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    Unlucky for Some: a novella
    Unlucky for Some: a novella
    Unlucky for Some: a novella
    Ebook69 pages1 hour

    Unlucky for Some: a novella

    By Carla Caruso

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    About this ebook

    Raffy Fortuna knows all about luck, and she's not interested in pushing it. But sometimes luck pushes you to the places you least expect.    

    Sassy Italian-Australian newspaper reporter Raffy has been ultra-superstitious ever since her ex-fiance saw her in her bridal gown before they got hitched - and left her at the altar. But as luck would have it,  one of her new assignments at Press Publishing is a feature series challenging some of the most common superstitions in the lead-up to Friday the thirteenth. It's her worst nightmare - not helped by the grumpy, yet annoyingly handsome cameraman accompanying her to film the daily online videos for the newspaper's site.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins Publishers Australia
    Release dateNov 1, 2014
    ISBN9781460704134
    Unlucky for Some: a novella
    Author

    Carla Caruso

    Carla Caruso was born in Adelaide, Australia, and only 'escaped' for three years to work as a magazine journalist and stylist in Sydney. Previously, she was a gossip columnist and fashion editor at Adelaide's daily newspaper, The Advertiser. She has since freelanced for titles including Woman's Day, Cleo and Shop Til You Drop. These days, she writes fiction in between playing mum to twin sons Alessio and Sebastian, making fashion jewellery, and restoring vintage furniture. Oh, plus checking her daily horoscopes, jogging, and devouring trashy TV shows!   Find out more on Carla's website, or follow her on Instagram and Facebook. 

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      Book preview

      Unlucky for Some - Carla Caruso

      1

      Step on a crack, break your mother’s back …

      Raffy Fortuna’s mind was on repeat as she stepped over the lightning-like crack in the bitumen on her way to work. Dealing with her Italian mother could be painful enough without bringing into the equation a broken back.

      The gleaming Adelaide offices of Press Publishing loomed — her workplace as of the past month. Peeking out from under the brim of her brown-and-tan umbrella, Raffy glanced up at the sky. It was a typical Monday morning: gloom central. Fat raindrops like chandelier crystals splashed down. Raffy’s long black curls were difficult to lasso at the best of times, let alone coupled with rain. She knew opening an umbrella indoors spelled bad luck, but was less clear if clutching an opened one inside did, too, so she decided not to risk it.

      Hey, her name brought enough bad karma as it was. Raffy Fortuna. Raffy — or Raffaella in full — and Fortuna, meaning ‘luck’ in Italian, basically added up to ‘rough luck’. Plus, she was still on probation at work, so she didn’t need to tempt fate. A bad hair day she could live with. Just.

      Crossing over a dingy laneway near Press Publishing’s canopy, she swung her umbrella to the side, plucked at the handle’s latch and pulled it inwards. As she did so, she suddenly felt the umbrella tip connecting with the base of something heavy and cardboard-like. Then her gaze caught the blur of something being knocked high up into the air, followed by a splat sound and a seeping wetness. She looked down. Light brown liquid stained the front of her shirt like a bad attempt at tie-dye. Sugar. So much for sidestepping bad fortune. Although white had never been her lucky colour.

      Raffy looked up, her umbrella-holding hand dropping to one side as her gaze met with an attractive pair of slate-grey eyes. Male eyes, which matched the moody sky the canopy was now protecting her from. Eyes that had their own shelter in the form of heavy eyebrows and a floppy, light brown fringe. Eyes that didn’t look entirely happy to see her.

      ‘Thanks for that,’ Mr Slate-Grey Eyes said, tugging out a white ear-bud. Oh, he had a voice. A deep one.

      Getting a proper view of him, Raffy discovered she would have actually considered him handsome all-over if it weren’t for the curl of his lip and the unapproachably cool clothes he wore. They obviously went with his whole trendy skinny look. He reminded her a little of that Ian Somerhalder guy from The Vampire Diaries. Well, he had the chilly vibe down-pat. She certainly hadn’t seen him around the office before. Then again, the building did house about 700 staff. He could be from any number of departments.

      His gaze now seemed to be looking pointedly between their feet. She followed the direction, discovering an iced-coffee carton lying on its side amid a puddle. Yup, as mathematically impossible as it seemed, she had obviously knocked the thing out of his hands with her umbrella. Although, luckily for him, his outfit appeared unscathed.

      ‘I’m so, so sorry,’ she stammered. ‘I didn’t see you there. What with the rain and the shadows—’

      He took the liberty to finish her sentence. ‘You were too wrapped up in yourself to notice anyone else?’

      Humph. Well, he clearly wasn’t the type of guy the Weather Girls had had in mind when they warbled about it raining men. He seemed to have attitude by the bucket-load. Still, perhaps she should have been thankful that his favourite beverage wasn’t a café latte, extra hot.

      She glued her umbrella-free hand to her hip. ‘Well, maybe you were too busy listening to Justin Bieber to pay much attention either. And what about my shirt? I can give you a few dollars for another drink, but I now have to face my new boss at an editorial meeting looking like this!’

      Darn not bringing her trench coat. It was only early autumn, and she hadn’t counted on the rain. Or being drenched in iced coffee.

      ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to get a new shirt from some suck-up PR, but I don’t have time to get another drink,’ Mr Slate-Grey Eyes growled. ‘My break’s over.’ Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and headed for the building’s automatic glass sliding-doors. Scratch vampires. He was more like the Big Bad Wolf.

      Raffy waited a beat before heading indoors herself and making a beeline for the ladies’ room, cursing her luck at ploughing into the likes of him. Couldn’t it at least have been someone like that chatty Betsy woman from parcel pick-up? She probably would have lent Raffy the shirt off her own back. Alas, time was ticking, but maybe Raffy could still salvage her top somehow.

      She was wrong.

      Then again, she seemed to have been doomed for some time now.

      The first words out of her editor Capucine’s mouth as Raffy bustled into the meeting were, ‘What are you wearing, Raffaella?’

      Capucine, who sat at the head of the seated circle of staff, was like a particularly icy version

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