Chapter Eight

Della had decided on a dressy pair of jeans for her date. She’d found a pair of dark blue boot-cut jeans in downtown Denver with prominent white stitching and rhinestones on the back pockets. She’d also picked up a plaid, long-sleeved shirt in pinks and blues with more rhinestone detailing on the pockets and around the snaps. It was the kind of shirt that would be perfectly at home on the streets of Credence, and she hadn’t been able to resist.

She’d rolled it up at the sleeves, teamed it with her ankle boots, and pulled her hair back into a high ponytail to complete the look. She’d also found some cheap chandelier earrings with light pink stones, and she loved how they brushed the sides of her neck when she moved her head.

Tucker had looked her up and down from head to toe and said “Yeehaw” when she’d emerged from the bedroom, and even though there was nothing lingering or sexual about the way he’d inspected her, it was a vast improvement on nice. It boosted her confidence.

The fact he was dressed in denim and plaid himself gave her a little kick. They looked like they could be a couple—the cutesy kind that wore matching clothes—and even though she couldn’t imagine Tucker ever being on board with his-and-her matching clothes, the thought still did funny things to her pulse.

“Did the gentleman know what time the booking was for, ma’am?”

The waiter who’d been hovering in the background for the last twenty minutes smiled sympathetically at her as he filled up Della’s water glass. Again.

Great. He thought she’d been stood up.

“Yes,” she said, smiling pleasantly. “I’m sure he’ll be along shortly.”

Della grabbed her phone and looked at her messages. Nothing from Joel. He’d messaged her only a few hours ago saying he was looking forward to their night. So surely he hadn’t decided to leave her hanging? Maybe he’d had an accident on the way here? Maybe his granny had taken ill suddenly. Maybe there was an important Habitat for Humanity crisis and he’d been whisked back to Africa with no time to let her know?

She typed and deleted several different messages on the screen before settling on a casual tone. Hey. Hope everything is okay? Are we still on for tonight? Della sent it off into the ether.

A glass of white wine appeared near her right hand as she placed the phone on the tablecloth. “Here you go, honey.” The drinks waitress smiled at her. “On the house.”

Della blinked up at her, then glanced around. The bartender gave her a warm smile and an encouraging nod. Terrific. Everyone thought she was some kind of loser. How freaking depressing. “Thank you,” she said, taking a large sip as she checked her phone again. No reply.

Well…she was damn sure not going to sit here looking like a Nellie no-friends.

Grabbing her phone again, she tapped out a message to Tucker.

Joel running late. Can you come sit with me until he arrives? Waiter looking at me like there’s a giant L on my forehead.

She stared at the screen, waiting for the three little dots to appear, expecting an immediate reply, and when it wasn’t forthcoming, she felt even more depressed. Maybe she should just leave and save herself any more pitying looks. Before she could decide on a course of action, Tucker was striding toward her, and day-um he looked good. The earthy strains of “Save A Horse (Ride A Cowboy)” ground through her head at his long-legged gait and the way his well-worn Stetson sat low on his forehead. The smile on his face and those sexy dimples stole her breath.

She may possibly have ovulated.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said as he pulled up beside her, leaned in to plant a kiss on her cheek, then took the seat opposite. “You look good in that shirt, baby.” He removed his hat and rubbed his hand over his hair, ruffling it deliciously as he placed the Stetson to the side.

Okay…she definitely ovulated this time.

Della glanced around, noting the avid female interest in the room. Suddenly everyone was looking at her with envy rather than pity. “Thank you.”

Casually, he picked up the menu. “What’s good to eat?”

The waitress who’d brought Della the drink approached. “Your date arrived.”

“Yes.” Tucker had ridden to her rescue in spectacular style. Yee-freaking-haw.

“And may I say, he was worth the wait.” She winked at Della before turning her attention on Tucker. “Can I get you started on a drink, sir?”

He smiled politely at the waitress. “I’ll take a Bud, please.”

“One Bud coming right up.”

