen of Self-Sabotage.” He leans back into his chair, one arm draped around the back so I have a perfect view of his whole frame.

“That’s not true.” I’ve had five boyfriends in the past four years. Each one was worse than the last. Samson the slacker. Billy the pothead. Aaron the cheater. Mike the evasive workaholic. Juan, the Marine who always had a girlfriend but still wanted to make out with me.

Bradley reaches out a hand and massages my neck muscles. “Okay, I’ll be nice.”

It’s unexplainable how his hands, slender and strong, unwind the whole day. I want to lean back and let his hands trail down my back. He rubs his thumbs in soft circles.

I sigh. “My mom would love it if I ended up with someone like you.”

“There’s always time,” he says.

My stomach floods with those stupid butterflies you’re only supposed to get when you’re in high school (the non-flammable kind). Not with your best friend. Not when you’re trying to sort your life out, not make it more complicated. And
definitely
not when his girlfriend, Sky Lopez, is standing at the door of the bakery, staring daggers in your direction.

So there’s more than one reason why Bradley and I can’t be together.

“Hey, babe,” Bradley says. His hand leaves a cold space where it just was on my back. I hate the word
babe
.

Sky is the kind of girl my mother should have had as a daughter. Tall, with rich brown hair and hazel eyes under thick sculpted eyebrows. Her skin is the color of warm cinnamon. She’s stunning and blinding to look at, even at a glance.

Bradley kissed her knuckles and points to the apple pie. “Got you your favorite.”

Oh…

“Aww,” she says. “Babe, you know I just worked out.”

Perfect Sky.

Then you notice the little things about her, like how no matter what Bradley does lately, it’s not enough. The way she litters when she thinks no one is looking. The toothbrush in her purse after a big dinner. She wasn’t always like this. We used to have a blast when I came to town. Now, they’re always bickering. Maybe she wants more than he can give her. I guess I’ve never been in a relationship as long as they have, so what do I know?

I take the last pastry and bite down, making yummy noises while I’m at it.

Bradley laughs.

Sky doesn’t.

Instead she asks, “What was so important in the wonderful world of Lucky that you couldn’t pick me up from Pilates?”

“You do Pilates in five inch heels?”

Bradley chokes on his coffee.

“I have a locker.” She rolls her eyes as if it’s the most obvious thing. “You should come with. I mean, your mom’s in the spotlight since she dated that actor. What if they put your picture in those horrible magazines? You can’t just undo that.”

“I’ll take my chances,” I say.

Bradley clears his throat to change the subject. “The new chef and Lucky are off to a rough start.”

“Did you eat him for lunch?” She has the kind of smile that dentists frame in their offices.

I take my fork and dig into the apple pie. I’m not a fan of baked fruit but the crust is buttery perfection and Sky’s neck vein throbs as I scoop the pie into my mouth.

“We’re done talking about Chef James Hughes, thank you,” I say.

“Chef James Hughes?” Sky sits up straighter. “James Hughes is the guy you’ve been complaining about?”

“You know him?” I ask.

Sky blushes and shakes her head. “Bradley only called him Chef Asstard. I was just reading about him. Plus, his episode of
Sliced Champion
is one of the most watched this season. They practically have it running on a loop.”

“I suspect my mother has something to do with that.”

Sky digs through her oversized leather purse until she finds a folded newspaper.
The Boston Inquirer
is the Boston answer to the
New York Post
. “He photographs well.”

“What is this?” I take the paper from Sky’s delicate hands. There he is right in the gossip section—my green-eyed nightmare.

Black and white makes him look timeless. The green of his eyes is a light grey. His hair is so stark against his skin.

The girl he’s got an arm around is plastered. There is a tequila party in her eyes. Her hair is sweaty and limp from dancing. And James’s chiseled face is tilted towards her neck. The caption reads: “Local rising food star James Hughes sampling the local flavors.”

“Who writes this crap?” I groan.

“Clarissa Adams,” Sky says, pointing at the name under a badly pixelated photo of a woman. “This is the second time this month she focused on James. Two weeks ago she wrote about how mysterious he is and how great it is to have a local boy on TV. What, don’t give me that look. I can’t help that I read this junk. It’s always in the break room.”

“Well, she needs to find a new subject matter.”

“You sound jealous,” Bradley says.

“I’m not
jealous
. It’s just my mom doesn’t need this image.”

Sky takes his coffee, adds a teaspoon of sugar and sips it. “Says Miss Coyote Ugly.”

Bradley looks like a deer in headlights. He told her. I clench my teeth and will him to look at me, but he doesn’t.

“I’m never telling you anything again, Bradley Thorton!”

“I’m sorry,” she says, switching to friend mode. For someone who does so much yoga, she seems really tense. “I get it. I worked lots of lousy jobs even with my scholarships. Don’t worry about James. He’s a hot piece of ass. Of
course
he’s going to act up. He wants attention.”

I rip the paper in my hands. “He made it clear he wants no attention from me.”

Bradley holds his hands up in self-defense. “So, hot guys can be dicks and they get a pass? So I should start being a dick, is that what I’m hearing?”

“Who says you’re hot?” Sky counters playfully, leaning forward and kissing him full on the mouth.

That’s
a kiss. Shame sets my skin on fire for even thinking about kissing Bradley, booze or no booze.

I shift in my seat and look at the powder blue ceiling, until they unhinge from each other.

“Do you guys want to come to the tasting and see what the big deal is about?”

Sky smiles her dazzling smile. “Really?”

“Yeah.” I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder. “It’s mostly industry people and friends.” Also, it’d be nice to see familiar faces.

“Can we go?” Sky says, nipping at his cheek.

