Falling in Luck | Paperback with swag

Mallory Pech believes she’s cursed. Injuries, accidents, and misunderstandings follow her wherever she goes. Even her name (first and last!) means bad luck. Her best friend, Benji Chance, insists Mallory’s fortune is hers to control. Heeding his advice, Mallory pursues her dream man, the wealthy and debonair Jean-Luc Chevalier, son of her company’s CEO, visiting her NY office from Paris. He’s never noticed Mallory on his previous twelve trips, but maybe thirteen’s her lucky number.

But everything goes awry from the start. Mallory’s attempts to charm and allure Jean-Luc end in twisted ankles, house fires, and misspelled tattoos. Yet somehow, she draws Jean-Luc closer. When one mishap after another leads to a marriage proposal, Mallory believes her luck’s finally changing—despite Benji’s increasingly desperate warnings.

By marrying Jean-Luc, Mallory could have everything she’s always wanted: financial security, family, and a flat in France. Fixated on her dream guy, she fails to notice her best friend’s jealousy and heartbreak. But as she navigates a world of secrets, lies, and culture shock, she begins to fear her fairytale engagement to Jean-Luc may cost her the one thing money can’t buy—the one person who’s loved her all along. And losing Benji would be her worst luck yet.

Part One

Chapter One

Beginner's Luck

I was ten when I picked up my aunt’s copy of Name Your Baby and discovered my name means the unlucky one. It explained so much about my life to date—the lost cat, the bad grades, the car accident. Later, I found out my family name, Pech, is the actual word for bad luck in German, and I desperately wanted to ask my parents why they’d named me Mallory. Unfortunately, they’d died years before.

When I met my best friend, Benji Chance, I joked that I should marry him for no other reason than to upgrade my last name.

He scoffed at my superstitions. “You make your own fortune, Mallory. Luck is nothing more than ignorance of all the factors.”

But for me, misfortune always had a way of getting the last laugh, all the factors be damned.

Open-minded to the possibility I could control my own destiny, I decided one mid-May morning to put Benji’s philosophy to the test, hoping to catch the eye of one unsuspecting suitor.

I called this experiment: Operation Eye Catch. In retrospect, that might have been my first mistake.

On the morning in question, the debonair Jean-Luc Chevalier, son of the CEO, was coming to NYC. Setting aside the slight obstacle that he lived in France, I focused on the bigger problem that he’d visited our office twelve times without noticing me. I manhandled my clown curls with a flat iron, popped in new filtered contacts, and confidently strode into work.

Maybe thirteen was my lucky number.

No sooner had I powered up my laptop than I heard the familiar eeeek-eeeek of Benji rowing his chair through the cubicle maze for the morning update. He sailed into the open Sea of Administrivia, and I savored the surprise registering across his features.

“There it is,” I said, half-dreading, half-longing to watch his reaction.

His eyebrows shot up. “What the hell, Mallory? Is that a wig?”

I touched my straightened hair, self-conscious now.

He leaned forward and squinted. “And are you wearing contacts? Blue contacts?”

I defended my new look with a cleverly nuanced retort. “Shut up, Benji.”

My look wasn’t created for his approval.

Benji only smirked and then spun his chair around to start the long heel-over-heel journey back the way he’d come. He stopped short and spun back toward me. “Oh! It’s because he’s coming, isn’t it?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He was talking about the man of my dreams, visiting today, all the way from Paris. I looked down at the small Eiffel Tower knickknack Jean-Luc had sent me last year. Well, it was sent on behalf of him anyway. And yeah, everyone in the office got one. But it was the thought.

“You know he’s never even spoken to you.” Benji pushed the Eiffel Tower, and it thunked as it toppled over.

Right then, Grace shouted, “They’re in the lobby!” She brushed her skirt and ran her hands over her hair.

I ducked into the bathroom for one last check of my experimental look. Straightened red-brown hair imitated Parisian chic. First Love lip gloss promised sweet seduction. Long eyelashes bade come hither. And, oh, God. Smudged eyeliner screamed walk of shame. I quickly grabbed a tissue to blot at the defect, eye opened wide.

One brown eye.