The waitress departed. Tucker did not check out her ass as she walked away. “You okay?” he asked, his voice lower as he made a show of checking out the menu.

“I’m fine. Thanks for keeping me company.”

“What’s keeping Joel?”

“I don’t know… I’ve messaged him, but he hasn’t answered.”

Tucker glanced up from the menu. “He’s stood you up?”

“No.” Della bugged her eyes at him. Why was everyone jumping to that conclusion? “He told me three hours ago he was looking forward to it. I’m actually worried something’s happened to him.”

“That does seem strange.” Tucker frowned. “I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

Della’s phone vibrated, and she leaped on it. It was Joel. Quickly, she opened the text.

Sorry. Something came up. Rain check?

She stared at the message blankly for long moments. So much for an explanation. Something had come up? And he was only telling her now? Half an hour after he was supposed to be meeting her?

Tucker, who was watching her face intently, leaned forward. “What?”

“Guess I have been stood up.” Handing over the phone, Della sat back in her chair. Had Joel ever had any intention of meeting with her tonight? And why on earth would he string her along?

“What the hell?” Tucker said, glancing from the screen to her. “Something came up?”

A sudden spike of irritation flushed through her system, and she held out her hand for her phone. She wondered if he was idiot enough to broadcast what had been more important. On a terrible hunch, she navigated to his Facebook. An hour ago, he’d checked in at Hooters. Twenty minutes after that, he’d posted Making friends with my buddies and a picture of him and three other guys draped around two pneumatic blondes wearing tiny white T-shirts and even tinier orange pants.

Oh yeah. Something had come up all right.

Della was torn between crying and hurling her phone across the restaurant. Not because Joel had decided that the women at Hooters were preferable to her company, but because he hadn’t considered her important enough to clue her in earlier. And to think she’d been worried that something might have happened to him. It looked like his only risk of injury at the moment was a black eye from being slugged with one of those giant boobs.

God alone knew what her face looked like, but Tucker actually slid his hand over hers as he leaned even closer. “What?” he said in a half whisper, his voice urgent.

She turned the phone around to show Tucker the post. It took about two seconds for his face to go from anxious to grim.

“What an asshole.” He flicked his gaze to her face. “Are you okay?”

The concern in his voice rattled her already shaky foundation. Hot tears pricked at the backs of her eyes, and she blinked rapidly to dispel them before they got a foothold. “I’m fine,” she dismissed.

“Della.” He squeezed her hand. “That dude is not worth your tears.”

“I know.” And she did know. She wasn’t crying over Joel. She was crying over how damn inadequate he’d made her feel. “I just don’t understand how three hours ago he texts me to tell me he’s looking forward to tonight, and then he stands me up to stare at big-boobed women with his buddies.”

“As much as I don’t want to make any excuses for the guy, I suspect three hours ago he was still planning on seeing you, and then he…”

Della’s brain picked up where Tucker was leading. “Got a better offer?”

“Yeah… Something like that.”

And just hadn’t bothered to tell her? Della glanced at her phone again. At the white toothpaste smiles of the pretty women, their impressive cleavages drawing the eye. “I don’t even understand why he even wanted to date me if Barbie boobs are his thing.”

She’d added three more pics to her Tinder profile since she’d joined. Two of them were full-length. It was plainly obvious from both that she was never going to win a wet T-shirt competition.

She certainly would never make it at Hooters.

Tucker went back to studying the menu like he was going to get a test on it at the end of the night. She glared at his downcast head. “This is your cue to say something like, your boobs look great, Della. They’re fine just the way they are, Della.”

Taking a breath, he shot her a composed look. “I’m not saying that.”

“Why not?” She sat up straight, her chest thrusting out a little as she looked down at her breasts. Thanks to her bra, she had some cleavage tonight, a slight swell of it just visible. “I’m wearing a push-up bra.”

“I’m not talking about your boobs.”

Della quirked an eyebrow. “You’re not a boob man?”

His expression turned exasperated. “All straight men are boob men.”

