Just My Ducking Luck

Frankie showed up with too many boxes, a smart mouth, and the kind of laugh that settles somewhere uncomfortable in my chest. She runs a pink, overly cheerful bookstore next door. I run from the past I’d rather forget. And yet somehow, my damn ducks—traitors, the lot of them—have decided she’s their new emotional support human.

We started with a busted fence and a battle of wills. We spiraled into late-night arguments, slow-burn tension, and a kiss that nearly unraveled the careful distance I’ve spent years building.

She’s chaos in lipstick and Converse.

I’m a man still clawing his way out of a mess no one knows the full truth about.

The smart thing would be to stay away.

The problem is, I’ve never been great at doing the smart thing—especially when she’s standing on my porch with fire in her eyes and my duck tucked under her arm.

This was supposed to be her clean slate. Too bad I’m the dirt she can’t quite scrub off.

One woman I shouldn’t want.

One past I can’t outrun.

And a duck determined to start drama.