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Amelia: What did it say?
I skim it. Reading it the second time I’m not sure it says all that much.
Evie: Not that much. Maybe I’m over-reacting.
Evie: I’ll show it to you when I get back.
Amelia: Forward it to me.
Evie: Not now. My train’s getting in. Besides, it’s snail mail.
Amelia: That’s even weirder.
Evie: I know. Talk later.
“St. Charles. The next stop will be St. Charles,” the conductor announces.
The train’s slowing down and I make my way to the front of the car. I step off into a late afternoon summer, the sinking sun practically blinding me. I shade my eyes and glance around at the stretch of parking lot chock full of sedans and SUVs.
A wolf whistle pierces the air and I swivel. Dylan’s leaning back against a Jeep convertible. “Lucky Charm,” he calls out, moving two fingers away from his mouth.
“Hey.” I go hot, then cold, then hot again, my knees practically knocking about under the twenty dollar country club casual dress, because I want his mouth on me and for that matter, his fingers too.
“Looking awfully pretty on this summer day. Need a ride?”
He’s wearing black khakis and a fitted V-neck T-shirt showing a dusk of groomed chest hair and, oh holy hell, how did I miss the definition in those arms the last time I was with him?
“Yes, please.”
“What? No overnight bag?”
“I assumed we’d be working,” I say, my throat going dry. “Besides you didn’t include that in your instructions.”
“You actually read my instructions?” He leans in, kisses me on the cheek, and I could swear he lingers a second. His scent is subtle. Cologne? Soap? Does he smell this great naturally?
My cleavage flushes. It’s hotter out here in the suburbs. Maybe the heat’s rising off the asphalt or the train grinding away from the station. Maybe it’s just shooting off Dylan McAlister like firecrackers leaving puffs of smoke trailing across a hazy summer sky.
“Of course, I read your instructions.” I take a step back and execute a slow twirl. “Country club casual.”
“Holy hotness, Doris Day.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.” He opens the Jeep’s passenger door and I climb in. Our arms brush and my pulse quickens, my mouth going dry. Like somehow this is fate. I’m supposed to be his lucky charm. Why do I get this weird premonition he’s going to be mine?
“How was your week?” he asks. He drives down Route 34 and we motor past shopping plazas filled with parking lots bigger than the actual grocery and sporting goods stores.
“Same old, same old. Yours?”
“Nothing to write home about.”
We cruise past VFWs, White Hen Pantries, Thai food take out joints, and gas stations on every other corner. The air is warm. It smells different than big city air. Fresher, greener, if that’s possible.
“How’d the game go in Tulsa?” I ask.
“‘How was the play, Mrs. Lincoln?’” His handsome facade cracks. Weariness seeps out.
“That good,” I say, my updo breaking apart. My hair blows in the wind. I push back strands of hair.