“Ahh.” She nodded. “It’s not an Arlo-approved topic?”

He snorted. “Hell no.”

“But surely commenting on my appearance is a wingman conversation?”

“If I was one of your girlfriends, sure. But I’m a dude, and it’s not appropriate to be talking about this with a woman who is the sister of a friend. You and me? We don’t talk about your boobs.”

“You told me about BDE.”

“Yeah.” Tucker gave a little shudder. “Don’t remind me.”

“Fine.” She huffed out a breath, wondering if he’d prefer the topic of cunnilingus instead, which had been on her mind ever since speaking to Selena about it. Hell, ever since she’d stumbled upon Rosemary and Ray in the act.

She bet it was in Tucker’s repertoire.

“So kissing and boobs are off the table?”

It was the first time either of them had mentioned what had happened in his truck, and Della braced herself for awkwardness or retreat. Instead he said, “That sums it up.”

The waitress arrived with Tucker’s beer, and Della waited for her to be out of earshot before asking, “You want to drink that, or you want to leave?”

“What’s your rush?”

“My date’s a bust. There’s no point hanging around.”

He took a pull of his Bud before setting it back on the table. “Screw that. You got all dressed up for a date, so a date you shall have.” He opened the menu. “What do you want to eat?”

Della blinked, touched by his thoughtfulness but not wanting to be humored. “I don’t need a pity date, Tuck.”

“Pfft.” He shut the menu and locked his gaze with hers. “This isn’t a pity date. This is an assessment date. How am I supposed to do my job as wingman properly unless I know your first-date strengths and weaknesses? I should have done that right back at the beginning. I mean, maybe there are things you’re doing wrong. It’s important to know what you bring to the table in anything you do and, as a”—he straightened his shirt—“man.” He waggled his eyebrows and lowered his voice so it came out all deep and macho, and Della laughed. “I can give you a unique insight into the kinds of things we like and don’t like.”

Tucker was full of shit and just messing around, clearly trying to lighten the mood—but what he was suggesting actually made sense. It wasn’t like she had practice or experience on her side. She’d been with one guy, and they’d never really dated.

“Okay.”

He nodded. “Good. Now—” He reached for the menu again. “What do you want to eat?”

They ordered—pasta for her, steak for him—and Della went ahead and also ordered a cocktail. If she had to sit opposite Tucker at a small table, their knees (thanks to the length of his thighs) practically touching underneath while they fake dated, then she was going to need something a little stronger than white wine.

“Okay,” Tucker said after the waitress left. “First piece of assessment. Chitchat. What’s your small-talk game like?”

“Um, good…I think?”

She’d been isolated from pretty much everyone during her marriage and had kept mostly to herself for the first couple of years after she’d moved to Credence, but since starting work at the old folks’ home a year ago and meeting Molly and Marley over the summer, she’d stretched her conversational muscles.

“Alrighty then. Lay it on me.”

She blinked. “What…just start talking?”

“Yeah, pretend I’m a real first date. What’s your opening line?”

Pretending Tucker was a real date was like pretending she’d won the lottery. He’d made it perfectly clear that they’d never have that kind of relationship, so putting herself in that headspace was bizarre. She might as well be sitting opposite Idris Elba.

“So…Tucker…” Suddenly this felt like a real test. “Where are you from?”

“Predictable.” He tsked. “But I can run with it. I’m from a little town way out in Eastern Colorado, not far from the Kansas border, called Credence. You probably haven’t heard of it.”

“Actually, I have,” Della confirmed, forcing herself to smile, to relax and stop being so damn stiff and predictable in case she failed this bogus assessment. “I hear the bar there is very good. The Lumberjack?”

“Best bar in town. Best bartender in all Colorado, too.”

Della laughed. “Wow. The whole state? That a fact?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Lordy. She was not prepared for the way he ma’amed her. Sure, they were playacting, but her ovaries didn’t know that. They were popping out eggs now like a slot machine paying out a jackpot.

“The chief of police is supposed to be a bit of a hardass,” she said, hoping the mention of her brother would freeze those suckers in their tracks.