Where had my blue contact gone? I blinked rapidly in case it had rolled behind my eyelid, checked the sink, and finally took a step back to examine the floor. One more step, and there it was, where my shoe had been.

Just my normal rotten luck.

I could live with mismatched irises, but sadly the lens wasn’t just cosmetic. I bent down and picked up the misshapen plastic sphere, considering whether I could rinse it off and reuse it, but I dismissed that idea with reluctance.

I squinted and walked back out to the office as the elevator bell chimed. Grace looked my way—both of her. I closed my right eye to correct the distortion. She grinned like the next contestant on The Price is Right. Clearly she was as excited about seeing the handsome Jean-Luc as I was. When I opened both eyes, she blurred, and I felt dizzy. What if I swooned in front of Jean-Luc?

The glass doors opened, and a group of men and women wearing seemingly identical navy blue suit coats and white dress shirts burst into the room. Jean-Luc stood several inches taller than any other person in the group. Dark hair, dark eyes with a hint of mischief. His tan London Fog made him the cream center of the entourage donut.

Grace stepped up and put her hand forward. “Welcome back, Monsieur.”

I sucked in my breath at the sight of him. I hadn’t laid eyes on him since before his interview with Fortune which I’d immediately pulled out and magnetically pinned to my refrigerator. I sighed, remembering the part where he talked about his love for older French music. It would have been so romantic if I shared that interest with him. But it was the slick photograph showing his sweet but sexy eyes and that careless but caring smile that made my heart skip a beat. All that paled in comparison with seeing him walking in here, in the flesh.

Jean-Luc stopped, and his entourage came to a halt around him. He made direct eye contact with Grace as he took her hand in both of his. I might have called it seductive if he’d been looking at me. But he was looking at Grace. And Grace was a good-looking woman, but at sixty-seven, wearing cataract glasses, I didn’t exactly consider her a rival.

No, my rival sat in her office, waiting for Jean-Luc to come to her.

Raquel Cortez should have come out to greet Jean-Luc, but she never would. She knew perfectly well he’d arrived. She’d fling the door open at the last minute. She’d never go so far as to make him knock, probably worried he wouldn’t bother. Once he stepped into her office, I wouldn’t see him again the rest of the day.

I glanced back at her closed door. Jean-Luc’s line of sight followed mine. He pressed his lips to the back of Grace’s hand and excused himself. My heart lurched into my throat at this gentlemanly gesture. The first time I met Jean-Luc, he kissed the back of my hand that same way and said, “.”

And Benji thought Jean-Luc hadn’t spoken to me before. But he had. Every single time he’d visited.

As Jean-Luc crossed the floor toward the back office, I waited my turn to say hello to him before he passed. With my right eye closed, I could see his every facial expression, but I couldn’t stand there leering at him with one eye. This was my chance to make an impression. I endured the blurred duplication of his features as I held one hand out in greeting. The dizziness redoubled, and as I took a step toward him, I noticed a creeping gray on the corners of my vision. Another step, and the floor came up to meet me.

  

Sunshine streamed red through my closed eyelids. I started to peel one back to figure out where I was until whispered voices sparked my curiosity.

“It’s a flattering offer, Jean-Luc. Is this your father’s idea?” Raquel’s voice. Raquel’s office.

I lay perfectly still, worried the hard leather sofa would make farting sounds if I shifted my weight. I wanted to be a fly on the wall in this office for a few minutes.

Jean-Luc’s beautiful accent gutted me. “Well, it is my father who is proposing.”

“And he suggested me?” She sounded skeptical, though I had no idea what they were discussing.

“Actually, no. My mother suggested you.”

Raquel laughed. “Oh, okay. That makes more sense. Your father does have an ambitious imagination, and it’s sweet of you to think of me. I might have considered this . . . proposition, but it’s a bit of a demotion. No offense.”

Jean-Luc made a small sound of acquiescence. “Well, if you reconsider.”

“Thank you for the offer, Jean-Luc. I’m sure someone will jump at the opportunity.”

Did Raquel just turn down a promotion? The floor creaked, and fabric rustled near me, so I concentrated on keeping my features relaxed. I caught the definite smell of cigarettes, but something else too. Like citrus, if citrus was a man.

