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)
“Tucker—”
“Where can she sit that’s out of your way but in your sight?”
I blink. “What?”
He glances around the little shop, then points to the small corner table near the front window where customers usually sit with sundaes and milkshakes.
“There?”
I follow the direction of his hand.
“Yes, but—”
“Good.” He crouches in front of Quinn.
“You wanna help me be useful?”
Quinn immediately lights up. “Can I have sprinkles?”
He looks at me. I stare back for exactly one second before sighing in defeat. “Fine.”
“Victory,” Quinn whispers.
I would glare at her if I had the time. But suddenly I don’t need the time. Because somehow Tucker settles into that little corner table like he was built for it, and for the next two hours he keeps Quinn entertained with coloring, paper napkin games, one scoop of vanilla with rainbow sprinkles, and a running conversation about motorcycles, animals, and whether dragons would be allowed in Freedom Falls if they promised to behave.
He doesn’t just distract her.
He engages her.
Patiently.
Fully.
Like he doesn’t have anywhere better to be. And because of that, I’m able to work. Actually work. Take orders. Make shakes. Handle customers. All without the constant low-level panic of wondering whether Quinn is about to get hurt, wander off, or reach her absolute limit five minutes before closing.
Every time I glance toward the window table, he’s there. Big body folded into a chair too small for him, listening seriously to whatever nonsense Quinn is saying. At one point, I catch him helping her tape together a paper crown made from napkins and receipt tape.
At another, he’s holding her stuffed rabbit while she explains the rules of a game only she understands.
And something in me goes still. Because this isn’t just kindness. This isn’t obligation.
This isn’t him doing the bare minimum because I’m overwhelmed. He genuinely likes being with her. The realization hits me low and deep and dangerous. At closing time, Quinn is yawning so hard she can barely keep her eyes open.
I flip the sign on the door to CLOSED and start wiping down the counters while Tucker takes the trash out without even asking. When he comes back in, he finds me behind the register counting the till.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say.
“I know.”
I laugh softly. “Right.”
He leans one forearm on the counter, watching me. “You okay?”
The question catches me off guard. Because I am. Tired, yes. But not frayed down to nothing the way I would have been without him. “Yeah,” I say honestly. “Better than I would’ve been.”
His gaze shifts to Quinn, who’s curled up on the bench by the window hugging her rabbit and blinking slowly.
“She was good.”
“She was bored.”
“She made a crown.”
I smile. “She did.”
He looks back at me.
“She likes you.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t act pleased with himself. Just says, “I like her too.” There’s nothing slick in it. Nothing performative. Just truth.
And because that kind of honesty is hard to defend against, I look back down at the money in my hands and pretend I’m concentrating very hard.
When I finally finish closing up, we head outside together.
The evening is soft and warm, the sky streaked with pink and orange over the lot. Quinn perks up enough to insist on walking to the car herself, though she’s dragging by the time we reach it.
Tucker opens her door, waits while I buckle her in, then closes it gently. When I straighten, he’s there. Close. Not crowding me. Just there.
The parking lot suddenly feels very quiet. “Thank you,” I say.
Again. I really need more words around him.
He shrugs slightly. “Wasn’t hard.”
“It saved my entire shift.”
He watches me for a second.
Then, “Good.”
I should get in the car. Go home. Make dinner. Do bath time, bedtime, all the normal things that make up my life.
Instead I’m standing beside my car with a biker who has slowly, steadily worked his way under my skin, and I can’t seem to make myself break the moment.
Tucker glances toward Quinn, then back to me.
“When are you free?”
I blink.
“What?”
“When are you free,” he repeats.
My heart starts pounding.
Not hard. Not panicked. Just enough to make me suddenly aware of every beat.
“I… work.”
“I know.”
“Most days.”
“I know that too.”
I stare at him. He stares right back. Then, because apparently he has decided subtlety is no longer necessary, he says, “I’m asking you on a date, Lucy.”
For one full second, my brain completely empties.
A date.
He’s asking me on a date. Not hinting. Not circling. Not making some vague suggestion about festivals or coffee or breakfast.
A date.
I laugh softly out of sheer shock. “You are?”
“Yeah.”
Like this is obvious. Like there is no universe in which he wouldn’t. I grip the strap of my purse tighter. My mouth is dry. I should say no. I should.
This is complicated. He’s older. Far older. He’s deeply entangled in a life that has danger stitched into it whether he admits it or not.