Tucker laughed this time. It was rich and warm and vibrated between them on the kind of frequency that was too low to be measured but could be felt all over. Unfortunately, there was no freezing going on anywhere. There was only heat.

So. Much. Heat.

“He runs a tight ship. Is a stickler for the rules and doesn’t suffer fools gladly. He has an overdeveloped sense of responsibility for every single person in his jurisdiction because his mom was sick a lot when he was a kid and his dad traveled away frequently. If he lived a few hundred years ago, he’d have a white charger.”

Tucker couldn’t have described her brother any better if he tried. Arlo had told her all about his mom’s illness and his father’s—her father’s—occupational absenteeism.

“Do you have any siblings?” she asked politely, continuing the charade.

“Only child.”

“And your parents?”

“My dad died ten years ago. My mother moved to North Carolina to be closer to her twin sister about a year after that.”

“Your mom’s a twin?” Arlo had told her about Tucker’s mom leaving Credence to be with her sister, but she didn’t know they were twins.

“Yep. Twins run in my mom’s family for generations and generations. Identical ones, too. Family get-togethers are a real trip.”

Della found it hard to wrap her head around twins. She remembered being pregnant with one baby and how nervous she’d been. Two babies would have daunted the hell out of her.

The waitress brought Della’s cocktail and set it down. “Thank you.” Picking it up, she took a fortifying sip of the icy pink daiquiri. She sighed and shut her eyes as the sweetness spread across her tongue. “Not as good as yours,” she said, “but I’d expect nothing less from the best bartender in all of Colorado.”

Her eyes fluttered open to find his gaze fixed hot and heavy on her mouth. So heavy it could have been a caress. And just like that, the atmosphere changed. Della’s pulse beat thick and slow through her head, through her breasts, through her thighs. The air in her lungs grew hot, and they felt too big for her chest.

He dragged his eyes away, but the charge between them remained. If Tucker wanted her to believe he didn’t think of her like that, then he really needed to stop looking at her mouth like that.

“I’ll give them my recipe before we leave,” he said, taking a sudden interest in his beer, swallowing down half of it in one hit.

The long stretch of his neck covered in a scruffy growth of sandy whiskers was exceedingly distracting. She swallowed. Where were they? Oh yes, that’s right, small talk. One half of her brain frantically cast around for a topic while the other half melted into a puddle of goo.

“What do they farm around Credence?”

“What do they farm?” Tucker gave a small laugh as he set his bottle down. “That the best you got?”

“It’s small talk,” she said waspishly.

Her brain wasn’t exactly operating on all cylinders. Hell, ever since he’d ma’amed her, her body had been hijacked by her hormones. And then he’d looked at her mouth like he wanted to lick daiquiri off it, and her ovaries took complete control.

“And if I was a farmer, that would be relevant. Gotta keep the chitchat pertinent to your date. Keep it personal.”

“Okay then.” She shot him a faux-pleasant smile. “What’s your sign?”

“Ha! Very funny.”

“No?” Fine. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Blue.” He didn’t hesitate, staring intently into her eyes, as intently as he’d stared at her mouth, and that charge flared again. “Light blue. Clear and cool. Too pristine to disturb. The color of polar ice.”

Della dragged in a ragged breath. He was describing her eyes. She was sure of it. But…is that what he thought? That she was cold. And pristine?

“What about you?” he asked.

She didn’t hesitate, either. She knew the exact hue of his eyes and how it shifted and changed depending on the light. “Tawny brown,” she said, her voice raspy. “Like whiskey. When you hold a glass of it up to firelight and it’s all warm and golden and shimmery.”

Long moments passed as they stared at each other. Tucker was the first one to break eye contact, picking up his beer again. “I think you pass the small-talk assessment.”

Della made an effort to distance herself mentally from him, too, taking a big suck of daiquiri through her straw. It was worth the brain freeze to bring her back to her senses. “What, even with the farming thing?”

