Beginner's Luck. Kate Clayborn
“I wouldn’t,” said Zoe, more firmly than perhaps any of them would have anticipated, since Zoe seemed to both love her work and do amazingly well at it. Zoe waved a hand dismissively. “It’d be just—a lifetime of spa treatments and male strippers, I’m pretty sure.”
“Jesus, Zoe,” Kit said, on a laugh. “Why does your mind always go to male strippers?”
“I think that Magic Mike movie rewired my brain.”
“At least one of those twenty will do something like that, though,” said Greer. “I mean, maybe not the male strippers. But you’ll read about one of them buying a six-million-dollar RV and a gold-plated pickup truck or something.”
“Judge not, lest ye be judged,” said Betty, snaking her tattooed arm between them to refill Greer’s beer. Betty winked at them, her trademark move when she served a drink. Betty actually, literally only had one natural eye, the left one a very convincing prosthetic, and all the regulars here had heard a different story from Betty herself on how she came to have it. “I saw that on a fridge magnet,” she said.
“Oh, I’m not judging,” Greer said, embarrassed, though it’s not as though Betty herself had a multi-million-dollar RV or a gold pickup truck. “I mean, people can—you know, do whatever. I’m not judging!”
This was classic Greer—quick to feel as if she’d said the wrong thing, always apologizing. Zoe kept telling her she needed to let her balls drop, but so far this hadn’t worked to make Greer any more assertive.
Betty smiled, bright red lips passing over her white teeth. “I’m teasing. So what would you ladies do if you won the lottery?”
There’d been a pause, a too-long one, because then Betty had shrugged and said, “Well, you three sort that out while I go serve some more drinks,” shimmying away in her vintage dress, little lemon and lime and orange slices printed all over it, her jet-black hair stiff in its pompadour. Except for the tattoos, Betty could’ve walked straight off a vintage poster, the kind that’d keep soldiers going.
“She must not have heard me about the strippers,” Zoe said.
“Seriously, though,” said Greer. “What would we buy?”
Another pause, while they all took a drink. Maybe on another day, they would have taken Zoe’s lead and riffed on all their ridiculous, overindulgent ideas—the ones where you speculate on how many shoes you could fit in a walk-in closet the size of your current apartment, on whether you could afford a private plane, on the likelihood of being able to purchase some rare piece of historically important jewelry.
But on that day—when Kit had spent two hours cleaning up after a pipe burst in her apartment, when Zoe had, not for the first time, watched a grown man cry at a conference table, and when Greer had, for the third time in a single calendar year, decided to quit a job—not a single one of them was feeling all that overindulgent.
Kit said, “A house,” but what she thought was, home.
Zoe said, “An adventure,” but what she thought was, forgiveness.
Greer said, “An education,” but what she thought was, freedom.
So in the end, it didn’t matter all that much who had said, at the Quick Mart, to add the ticket to their bill. What mattered was that the three of them had heard each other’s desire.
And not a single one of them was going to see the other waste the opportunity.
Chapter 1
Kit
So the thing is, I haven’t quite worked out how to live like a millionaire.
Not that I have much acquaintance with millionaires, really, except for Greer and Zoe, but they’re new to the game too. In my mind, millionaires probably do not keep wearing a pair of black pants long after they don’t really look black anymore. They probably buy new glasses instead of buying tiny screw kits to fix old ones. They probably do not drive a fourteen-year-old hatchback with no radio, nor do they live in one-bedroom apartments above bars, even really nice bars.
Millionaires also probably do not spend four hours of a workday wiping what was about fifty years of accumulated dirt off lab equipment, because millionaires probably have people they pay for that sort of thing.
I tip a bit more ethanol onto my rag to polish one last spot on the steel creep frame we’ve recently inherited—it’s old, but it’ll still do the job for some of our most aggressive stress testing. At this point, it’s started to gleam under my attentions, and I get a little thrill of pride at seeing things coming together. This morning when I’d come in, I’d hoped to steal some time on the microscope, especially since in these early weeks of summer, most of the graduate students who use the scopes, untethered from their teaching assignments, are working irregular hours, sometimes coming out of the building rumpled and bleary-eyed at seven a.m. when I’m usually arriving. But when Dr. Singh had asked if I could spare some time getting the lab in shape for the campus photographer, I hadn’t hesitated. This lab is where I’d done most of the work for my master’s thesis, and it’s where I still, almost four years later, train some of the newcomers.
Millionaires like me, I guess, get a little thrill from this kind of thing, and if I wish that some of the graduate students around here shared in my sense of protectiveness about this lab—well, that’s okay.
Once I feel the rag slide easily over the steel, I take a step back and turn in a slow circle, admiring my work. I may need to hit the windows one more time—a few are looking a little streaky still. Dr. Singh’s lab is the most modest in the materials science department, but damn if I didn’t get it the cleanest. It probably won’t even make the cut for the photographer, but it’s the principle of the thing.
I snort a little, just thinking this. Principles, I suspect, are also part of the reason I have so far been a shitty millionaire. Aside from the fact that I’d lived in a state of near-panic right after the win, begging Zoe and Greer to be the ones to do the Virginia state lottery’s mandated press appearance so my name could be left out of it as much as possible, I’d also second-guessed almost every purchase I even thought about making, and consequently made hardly any at all. Three months ago, Greer, newly thrilled by every single college course she was enrolled in, told me I was acting like Silas Marner. Which I found very offensive, once I googled Silas Marner.
But no more miserly Kit, not after today. Today, I’m taking the afternoon off and finally, officially—six months after winning the jackpot—making my biggest dream come true. Thinking about it puts a wide smile on my face, which I can see reflected in those shiny windows I cleaned all morning.
“Excuse me,” comes a deep voice from behind me, and it’s so unexpected that I jump a little, hitting my elbow on the creep frame I’ve just finished cleaning.
“Ow,” I mutter, turning to meet—oh, only the most attractive person I have ever actually seen in real life, unless something is happening to my vision. I raise a hand immediately to my face, noting the lab goggles I am wearing—right, this is ideal—over my actual glasses. I pull them off, the rubbery strap getting a little stuck in my hair, and wince when a few strands come out. Once I’ve got my glasses straightened, I have another look.
And, yeah. Still the most attractive person I’ve ever seen, tall and broad-shouldered with sandy-blond hair and a square, set jaw, eyes so blue I can see them even from several feet away, where he’s standing in the doorway. I don’t usually go for guys in suits, probably because most of the men in my line of work are more the rumpled-khakis or jeans type, but damn. This guy wears a suit like it’s his job. Which, it probably is his job, since it’s noon on a Friday.
“I’m looking for E.R. Averin.” Excellent voice too—deep and smooth, and I had not really realized until this moment that I am so hard up if I am noticing this man’s voice so forcefully. Maybe there was something to Zoe’s constant haranguing about my nonexistent dating life.
“Well, you found her,” I say, glad to hear that