“Ah yes, well. I see. Perhaps there is still some chance I can find someone else.”

“Well, good luck. But Jean-Luc, take your time.”

He exhaled. “I’m afraid I don’t have that luxury, Raquel.” I could almost feel him—or his energy, static electricity near my skin. “What about her?”

I swallowed hard, but it went unnoticed.

“Mallory? You realize she’s my assistant?”

“Your assistant, eh? So maybe she would make a perfect, how do you say, compagnonne.”

Raquel snorted. “That would be quite the project. Look at how she’s dressed. You’d need to start there.”

Jesus. Despite my best effort, my body shifted as I resisted the urge to stand up and yell, “What the hell is wrong with my clothes?” This was my best outfit.

“Oh, she’s coming around.” Raquel stood at my side. “Here, take this.” She handed me a cup of water. I didn’t want it, but I took it.

I feigned confusion. “What happened?”

“You have, ehm, fainted.” He was kind enough not to say that I face planted right in front of him. He knelt beside me, his face not four inches from mine. That seductive, slightly naughty, sly, charming smile crossed his face. The soft brown eyes examined mine, seeing me. He touched my forehead, and a shiver crept down my spine. “You are okay, oui?”

I nodded, wondering if Raquel sensed the straight-up pornography this was for me.

His eyes moved back and forth. “You have the most unusual eyes.”

I nearly fainted all over again. I tried to find something appropriate to say in response. What do you say to your boss’s boss, the son of the CEO of the company, the man you’ve dreamed about every night since you last laid eyes on him? What do you say when that man is kneeling beside you and flattering you?

“Mmm,” he continued. “Les yeux vairons.”

“What?” I asked. My French was only slightly better than my Klingon.

“Pardon. It is French. It means eyes of two different colors.”

“What?” I started to doubt his English. My eyes were brown—like his. Then I remembered my contact lens fiasco. Wouldn’t it be funny if my bad luck turned in my favor for once and Jean-Luc finally noticed me due to some bizarre mishap?

He ran his thumb across my forehead, and I closed my yeux vairons for the space of a moment. He turned toward Raquel. “It would be best that she stay here for a little while, no?”

Thankfully, he was facing away from me when the sofa let everyone know about its gastrointestinal issues.

While I recovered, I watched Raquel, trying to glean what about her wardrobe was so superior to my own. We both wore a dark blue skirt. Hers might have been of a nicer material, and I had to concede that it didn’t stick to her thighs or ride up her ass like mine did. Her blouse was exquisite; I’d give her that.

Of course, she kept her hair maintained and her fingernails perfectly manicured. My fingernails looked like they were used as the emery board to file hers. And her jewelry was probably authentic and valuable—particularly the elegant, tastefully stunning sapphire peeking over her neckline. Her watch could be featured in a magazine ad. Okay, so she was justified in her critique. But the fact that I could recognize the distinction had to mean I was capable, with more funds, of emulating her. No?

Jean-Luc had moved to a chair by the window, laptop perched on his knee, concentrating heavily.

The year before last, he gave an interview to Capital where he talked about how he didn’t own a television, preferring to spend his time experiencing life—food, friends, and most of all Paris. Watching him now, I wanted to tell him we had so much in common. I also disdained the television, if you didn’t count BBC America. And I loved food. I watched the Food Network all the time. We were in total agreement on our love for Paris, and one day, I would certainly visit the city of lights.

He glanced up to see me staring. “Are you feeling better?”

The jig was up. I carefully heaved myself off the giant whoopee cushion. Jean-Luc rushed over and grasped my hand. I nearly swooned all over again from the sparks. Did he sense how his skin touching mine sent goosebumps all the way up to my shoulder? And how did he smell so deliciously edible? I had a crazy urge to yank his wrist to my nose and inhale that intoxicating fragrance. To peel back his sleeve and lick his forearm. To nibble on his neck like a snack.

His eyebrow dipped, and I realized I’d seized on to him like I’d hooked a massive fish and was preparing to reel it in. I rolled forward to help him haul me to my feet. As soon as I was steady, he patted my back and made sure I was good to walk out the door, and I floated to my desk on dreams of romantic potential.

Maybe my luck was changing.