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“Rafe?”
My attention drops back to Claire. Clara? Whatever. When I can’t remember their names, I just call them darling. “I’m so sorry, darling, but I’ve got a very early start tomorrow.”
Her hopeful smile falls. “You’re not coming up?”
No, I’m going to forgo getting my dick sucked in favor of crossing the road and making sure I’m not hallucinating. “Believe me, darling, I’m more upset about it than you are.” Another flash of lightning, another glimpse of red hair and glaring blue eyes. I’m blaming the split-second distraction for why I say something beyond stupid. “Let’s do it again some time.”
I regret it the moment it slips from my lips, even more so when her eyes light up like the Vegas strip. I quickly make my excuses, wait until she’s safely behind her front door, then stride across the road.
As I approach the phone booth, my gaze locks with another through the rain-streaked glass. For some reason, irritation sparks in my chest. What’s that saying, again? Something about if you think of the devil, it’ll appear?
Well, tonight the devil is dripping wet and clutching a yellowbook to her chest.
Closing the umbrella, I reach for the handle. On the other side of the glass, I see Penelope reach for it, too. Her attempt to hold the door shut is pathetic, and I’m barely met with any resistance as I fling it open.
Wedging the door open with my foot, I lean my arms against the top metal frame and let my eyes climb her body. She’s soaking. Her furry coat looks like a stray dog from one of those ASPCA advertisements, and her hair is so wet it’s gone from copper to rust.
“What are you doing out so late? Working the street corner when you got caught in the rain, were you?”
Silence.
My gaze narrows on the panic carved into her face. “What’s wrong?” Again, no answer. I sweep an eye over the empty street, then step inside, slamming the door shut behind me. I grip her chin. “I’m not in the business of asking twice, Penelope.”
A gasp escapes her lips as a bolt of lightning floods the space with light. Her jaw flexes against my thumb pad, and realization washes over my unease like a cold bucket of water.
I let my fingers slip off her face and laugh. “Scared of a little lightning? Please, the chances of getting struck are one in a million.”
It’s her turn to laugh. It’s loud and bitter and when it bounces off the walls, I’m suddenly aware of how small it is in here.
“I’ll walk you home.”
“I don’t want to walk.”
“I’ll drive you home then. We’re thirty seconds from your apartment, lazy bones.”
“Go away.”
Wiping the amusement off my face with the back of my hand, I lean against the door and study her. When lightning illuminates the booth, her shoulders tense in anticipation, and her fingers curl into fists by her side. Her lips part to count in breathy whispers, and when she gets to seven, thunder rolls over her hunched shoulders.
Her shaking makes the silver around her neck glint.
I groan. “You’re not serious.”
She pops one eye open and glares at me through it. “What?”
I nod to her necklace. “You think you’re one in a million.” I don’t even bother trying to hide my eye roll. “How self-absorbed to do you have to be to believe—”
“I’m not self-absorbed.” Her trembling fingers fly to her necklace in defense. “I’m lucky.”
“Yes, because getting struck by lightning is real lucky.”
She shakes her head, running the four-leaf clover up and down the chain. “Luck isn’t just about good things happening to you, it’s about having the odds stacked on your side. Every dice has a six, right? Anyone can land on it, but lucky people are more likely to land on it than most.”
“And with that logic, lucky people are more likely to get struck by lightning,” I reply dryly.
She nods, and I huff out a sardonic breath. “No such thing as luck, Penelope. Good, bad, or otherwise. Not sure how many times I have to prove it to you.”
Now, her other eye pops open, and she treats me to an incredulous stare. “You’re the king of casinos. How do you not believe in luck?”
