Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 61723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 309(@200wpm)___ 247(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Trying not to remember the dream I had about him.
Trying not to be aware of him every second he’s in the room.
It is not going well.
At one point, I nearly pour decaf into the wrong mug because Tucker glances up right as I pass his booth, and my stomach flips so hard I lose all common sense.
Harold notices. Of course he does. “You all right, honey?” he asks.
“I’m fine.”
He grins into his coffee. “Uh-huh.”
I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole. When I finally bring Tucker and Stunt their check, Stunt leans back in the booth and folds his arms.
“So,” he says like we’re in the middle of a conversation already, “you coming to the spring festival?”
I blink. “The what?” I ask.
Tucker looks at him sharply. Stunt ignores him completely. “The Freedom Falls spring festival. This weekend.”
I glance at Tucker.
He looks annoyed at Stunt, not me.
“We haven’t discussed that,” he says flatly.
Stunt grins. “Seems like a great time to start.”
I should walk away. Instead I look at Tucker and ask, “Are you asking me to the spring festival?”
The whole booth goes still. Stunt looks delighted.
Tucker watches me for a second, then says, “Not right now.”
I don’t know why that stings. It shouldn’t. It absolutely shouldn’t. But something in me dips anyway.
Then he adds, “But I might later.”
My heart does something stupid. I tuck the checkbook under my arm and try for cool. “Well. Let me know if you decide to use your words.”
Stunt laughs loud enough to turn heads. Tucker’s mouth twitches. I take that as my cue to leave. By the time they finally head out, I’m exhausted in a way lunch rush alone does not explain.
I work the rest of my diner shift in a haze and then head straight to the ice cream shop, where at least the customers are mostly children and exhausted parents too distracted by sprinkles to notice I’m losing my mind.
By evening, I’m sticky with sugar and ready to go home. I step out into the parking lot, fumbling for my keys. And stop.
There’s a motorcycle parked beside my car.
Black.
Beautiful.
Familiar.
My pulse jumps. Tucker is leaning against it, arms folded across his chest, sunglasses on even though the sun is dipping low.
He lifts his chin when he sees me. “Hey.”
I stare at him. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting.”
“For what?”
“You.”
That answer settles low in my stomach in a way I absolutely do not need. I glance around the lot. A couple teenagers are loading into a truck nearby, but otherwise it’s mostly empty.
“You can’t just wait by my car like some kind of leather-clad jump scare.”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “Thought you might be hungry.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “That is not an explanation.”
“It’s close enough.”
I shift my purse higher on my shoulder. “I was actually going home.”
“Good.”
I squint at him. “You’re impossible.”
“I’ve heard that.”
The wind stirs a strand of my hair across my face and I tuck it behind my ear, studying him. He looks entirely too comfortable standing beside my car like we do this all the time. Like waiting for me is natural. Like I’m something he has every right to look for at the end of the day. I should probably shut this down.
Instead I hear myself say, “Quinn and I were going to have dinner.”
His expression doesn’t change. But I get the sense he’s listening very closely. “You can come,” I add before I can talk myself out of it.
A pause. Then, “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Just like that?”
I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. “You’ve already had coffee and breakfast. Might as well collect dinner too.”
His gaze warms. Barely. But enough. “Lead the way,” he instructs and I do just that.
At home, Tucker follows me inside while I call for Quinn, who comes tearing out of the living room in mismatched socks and excitement.
“You came back!”
That makes both of us pause. Tucker glances at me once, then crouches slightly so he’s less towering when Quinn launches herself at him. He catches her by the shoulders before she can fully tackle him.
“Looks like I did.”
Quinn beams. I shake my head and head for the kitchen before I can stare too long. Dinner is spaghetti because it’s fast and cheap and I know Quinn will eat it without complaint. While I boil noodles and stir sauce, I can hear them in the living room.
Quinn asking endless questions. Tucker answering in that low, steady voice that somehow sounds softer around children.
At one point I peek around the doorway and catch him sitting cross-legged on my floor while Quinn shows him a coloring book. A huge man in a black T-shirt with scarred knuckles and a little girl explaining the difference between unicorn purple and regular purple.
My chest tightens. With what, I’m not entirely sure.
When dinner’s ready, Quinn chatters through the whole meal and Tucker actually listens like every detail about kindergarten social politics matters.