by Amy Andrews
Della didn’t think for a moment she’d find anyone from Credence on the app, but Denver was a different story, and she was just about to tell Tucker exactly that when the registration process completed and the first potential Tinder match appeared on her screen.
She blinked at it incredulously. Tucker freaking Daniels.
He was a few years younger, and his hair was the full Botticelli angel, but it was definitely him. Her heart did its silly speeding-up thing just looking at the image. The location down at the bottom told her he was less than one mile away.
No shit, Sherlock.
“Apparently not all folks,” Della said, showing him his image.
Tucker’s face contorted into a series of double takes. He reached for the phone, then abandoned the idea, grabbing his instead. “I thought I’d paused it,” he muttered as he swiped at his screen.
Della read out his very brief bio. “I aim to please.” God…the ambiguity of that was delicious. With the devil riding her, she hit the little green heart on the screen to confirm a match.
Tucker scowled at her as she picked up the daiquiri glass, the condensation cool and wet against the pads of her fingers, and took a sip.
“I used it a year ago, when I was in New York,” he said. Like he owed her some kind of explanation. “There.” He threw his phone down on the bar. “Paused.”
“And did you hold many hands?” Della kept her voice sweet, even though she was beset with images of confident city women enamored with all his yes ma’am, no ma’am country-boy charm.
“I went on a couple of dates.”
A hot spike of something not very pleasant ripped through her middle. “So, you get to hook up, but I don’t?”
He shoved his hands on his hips. “No. Of course not.”
The action drew attention to just how well his jeans fit in that area. But Della refused to be distracted. “You know I’m right about this.”
“Yeah…” He sighed. “I know.” The expression on his face told her he’d rather be out in the woods wrestling a bear than here having this conversation with her, but he squared his shoulders anyway. “But… Why now? Why…suddenly?”
It wasn’t suddenly. It had been stirring for a while, starting with busloads of women descending on Credence and going into hyperdrive at Tucker in a suit. Yep, that suit had pushed things to warp speed. A supersonic estrogen rocket straight to her libido.
“Because I’m ready. And it’s time. I’ve come out of a long dark tunnel, and I’m in the light, and I want to live, Tucker.”
“It’s just…we remember what you were like.” His voice was low and gentle. “When you first came here.”
“You think I don’t think about that woman every single day of my life?”
She’d been a shell. A timid little mouse with a head full of scars, frightened of her own shadow. And Credence had rallied around her, giving her a place to recover.
“But I’ve come a long way. I’m not her anymore, Tucker, and I want to move on. I want more than making minimum wage at the old folks’ home and turning into some spinster living on my brother’s charity like some tragic Jane Austen heroine. I want to go to college, and I want to travel, and, yes, I want to date and have some fun for once.”
Not that many years ago, she’d have included falling in love, getting married, and having a family of her own on that list. But she was a little too broken for a serious relationship now.
“Fair enough.”
He hesitated like he wanted to say something more, but he didn’t, his lips settling into a grim line instead as he crossed his arms. A smiling Tucker Daniels, with those dimples of his, always caused a tiny flutter in her chest compartment, but there was something about the brooding Tucker that caused a different kind of flutter in her downstairs compartment.
It was so damn…Heathcliff. And Heathcliff was a jackass.
“So…” Della picked up her phone to view the next image Tinder had provided. “Do you think I should go for mister I’m well-hung and know where the clit is?” She swiped to the next candidate. “Or mister the thicker the chick, the harder my dick?”
Tucker winced. “Oh God, neither. Left, swipe left.”
Della swiped left, but there were date-worthy guys here somewhere, and she was determined to make some matches…whether Tucker approved or not.
…
A gaggle of female laughter from the corner booth formed the soundtrack to Tucker’s endeavors as he cut up way too many lemons, wishing they were Well-Hung’s balls. Seriously, what a douche. If a dude had to state for the record the size of his package and cite his anatomical knowledge, chances were he had nuts the size of raisins and had only just recently found that magic little bundle because some poor woman had finally become exasperated enough to draw him a goddamn map.
With a giant fucking X to mark the spot.
