Luck on the Line Read Online Free Page B

private school and went away with her husbands. We’re not that different, are we? I bounce around colleges and she bounces around marriages.
    And to top it off—Chef James? Who does he think he is?
    Still, I close my eyes and think of his sea-green eyes, like crystal clear water. If I’d met him anywhere else, I would have killed to take his picture. The jerk has a body that would put Henry Cavill’s to shame. In a city where most men are buried under Ivy League hoodies, James stands out. I wish he didn’t. Out of every guy I’ve ever yelled at, why does this one have to be my mother’s executive chef?
    I raise my hands out of the tub and let the water trickle down. I gather a handful of foam and pretend they’re my memories of James and blow them away until they dissolve.
    Then there’s a knock on the bathroom door and I jump out of my skin, sloshing water all over the place.
    I wrap a towel around myself, dripping from head to toe. My mom isn’t supposed to be home ‘til way later. I twist the lock. “Who is it?”
    Chuckle. “Relax, Luck. It’s only me.”
    “Bradley, what the hell?” I press a hand on my chest feeling the thump, thump, thump of my heart. “How did you get in here?”
    “You left a bag at my place.”
    What? I was sure I got everything. “I’ll be right out.”
    “Meet me in the study.”
    I hear him chuckle again. Can picture his blond head shaking from side to side, smiling.
    My moment of Zen gone, I throw clothes on. They cling to my damp skin. I run some leave-in conditioner through my long hair and look at myself in the mirror. I’m no longer streaked with dirt and my face is less puffy. My skin is red from the hot water, but I’ve looked worse.
    It takes me a lap around the place to find the study. There’s a long chaise the color of Caribbean skies, a glass fireplace and wall-to-wall books. My heart seizes when I realize this is my dad’s original library. He read for hours, for days, possessed by the classics, mysteries, even Harry Potter.
    Bradley looks up from the beaten leather armchair, very much the king of the castle. In his hand is a crystal tumbler with two fingers of liquid amber.
    “Make yourself at home,” I say, sitting on the day bed facing him.
    When we were in high school Bradley was the tallest boy in our grade. Thin as wire, the football dicks made fun of him relentlessly. Now, his arms are muscular and lean. He plays tennis and swims every night after his classes. Renaissance artists could have painted his face. His golden hair is almost long enough to tie in a ponytail, the only sign of rebellion against his blue-blood family.
    “Your mom has nicer bourbon than my dad.”
    “Where’s my stuff?” I notice the black bag at his feet and reach for it.
    He holds his foot across the bag like a barricade. “Don’t be mean. Pay attention to me.”
    “Yes, Bradley. I haven’t seen you in 24 hours. What’s new?”
    He smiles as he sips his drink.
    “Why are you smiling?”
    “Because you’re all wet.”
    My stomach flutters. I suck my teeth and roll my eyes. Really, truly, very mature. I twist my hair and let the water drip on the carpet. “Don’t be weird.”
    He leans forward with the glass in his hands. “What happened today?”
    I look at the clock above the fireplace. It’s five minutes to five, so why not. I take the drink from him. The woodsy notes tickle my nose. The liquid is warm on my tongue and sparks a fire in my belly.
    “Sorry I left without waking you,” I say. I want to stick my head in the sand, ostrich-style. I can’t believe I almost crossed the line with my oldest friend.
    “No, dumbass,” he says, and I’m a little relieved we’re back to normal. “Stella called me and asked me to check on you. What happened at the restaurant?”
    “Oh.” I take another drink, and he listens to me talk about The Star. The shit show, literally, in the bathrooms. The falling beam. The small fire. Chef James and his attitude.
    Bradley