“It wasn’t your finest moment, but I suppose it was better than asking me if I’m a registered voter.”

She snorted. “Even I know not to bring up politics. Or religion.”

“Okay then, next assessment. Flirting game. Whaddya got?”

Della was fairly certain she couldn’t flirt her way into a date with a man who hadn’t seen a woman in decades. Still, muscles deep behind her belly button unfurled at the thought of trying some on Tucker. She’d seen a lot of women vying for his attention at Jack’s. Seen them lean in and smile, laugh and joke and tease, swish their hair sexily, swing their hips just right.

There was no way she could compete with those ninja-level flirting skills.

“So it’s okay to flirt on a first date?”

He shrugged. “Sure, if you want to. If the guy is nice and you’re getting along well and you like him. Men like it when women flirt with them.”

“Because they’re lazy?”

Tucker laughed. “No. Because it’s flattering to our poor fragile egos.”

He put his hand on his chest in faux fragility, but there was no universe in which Tucker Daniels looked fragile. Hell, there was no universe in which he didn’t look like he’d just come in from chopping logs all afternoon. His masculinity oozed across the table.

“The same way it can be flattering for women. And it’s a lot easier to tell if a woman’s really into you.”

“But…what if he gets the wrong idea from my flirting?”

“I’m talking something light here, Della. Nothing hard-core.”

“But what if he does anyway?” One of the hangovers of being in an abusive relationship was how strictly Della had needed to curate her interaction with the opposite sex. Unlearning all that wasn’t easy.

This whole dating, small talk, flirting thing was a giant leap of faith for her.

“If he gets the wrong idea, he’s an asshole and you walk away. You get to call the shots, Della. Any guy who doesn’t understand that isn’t worth your time.” Tucker’s tone was light, but his expression was suddenly serious and his jaw tight.

“Okay.” She nodded. “Check.” No assholes allowed. Getting the conversation back into less-fraught territory, she asked, “What do you consider light flirting?”

He shrugged. “Little things, really. Something as simple as…” His gaze drifted over her face and settled on her left ear. “Playing with your earring.”

The chandelier brushed lazily against her neck as Della laughed. The caress seemed supercharged, and her laughter petered out as Tucker’s gaze lingered. Her breath seized in her throat, but, almost of its own volition, her left hand lifted from the table and her fingers played with the heavy drop of the earring before moving to caress her lobe, the stones swishing back and forth as she toyed with it.

“Like this?”

The flare of heat in Tucker’s gaze glowed bright, and, if she wasn’t very much mistaken, his nostrils flared. He nodded slowly. “Tip your head a little. To the opposite side.”

Della tipped, the light caress of the warm metal against her skin causing more unfurling. A low fizz percolated through her veins. “How’s that?”

He followed the movement of her fingers as she tugged gently on the earring. “Perfect,” he murmured, his voice a low kind of burr, rubbing against her skin like fine-grade sandpaper.

“Well, that’s easy.” Della gave a husky laugh as she dropped the earring and straightened her head because it was getting harder to breathe. And she liked to breathe.

“What else?”

He dragged his gaze back to her face, his reluctance not lost on her. The fact his eyes were all smoky like the Tennessee whiskey her daddy used to drink wasn’t, either. That vibe she’d felt in the cab of his truck that night was back, and it’d just shot in the stratosphere.

If there was such a thing as a vibe-o-meter, it’d be in the red zone right now.

“Sometimes that’s all you need.”

Della shook her head. “Oh, come on. I’ve seen women at Jack’s flirting with you.” She’d envied and admired them in equal measure. “They lean in and pout and smile. And they do that thing where they put their elbows on the bar and they use their inner arms to squish their boobs together and emphasize their cleavage. What about that stuff?”

“Too obvious,” he dismissed.

“I was under the impression that men appreciate obvious.”

He gave a kind of meh expression. “Obvious has its place.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “You don’t like when women push their boobs in your face? Oh, sorry…” Della rolled her eyes. “I forgot—boobs are off the table.”