I have needs, too, Tucker.
Fuck…the way Della had said those words had caused a bolt of lightning to his junk. And he would not think about Arlo’s sister in relation to his junk. Arlo’s little sister. She was eleven years younger than him, for fuck’s sake. An entire decade. Which might not seem a big deal to some people, but it was still a mental hurdle for him on top of everything else. And he’d spent the last three years not thinking about her like that because both Arlo and Della had trusted Tucker with her sometimes-quite-fragile state.
She’d needed safety, security, and TLC more than she’d needed anything else.
And he’d provided them all, letting her sit quietly at his bar losing herself in shots of tequila or piña coladas with three maraschino cherries—just the way she liked them. Chatting if she wanted, leaving her be if she didn’t. Giving her space as she found solace in liquor and an aching kind of solitude.
Then, about a year ago, things had started to change. She’d gotten a job at the old folks’ home, and Tucker had watched as she’d slowly come out of her shell. She started to talk more, smile more, laugh more. She drank less and had started to eat with gusto, as if she’d suddenly found flavors again. She put on some weight and added some color to her cheeks. Ruth, one of her work colleagues, had become a true friend.
Yep, watching Della come out of that tunnel she’d mentioned had put a smile on every damn face in town. But Tinder?
He’d just…assumed, given what she’d been through, that Della wouldn’t want a man anywhere near her ever again.
The knife paused on the lemon peel as Tucker shut his eyes, trying not to think about the things Arlo had told him one night not long after he’d brought Della to Credence. He’d been drunk and angry and so guilt ridden about what had happened to his sister it had slipped out unchecked, as if he just had to get it off his chest.
A problem shared was a problem halved and all that crap.
But Tucker would give anything to be able to exorcise that information from his brain, because it made him ill to his bones and so fucking furious. He’d certainly lost zero sleep when her ex had fallen down a staircase and died in a Kentucky jail where he’d been serving a sentence for the attempted murder of a Colorado state police officer—AKA Arlo—and multiple sentences for sexual violence.
Which was why Tucker was worried about the whole Tinder thing. He would support her—of course he would—because it was what she wanted, even if he had to watch her hook up with every guy in the continental United States.
That had been a revelation. Both that she was only after casual and that she never wanted to settle down again. He understood why she wanted to get herself out there. Marrying young meant she had missed out on a lot, and, yeah, she had as much right as the next woman to make up for lost time. She’d been adamant, and he totally got that. But he wondered if there were deeper reasons for her not wanting anything beyond casual. Something inside that her ex had broken that could never really be healed.
Maybe she didn’t be
lieve herself worthy of a second chance at true love and thought that hookups were her only option.
The thought grabbed around his gut and squeezed hard. He hoped not, he really hoped not, because Tinder could be such a cesspool, full of bottom-feeders. Guys who frequently lied about their situations, deliberately embellished their bios, and had no qualms about dumping a woman who didn’t put out on the first date.
Not to mention how many douchebags sent unsolicited dick pics.
Tucker shuddered at the thought as he sliced viciously through the lemon. Which was nothing compared to how Arlo was going to react. Arlo was going to be pissed about Tinder.
“Hey man.”
Tucker turned to find Drew, one of his oldest friends, sitting at the bar, grinning at him. He raised an eyebrow when he saw the gigantic pile of cut lemons at Tucker’s elbow. “You opening a lemonade stand I don’t know about?”
Glancing at the mound, Tucker grimaced. He wasn’t going to need to cut any more until next week. “Hey.” Throwing the knife down, he wiped his hands on the short black apron tied low on his hips. “You done for the day?”
“Yep.”
“How goes it at the funeral home?”
Drew frowned. “I’m thinking of changing the name to life celebration home.”
Tucker laughed. For the last little while, Drew had been trying to modernize the terminology surrounding what he did for a living. Poor guy found it hard enough to get laid when every woman he ever met friendzoned him. Add in the burden of his occupation and, well…
Undertaker just wasn’t sexy.
“Bob Downey won’t be happy,” Tucker said.
