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)
By Friday, Harold at the diner has fully given up pretending he doesn’t know exactly what’s going on.
“Mornin’, honey,” he says when I refill his coffee. “Your biker ain’t here yet?”
I almost pour coffee directly onto the counter. “He is not my biker.”
Harold just grins into his mug. “Mm-hm.”
I roll my eyes and move on to the next customer, but my face is burning. And the worst part? Five minutes later, the bell over the diner door jingles and I look up automatically. Like I was waiting for him. Like Harold was right.
Tucker steps inside wearing jeans, boots, a black T-shirt stretched across shoulders too broad for any man to have a legal right to, and that leather cut that somehow looks more dangerous every time I see it.
Our eyes meet immediately. Always. Always. And just like that, the whole room shifts. Not because anyone else notices. Though they probably do. But because I do. Because the second he’s here, I know exactly where he is without having to think about it. Because I’m aware of his presence in this small space in a way I’m not with anyone else.
He heads to the counter this time. Not a booth. Not the back. The counter, where he can sit in front of me and make pretending indifference nearly impossible.
“Morning,” I say, grabbing a coffee mug before he even asks.
His mouth twitches. “Morning.”
I pour his coffee. “Breakfast?”
“Depends.”
“On?” I wonder curiously.
“Whether you’re picking it for me.”
I narrow my eyes. “That’s literally my job.”
“Then yeah.”
Harold snorts from two stools down.
I ignore him.
Tucker orders eggs, bacon, toast, and hash browns like he always does when he’s here this early, and I carry the order back to the kitchen window trying very hard not to be aware of the way his gaze follows me.
I fail.
Spectacularly. It goes like that for over a week.
He comes in. I blush or snap at him or both. He watches me like he’s memorizing something. I tell myself not to read into it. Not to make something out of a man eating at a diner he’s probably been eating at for years. Not to forget the fact that he’s, well, him.
Older.
Dangerous.
Part of a world I don’t understand.
And yet somehow gentler with Quinn than most men I’ve known have ever managed to be with me. That part sticks. It settles into me. And once it does, it’s hard to ignore.
By Saturday three weeks later, I’ve almost convinced myself this can keep existing in this strange in-between place—half routine, half tension, all of it unspoken.
Then Zoe calls out on babysitting for one of my afternoon shifts at the ice cream shop. And my whole day tips sideways. We are always pretty steady after school gets out. Lindsey doesn’t have other employees besides me so I can’t leave her struggling. Which means Quinn ends up with me at the shop.
She thinks this is the best news she’s heard all year. I think it’s a disaster waiting to happen.
“Stay behind the counter,” I tell her for what has to be the tenth time in twenty minutes.
“I am.”
“You’re half behind the counter.”
“That still counts.”
I suppress a sigh and scoop mint chocolate chip for a line of teenagers who are all somehow both indecisive and in a hurry.
The bell over the shop door jingles again. “Welcome to Sweet Scoops, I’ll be right with—” I look up. And stop.
Tucker.
Of course it’s Tucker.
He takes in the scene in one quick sweep—the line of customers, my slightly frazzled state, Quinn sitting on an upside-down milk crate near the topping station with a coloring book and the expression of a child who is one inconvenience away from chaos.
His gaze lands back on me. I don’t know what shows on my face. Relief, probably. Embarrassment too. Maybe both.
“Busy?” he asks.
I laugh once. A little hysterically. “No, I’m relaxing.”
One side of his mouth lifts. Quinn spots him a second later. “Mellow!”
Every head in the shop turns. Naturally. Tucker doesn’t seem remotely bothered. He walks straight to the counter. “You need anything?”
The question is simple. Direct. And it nearly undoes me. Because I do. I need a break. An extra set of hands. Someone Quinn will listen to for more than seven seconds. But I also know better than to dump my life on him like it’s his responsibility.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
Quinn makes a dramatic sound from behind me. “Mama is lying. She’s tired.”
I close my eyes. Kids always say things how they see it when they are her age.
Tucker looks over my shoulder at her. Then back at me. “Looks like I’ve got a witness.”
“I just need to get through the afternoon,” I state. “Babysitter canceled so trying to work and entertain her has been a challenge.”
He nods once like that’s all the information required. Then he moves around the side of the counter before I can stop him.