He laughed. “I like it just fine. But you’re easing your way into this, right? Less is more, yeah? Less can be…sexy.”

God…that word again. Sexy.

“Okay, so what says sexy to you?” she asked.

His jaw jutted determinedly, and Della was worried he was about to banish sexy to the naughty corner with boobs and kissing. “C’mon, wingman,” she jumped in. “This is the kind of stuff I need you for.”

He sighed, clearly resigned, his gaze drifting again. “Fiddling with your hair. Pushing it behind your ear, for example.”

He eyed the strands of hair that had come loose from her ponytail. Her bangs weren’t quite long enough, and they had a tendency to fall around her face, although only one side had misbehaved so far tonight. “It draws a guy’s gaze to your face, to your eyes, to your…” Tucker’s gaze dropped briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes. “Mouth. It’s a look at me move.”

Never in a million years would Della have guessed an action she did probably dozens of times a day could be considered sexy. But she was willing to give it a try.

He was assessing her, after all.

“Like this?” Her voice was husky, and her pulse fluttered at her wrists and temples as she slowly tucked the fallen strands of her hair behind her left ear. Tucker watched her intently, his eyes all smoky again. The charge between them started to hum.

Della had no idea what possessed her, but as her fingers slid from behind her ear, she toyed with her earlobe again, moving on to finger the stones in the earring. His nostrils flared, and the hum became a crackle.

“How was that?” she asked as her fingers slid away, wrapping around the frosty cocktail glass and drawing on the straw again. The sudden hit of iciness was sweet mercy to her overheating system, even if it barely took the edge off the heat coursing under her skin.

“Yeah.” He cleared his voice. “I think you’ve nailed it.”

The waitress interrupted them with their dinner, and Della was grateful for the distraction as she fussed around, putting their plates in front of them. “I’ll have another beer,” Tucker said, passing up his empty bottle.

Della sucked the rest of the daiquiri up her straw and handed her glass over also. “I’ll have another of these, too.” They could both use a cooling down. Or they were going to set the tablecloth alight.

She was pretty sure it was smoldering.

“That’s a rookie error right there,” Tucker said as he pointed at her bowl of spaghetti carbonara.

Della had forgotten what she’d ordered, and she glanced down at it, her brain still only at half power. “Pasta?”

“Spaghetti. Anything with spaghetti.” He reached for his napkin and spread it over his lap. “Unless you’re some kind of expert-level spaghetti twirler, it’s hard to eat without strands of it sticking out of your mouth half the time and getting sauce on your chin. It’s like ribs and lobster and anything you have to eat with your fingers. Not date food. Stick with things you can cut into pieces with a knife and fork.” He demonstrated by cutting into his steak and popping it into his mouth. “See? Easy.”

Annoyed that he could just switch back into wingman mode when she was scrambling to string words together, Della was not in the mood to be lectured about something as basic as eating. She’d been feeding herself for a very long time.

She picked up her fork. “Maybe I am an expert spaghetti twirler.”

He cocked an eyebrow, then dropped his gaze to her bowl as she twisted her fork through the strands of pasta heavily laden with a creamy sauce. It smelled wonderful—garlicky and divine. Bringing the loaded fork to her mouth, she popped it in, smiling at Tucker triumphantly when she executed the move perfectly.

“Mmm,” she said, savoring the explosion of flavors against her tongue. “So good.”

Screw the spaghetti police.

She wasn’t so lucky the second time. A longer strand escaped the fork as she shoveled it in her mouth, requiring her to suck it up, and Della was excruciatingly aware of him watching her cheeks hollow out, watching the strand get shorter and shorter. Watching that last couple of millimeters disappear between her lips and the quick dart of her tongue as it lapped up the excess cream.

His eyes darkened. “You missed a big old drip,” he murmured, pointing to her chin.

Damn it. She reached for her napkin. “Don’t you dare say it.”

“I told you so?” He chuckled. “I would never be so ungentlemanly.”

But he watched her intently as she wiped the sauce away, and that felt very, very ungentlemanly.