Luck on the Line by Zoraida Cordova Page B

call my mother. He looks back at the door, like he’s contemplating making an exit. I wouldn’t blame him. But when he looks at me, his body relaxes and he throws his hands up in surrender. I’ve caught him, too.
    “You’re not supposed to be here,” I say, calling the kettle black.
    He nods, reaching into the cabinet for a matching mug that says Kiss The Bartender.
    “Doesn’t this violate our agreement to stay away from each other?” I ask.
    He answers by pouring himself some of my stolen wine. God, his smile is so hard not to look at. Even from across the table I can smell him—that delicious suntan scent.
    “Well?” I urge him to talk. Say anything. Something.
    “Lucky.” Anything but my name. It makes my wet head spin. James holds up the mug and waits for me to clink my drink to his. “Truce?”

Chapter 10
    “Truce isn’t exactly my middle name,” I say.
    I hold my mug of wine steadily, but make no effort to clink glasses. After all, why should I? Even before realizing he was my mother’s pet chef¸ when we were in the coffee shop, he wasn’t the most outstanding character. Unless you count his soft black hair and the way it frames his cheekbones, because they’re definitely pretty outstanding.
    I hope he didn’t see me sniffing his jacket like a creeper. Maybe he did. Maybe that’s why he’s smiling. It feels like someone threw a wrench in my guts.
    He leans forward and clinks his mug to mine, forcing me into a silent agreement. We’re both at the Star after hours drinking the wine that should be for the opening. Or, if not the opening, then at least for the restaurant. I’d hate for my mother to think that I’m already messing up, which I’m not. I’m working. But he doesn’t know that.
    “What is your middle name?” he asks, pulling up a metal barstool. He sips from his mug and makes a face.
    He doesn’t smell the sweet dark cherry. He doesn’t stick his nose in the mug and let the deep purple wine fill his senses. Chef James doesn’t like wine. I take a big swallow of wine, let it coat my tongue.
    “Look, Lucy—”
    I choke, spraying him across his white shirt for the second day in a row.
    “Lucky!” He grabs a towel and rubs the wine splatter off his arms, then throws it to me. “That was an accident. I’m—”
    I take the towel and wipe it across my face, before realizing someone was probably using this to wipe down the kitchen counters. Ugh, whatever, I’ve had worse things on my face.
    I stick an accusatory finger on his chest. “My name is Lucky. Not Lucy, not Luck. And contrary to every boy in the fifth grade, not Lick-y .”
    He holds up his hands defensively. “Can we agree it’s been a long day?”
    I sit back on the barstool, putting an entire metal table between us. “Then why aren’t you still at the party with my mother? Or at a bar somewhere downing more Jägermeister than should be legal for anyone not in college?”
    James takes another sip of the wine, but this time doesn’t struggle against the dry taste. He’s settling in. “I’ve had my fill of bars.”
    The way he says that makes me want to ask why. I’ve been in this business long enough to know when someone has something in their past they don’t want to talk about. Before I let my brain wander off into fabricating some elaborate James Hughes history—a love child (not unlikely), a gay lover (not a chance), a wanted criminal (perhaps)—okay, so my brain is going there.
    “So you just left the boss lady all alone?” I say it with mock surprise. We both know my mother shines best when surrounded by people who adore her. That, and champagne.
    He looks down at the table and smirks. “She’s in good hands.”
    I want to change the subject. The idea of a Husband #5 makes me more nauseated than my new birth control pill.
    “Look,” He holds his arms out so I can get a good look at his entire body. His shirt isn’t so tight that it makes him look like a Jersey Shore reject, but tight enough