**Rain Brings Luck**
After a scorching summer, a chilly and damp autumn arrives, filled with biting winds and endless rain.
On her way home, exhausted from the wind and relentless drizzle, Poppy steps into a supermarket to escape the weather and pick up something for dinner. Inside, it’s warm, bright, and dry. She takes her time wandering through the aisles, examining packages.
Poppy fills her basket with groceries. In the produce section, she picks up a lemon and a bunch of grapes. She imagines curling up on her cosy sofa, sipping hot tea with lemon, plucking ripe grapes and popping them into her mouth. Maybe she’ll even have a glass of wine to warm up.
She pauses in front of the deli counter, debating between sausages and ham. Right now, she’d eat both—she hasn’t had a bite since breakfast. Swallowing, she reaches for the ham—no cooking required. Just then, another hand reaches for the same packet.
Poppy pulls back and turns to see a tall, handsome man standing beside her. Stylishly cut black hair with just a hint of silver at the temples, deep brown eyes, full pink lips. And he’s wearing a black coat. Exactly her type.
“Sorry,” he says, flashing a flawless, white-toothed smile.
*Hollywood has nothing on him. Does someone like him really shop at Tesco for ham?* Poppy flushes under his gaze, forcing herself to look away and step back. *Stop staring like a lovestruck idiot.* She scowls at herself as she moves toward the checkout.
Catching her reflection in the drinks fridge, she groans. *God, what a mess. What must he think of me? Not that it matters. Men like him don’t notice women like me.* She unloads her basket onto the conveyor belt. Someone places identical items beside hers—including the ham.
She must have been staring too long because he speaks up.
“We’ve got similar taste, don’t you think?”
Poppy looks up into that dazzling smile again.
“It’s just basic shopping. Half the people here have the same stuff,” she mutters, turning away. *I look like a drowned rat.*
“Fair point,” he agrees.
*I’m all windswept, and he looks like he just stepped out of a salon.* She imagines running her fingers through his thick hair and immediately scolds herself. *Pull yourself together. He’s out of your league.*
She packs her bags, pays, and strides toward the exit without glancing back. Outside, the wind slaps her in the face, as if punishing her for seeking shelter earlier. The door swings open behind her.
“Not exactly walking weather. Do you live nearby?” the handsome stranger asks.
“Why?” Poppy tenses.
“I’ve got my car—could give you a lift.”
She hesitates. *He probably knows exactly how charming he is. Doesn’t seem like a psycho, though.* Her inner voice pipes up: *And how many psychos have you met?* *This one’s the first,* she admits. *So? Walk in the rain or take the ride? Don’t be stupid.*
*If he’s a murderer, at least he’s good-looking.* The thought makes her smile. They step off the kerb, and he opens the passenger door.
“Here. Let me take your bags—easier that way.”
The car is warm, dry, and quiet. He slides in beside her, turns the key, and the engine purrs like a tamed beast.
“Where to?” he asks, his brown eyes fixed on her.
“Hazel Road, number sixteen. Near the station.”
“I know it,” he says, pulling away.
Poppy watches the wind whip at pedestrians’ coats and flip umbrellas inside out. She sneaks glances at his hands on the wheel—steady, controlled. *He’s perfect. Why bother with me? Drop me off, and that’s it. Never see him again.*
“I’m Oliver,” he says. “You?”
She almost replies with something childish like *What’s it to you?* but holds back. *Why be rude? It’s not his fault he’s gorgeous.*
“Poppy.”
“Beautiful name. I had a crush on a girl named Poppy in nursery. Promised to marry her.”
“Did you?”
“Well… it *was* nursery.”
Only now does Poppy notice the soft music playing. Had it been on the whole time? Was she too busy staring at him to hear it?
She shifts in her seat, suddenly aware of the scent of leather and something else—his cologne, maybe.
“Which block?” Oliver asks.
Poppy blinks. They’re already at her building. *Snap out of it. He’s just being nice.*
The car stops, and she scrambles out into the wind.
“Your bags,” Oliver calls, stepping out to hand them to her.
“Thanks,” she mumbles, avoiding his eyes as she hurries inside.
Fumbling with her keys, she finally unlocks the door and ducks inside, exhaling shakily. The car doesn’t leave until she’s safely in.
*God, what must I look like?* she thinks, catching her reflection in the lift mirror. *Men like him don’t stay single. Probably married to some model with kids just like him. Just a lift. Forget it.*
She stops by the supermarket every evening after work, but she doesn’t see him again.
Then, two days later, his car is parked outside her building. At first, she thinks she’s mistaken—she never checked the number plate—but instinct tells her it’s him. *Was I waiting for him? Is he actually a stalker?*
Oliver steps out.
“Been waiting for you, Poppy.”
“Why?”
“Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
“Nursery nostalgia?” Why did she say that? Now he’ll get offended and leave.
“Maybe,” he mimics her tone. “Only met two Poppys in my life. Fate, don’t you think? It’s freezing—get in.”
She *should* invite him up. But why would she? So she gets in. The familiar scent and soft music envelop her.
“You a student?”
“No, I work. Optician at the clinic,” she says proudly.
“Impressive. Helping people see better.”
“Just checking prescriptions. You?”
“Engineer. Boring stuff. Just finished work? Fancy a coffee?”
*Obviously.* Only an idiot would refuse. Honestly, she’d agree to anything with him. But Poppy’s not that reckless. Coffee is safe.
They chat over lattes. She melts under his attentive gaze, his smug grin. To resist his charm, she throws out blunt questions. Soon, they’re on first-name terms.
“You married?”
He hesitates. “Divorced. You got a boyfriend?”
“Not currently,” she says coyly.
He drives her home, takes her hand, leans in—
Poppy freezes, then yanks her hand back and bolts from the car.
In the lift, she curses herself. *Perfect man, and you play hard to get!*
She invites him over on their third date. Presses against him in the hallway before he can even take off his coat.
Later, lying on his shoulder, she envies her own luck. He never stays the night—fine by her. Mornings aren’t her best look. But she can’t sleep, replaying every word, every touch.
He visits two or three times a week, rarely sleeping over. She knows a man like him must have options. Probably married. No ring, but that means nothing. With him, she forgets everything. Without him, she aches.
Months pass. She’s falling harder. Jealousy gnaws at her—who else is he seeing? She wants him all to herself.
One day, she outright asks if he’s married.
“I told you—divorced.”
“Then why don’t you stay? Why only see me sometimes?”
He sighs. “It’s complicated. My ex drinks. Badly. We don’t… share a bed. But the house is mine. I can’t kick her out. She’d fall apart.”
Poppy doesn’t buy it. She’s not *that* naive. But she can’t bring herself to end it.
She needs to confide in someone. The opportunity comes when the head nurse drops by her office.
“You’re smart, pretty—why single?” the nurse prods. “Dr. James fancies you. Young, free, no ex-wives. Why not?”
Poppy cracks. Tells her everything.
The nurse shakes her head. “He’s married, love. Handsome, you say? Something’s off. Want his address? My mate’s in the police—can check for you.”
Two days later, an address lands on Poppy’s desk.
She debates for hours. What if he *is* married? Can she walk away? Unlikely.
She tries confronting Oliver.
“Why can’t you just be happy?” he snaps. “No stringsAs the years passed, Poppy watched her daughter grow, held her husband’s hand a little tighter, and learned that sometimes, the love that comes quietly is the one that stays forever.