Bradley’s all, “You just want a peek at the hot chef.”

And Sky says, “He’s nothing compared to you.”

Then they kiss some more and I get up. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Bradley grabs my hand, which elicits an annoyed sigh from Sky because he’s stopped kissing her. “Wait, where are you going?”

“Home. My mom gave me a huge list of things to get done. What has she been doing this whole time?”

“Let us give you a ride home.”

I shake my head and smile politely. “The T’s right around the corner.”

“It’s drizzling,” he says.

I pat my bag. “Umbrellas. They save lives.”

“What do we wear?” Sky asks. “To the tasting.”

I hadn’t thought about that. “I guess cocktail dinner. It’s not super formal, but you know my mom…”

“Well, what are
you
going to wear?”

I scratch my head. “I don’t know yet. I’m sure she’ll give me an approved list of designers beforehand.”

Bradley smiles back and forth between us. His easy smile is distracting. I need to go shopping with Sky like I need a lobotomy, but I have no clothes, and I don’t mean that in the girly way. I mean it in the “I sold most of my clothes to a thrift shop so I could buy my bus ticket up here” way. If I show up with a band t-shirt and jeans to The Star tasting, my mom might have a conniption.

Seeing Bradley and Sky’s hands starting to intertwine again, I know I have to make a mad dash for the exit. “See you guys.”

And then I’m out the door. It’s drizzling. I lied. I don’t have an umbrella. I pull up the hood of my sweatshirt and start to walk down the street, but something is pulling me back. I peer back into the bakery. The warmth of the shop has fogged up the windows, and behind that are Bradley and Sky, intertwined like vines.

My breath hitches, my chest clenches, aching—not for Bradley, but for someone who would give me that kind of kiss.

In this light rain, when the street lamps give the city a deep yellow haze, I find myself wishing for New York. Granted, I was a month behind on my rent, the guy I was dating left me for the Paris runway, and I got my rejection letter to NYU School of Photography. But still…

I transfer from the orange line to the silver line. The silver line is technically not even a train. The stations here are so anti-NY. The buskers are pleasant, and there isn’t any litter or visible rats to nest in it. Everyone dresses a decade behind. In New York, there’s a fashionable way to dress like you don’t care. In Boston, they genuinely don’t seem to care at all. When I get off at my stop, instead of making a left to the condo, I make a right to The Star.

Out of every city I’ve lived in, New York felt more like home than the rest, and making my way around Boston’s chilly waterfront makes me miss it something awful.

As I walk, the drizzle becomes rain. I find myself back at The Star. I unlock the door and listen for anyone else that is still there.

“Hello?” My voice echoes in the empty dining room.

I hang my wet hoodie in my mom’s office and dial up the thermostat.

The last bar I worked at was a sports bar—The Stumble Out, on the Upper East Side. The crowd was a mix of trust fund babies and baby bankers who wanted a divey feel without leaving the safety of upper Manhattan. The floors were sticky with Jäger and the walls were covered in smudges from dirty ping-pong balls. By the end of the shift, my feet throbbed. I’d relish in the white noise after last call when the barback and I wiped down the bottles and tabletops.

I don’t miss that place, but I do miss the bustle of it all. I loved being in the middle of the action. But there’s a moment after closing when the silence is welcome. Old habits die hard. Why else am I alone in an unfinished restaurant I’ve agreed to help finish?

I find the storage room where the alcohol is supposed to be kept and suppress the urge to call my mother and yell at her. It’s pretty much empty. How is she supposed to stock the bar for her guests with one case of wine? I rip off the delivery notice. It’s a gift from Frank LaRosa, a restaurateur with a new vineyard. There’s a note that’s dated three weeks ago. Usually my mom replies to these things right away. Her contacts list is a shrine to herself.

I take one of the bottles, a cabernet and malbec blend. The label is solid black with a gold star embossed in the center. You’d think my mom would be all over it.

I find an opener, and because I don’t want to dirty any of the glasses, I use a clean mug from the staff kitchen that says Lick the Cook and let it air a bit. The sommelier I worked with at Ma Jolie would be rolling in his grave. Only he’s not dead, so he’d probably just roll his eyes and make me get a proper glass.

Having the restaurant to myself is a freeing experience. There’s no construction, no jerky, holier-than-thou wannabe-celebrity chef looking down at me. Still, my heart races when I push the door to his office. It’s open, and it’s my mom’s restaurant. That’s not exactly breaking in, is it? I’m practically management.

I turn on the lights and give the room a once over. He didn’t wear his motorcycle jacket to the fancy party with my mom. It’s thrown over his desk chair. I grab it and hold it at arms length. It’s three sizes too big for me. This is the worst time to realize that every guy I’ve ever dated has worn a leather jacket. Unlike the other guys, this one doesn’t cost two times my monthly rent. It’s a no name brand. No bells and whistles like studs or spikes, just clean leather. The inside lining is well worn and smells like summer at the beach.

Whoa!
Put the jacket down, Lucky,
I warn myself.

I put the jacket back where I found it and step back. What is
wrong
with me? It is not okay to smell a strange man’s coat! I shouldn’t be here. I hightail back to the kitchen where my glass—er…mug—of wine is waiting for me.

But when I get there, the paper falls out of my hands. I’m caught, red handed. Chef James is standing with his hands on his hips, staring at my cozy little spread. His work blazer is in his hands and he sets it on the table. When he looks at me a mess of emotions cross his face. First, it looks like surprise. He’s probably wondering what the hell I’m doing here by myself. Then, it’s annoyance, because that’s probably his mug I’m drinking out of, and why would I touch his things after he told me to stay away from him? Finally, it’s that smugness that makes me want to slap the smirk off his face.