**Rain Brings Luck**
After a sweltering summer came a cold and damp autumn, with biting winds and relentless rain.
On her way home, weary from the wind and the dreary drizzle, Poppy ducked into a shop to escape the grim weather and pick up something for supper. Inside, it was warm, bright, and dry. She wandered slowly between the shelves, eyeing the neatly stacked packages.
Poppy filled her basket with groceries—a lemon and a bunch of grapes from the produce aisle. She pictured herself curled up on the sofa, sipping hot tea with lemon, plucking ripe grapes from the stem. Perhaps she’d even have a glass of wine to warm herself faster.
She paused by the deli counter, debating between sausages and sliced ham. Right then, she could have eaten both. She hadn’t had a bite since breakfast. Swallowing hard, she reached for the ham—no need to cook it. Her hand bumped against another reaching for the same packet.
She pulled back and turned to see a tall, handsome man beside her. His stylishly cut dark hair had just a hint of silver at the temples, his brown eyes warm, lips full and pink. And he wore a black overcoat. Exactly her type.
“Pardon me,” he said, flashing a perfect smile.
*Good lord, he looks like he’s stepped out of a posh magazine. What’s someone like him doing in a regular Tesco buying ham?* Poppy flushed under his gaze, forcing herself to look away. *Stop gawking like a startled sheep.* She hurried toward the till, catching her reflection in the drink fridge. *Blimey, what a mess. What must he think? Not that it matters—men like that don’t notice women like me.*
She unloaded her basket onto the conveyor belt. Beside her, someone placed identical items—including the ham.
“Seems we have the same taste, don’t you think?”
Poppy turned to see him again, still grinning.
“Hardly. Half the shop buys the same things,” she muttered, suddenly painfully aware of her wind-tangled hair.
“Suppose so,” he conceded.
*I look like a drowned rat, and he’s fresh out of a salon.* She imagined running her fingers through his thick hair, then scolded herself. *Stop it. He’s out of your league.*
She packed her bags, paid, and steeled herself not to glance back as she headed for the exit. Outside, the wind slapped her face as if punishing her for hiding. She’d almost forgotten how foul it was. The door opened behind her.
“Not exactly stroll-in-the-park weather, is it? Do you live nearby?”
“Why?” Poppy tensed.
“I’ve got my car. Could give you a lift.”
She hesitated. *Probably used to women swooning over him. Doesn’t seem like a murderer—but then, how would I know?*
Her inner voice nagged, *Take the ride, you daft girl. Would you rather walk in this?*
*Fine. If he’s a murderer, at least he’s a handsome one.* The thought amused her. He opened the passenger door.
“Here—let me take your bags. Easier that way.”
The car was warm and quiet. He settled beside her, turned the key, and the engine purred like a tamed beast.
“Where to?”
“Sixteen Willow Lane. Near the station.”
“I know it,” he said, pulling away.
Poppy stared ahead, watching the wind whip coats and invert umbrellas. She stole glances at his hands on the wheel—steady, confident. *You’re smitten, aren’t you? Enjoy the ride—he’ll drop you off, and that’ll be that.*
“I’m Thomas, by the way. And you?”
“Poppy,” she said, resisting the urge to answer with something silly.
“Lovely name. Had a crush on a girl named Poppy in primary school. Promised to marry her.”
“Did you?”
“Well… it was primary school.”
Only then did she notice the soft music playing. Had it been on the whole time? She’d been too distracted. The scent of leather and something faintly spicy filled the car. She shifted, settling deeper into the seat.
“Which block?” Thomas asked.
Poppy blinked. They were already there. *Snap out of it.*
The car stopped. She climbed out into the wind.
“Your bags,” Thomas called, stepping out and handing them over.
“Thanks,” she mumbled, avoiding his eyes as she hurried inside.
Fumbling with her keys, she finally unlocked the door and slipped in, exhaling only when it shut behind her. The engine’s hum lingered—he’d waited to see her safe.
*God, what must I look like?* She caught her reflection in the lift mirror. *Men like him don’t stay single. Probably married to someone just as gorgeous, with mini-versions of him running about. Forget it.*
She stopped by the shop every day after work, but Thomas never reappeared.
Then, two days later, she spotted his car outside her building. At first, she thought she was mistaken—she hadn’t memorized the plate, but she knew the model. Had she hoped? Or was he truly a stalker?
Thomas stepped out.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Poppy.”
“Why?”
“Couldn’t forget you.”
“Still hung up on that primary-school crush?” She regretted the words immediately. Now he’d leave.
“Maybe,” he echoed playfully. “You’re only the second Poppy I’ve ever met. Feels like fate. It’s freezing—get in.”
She should invite him up. But why? Instead, she slid into the car, enveloped by that familiar scent and quiet music.
“Student?”
“No, I work. Optometrist at the clinic,” she said proudly.
“Impressive. Giving people sight.”
“Just testing eyes. And you?”
“Engineer. Dull stuff. Straight from work? Fancy a coffee?”
*Would I ever.* She wasn’t reckless, but for him, she’d bend rules.
They chatted over coffee—nothing deep. Poppy melted under his attention but kept her guard up with pointed questions. Soon, they were on first-name terms.
“Are you married?”
He hesitated. “Divorced. You?”
“Single,” she said coyly.
He drove her home, took her hand, leaned in.
Poppy froze, then yanked free and bolted.
In the lift, she cursed herself. *Such a man, and you play hard to get?*
By the third date, she invited him in. They barely made it past the hallway.
Later, curled against him, she envied her own happiness. He never stayed the night—just as well. Mornings weren’t her best look. But she’d lie awake, replaying each touch.
He visited twice a week, rarely overnight. She knew a man like him wouldn’t lack company. Was she one of many? No wedding ring, but that meant little. With him, she forgot everything. Without him, she ached.
Months passed. She fell harder, grew jealous of unseen rivals. She wanted all of him.
Finally, she asked outright: “Are you married?”
“I told you—divorced.”
“Then why won’t you stay? Why so secretive?”
He sighed. “It’s complicated. My ex struggles. Drinks. We share the house—I can’t just kick her out.”
Poppy didn’t buy it but couldn’t leave him.
She confided in the head nurse at work, who scoffed: “He’s married, love. Handsome, you say? Sounds fishy. Want me to check his plates?”
Two days later, the nurse slid her an address.
Poppy wrestled with herself. Did she really want to know?
She went. The door opened to a pretty blonde holding a toddler—Thomas’s spitting image.
“I’m from the clinic,” Poppy blurted. “You missed your check-up.”
The woman frowned but offered tea.
“How often does your husband travel?” Poppy asked hoarsely.
“Not often, but sometimes. I wish he’d change jobs. We’re expecting another.”
Poppy fled.
In the taxi, she texted Thomas: *Don’t call. Don’t come. I know you lied.* She blocked him, exhaling. Step one.
Work was agony. That night, she drank the wine he’d left and sobbed herself to sleep.
Next day, she smiled at Simon, the shy surgeon who’d fancied her for ages. “Fancy the cinema?”
They went. He stayed over. She tried to forget Thomas.
Spring came. Life returned. Simon proposed. She said yes—why wait? Thomas was gone. She’d learn to love Simon.
Their June wedding saw rain.
“Good luck,” someone said.
Perhaps. But had she ever been truly happy?
A year later, Poppy had a daughter, Lily.
At the clinic for Lily’s check-up, she saw Thomas’s wife—then Thomas himself, holding their little girl.
As Lily giggled in her pram, Poppy tightened her grip on Simon’s arm, her heart finally at peace with the love she had chosen.
