The-Lucky-List-Rachael-Lippincott

20
The first thing I feel when I wake up is Blake’s hand still in mine.
en, opening my eyes, I see her face, inches from mine, eyes still closed. She looks completely
peaceful, so beautiful and serene in the morning light, a strand of her sun-streaked hair tangled in her
dark eyelashes.
I reach out with my free hand, wanting to brush it away, but there’s a loud bang as the screen door
flies open. My fingertips recoil quickly into my palm, as Aunt Lisa’s voice calls out to us.
“Breakfast is in five, ladies! Get it while it’s hot!”
Blake’s eyes slowly open, meeting mine. I hold her gaze for a long moment, then finally look away
when my cheeks begin to burn. I don’t want her to think I’m creepily watching her sleep.
I pull my fingers out of her grip and sit up, sliding carefully to the edge of the truck bed, my eyes
searching the light blue horizon, the magic from last night still lingering in the air, but fainter now in
the light of day.
She groans, following just behind me. “Listen, I’m not saying that wasn’t fun,” she says as she slides
past me, hopping down onto the grass, rubbing at her le shoulder. “But sleeping in the back of a truck
was not one of our best ideas.”
I laugh and jump down aer her, my back letting out a sympathy twang of pain. e hard metal of
the truck bed was pretty unforgiving. We collect the pillows and the blankets, shuing toward the
screen door.
“Admit it,” Blake says over the top of her armful of pillows. “How many times did you think about
bailing to sleep inside?”
I snort and hold the door open for her. “Only seven times. Maybe eight. You?”
I don’t add that I don’t know if it was because of the hard truck bed, or the fact that it was hard to
get any sleep at all with her so close to me.
“Not even once,” she says, stopping me in my tracks. I don’t want to think her words mean more
than they do, but I still feel a tiny swell of hope in the pit of my stomach.
I mask it by narrowing my eyes suspiciously at her as we drop the pillows o in the spare room.
“Bullshit,” I say, and she breaks.
“Practically every hour on the hour,” she admits as she slides past me into the hallway, close enough