Bob had been mayor about forty years ago and lived at the old folks’ home. He still kept his fingers in all the town pies and thought modernizing anything was for pussies.
“The man’s in his eighties. Reckon he might come around the closer he gets to meeting his maker.”
Tucker doubted it as he pulled Drew’s draft beer of choice. People had been waiting for the old coot to give up the ghost for a long time, and he was still kicking. He set the beer down in front of Drew. “Bob’s going to outlive us all.”
“Ain’t that the truth?”
Tucker laughed. It felt good to laugh—a welcome distraction from the whole Della getting herself on Tinder thing. Thinking about that was fraught, whereas laughing with one of his oldest friends was always easy. He, Drew, and Arlo had all gone to school together. Tucker and Arlo had hightailed it out of town for a while after high school before eventually finding their way back to Credence, but Drew had never left.
A burst of raucous laughter coming from the direction of the only occupied booth snuffed Tucker’s laughter right out as Drew looked over his shoulder. Della and Ruth, along with Molly and Marley, who were on the other side of the booth, were huddled around Della’s phone, having a hilarious time as they sipped on their daiquiris. The women opposite—twins from New York—had come to town during the Facebook campaign over the summer, and their friendship had also helped to bring Della out of her shell.
“What’s so funny over there?” Drew asked, returning his attention to Tucker.
Tucker sighed, the words heavy in his throat. “Della’s joined Tinder.”
“Jesus.” Drew whistled under his breath. “Arlo’s going to be mighty bent out of shape.”
Bent out of shape? Drew always did have a knack for understatement. Arlo was going to go all pretzel on their asses when he was told. “Yep.”
“Do you think she’s ready for something like that?”
Tucker shrugged. “She says she is.” And the woman ought to know.
“So…that’s a good thing, right? That she’s feeling well enough to put herself out there.”
“Yep.” Tucker tried really hard to sound upbeat.
Drew shrugged. “Where else is she going to find a guy?”
“There are plenty of single men around town.” That was Credence’s problem—too many dudes, not enough women.
“You think any of them are going to look at her sideways with Arlo cockblocking at every opportunity? Jimmy Hutchins bought her a drink here last Saturday night, and since then Arlo’s got him twice for speeding and once for failure to come to a complete stop at the stop sign on the way out of town.”
Tucker shouldn’t find that funny. It wasn’t funny. And to be fair to Arlo, Jimmy was known for his lead foot. For damn sure he’d end up wrapped around a tree someday if he didn’t learn to ease up on the gas. But he wished he’d been there to see Jimmy’s face that third time.
“I heard he was thinking of moving to the next county,” Drew added, and they both laughed. Tucker was still laughing when Arlo walked in moments later. He was in his uniform, the limp from his prosthesis barely perceptible as he approached.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, perennially suspicious of anyone having a good time. He sat his ass on the stool next to Drew.
He did resting cop face better than anyone.
“Jimmy Hutchins,” Tucker said.
One corner of Arlo’s mouth hitched upward. “Speeding kills.”
Tucker grinned. “You off the clock? Want a beer?”
Arlo nodded. “Yes, please.”
Tucker grabbed a Bud Light from the long bar fridge set into the back counter because, the reality was, the chief of police was never off the clock in a small town.
“How’s the funeral business?” Arlo asked, twisting the lid off his beer as it was handed over.
Tucker shot Arlo a mock serious look. “I think you mean life-celebration business.”
Arlo laugh-snorted and took a swig of his beer as he looked at Drew. “And you’re what? Some kind of…life celebrant?”
“I prefer afterlife liaison.”
Both Tucker and Arlo lost it at this announcement. “That makes you sound like one of those woo-woo psychic nutjobs,” Arlo finally said when he’d stopped laughing.
“Yeah.” Drew nodded as he took a sip of his beer. “You may have a point.”
Another burst of laughter from the booth had Arlo glancing over his shoulder, spotting his sister. She appeared oblivious to his scrutiny, however, preoccupied with her friends and her phone. “What’s going on over there?” he asked as he turned back around.
Drew, clearly no longer contemplating euphemisms for undertaker, slid a look at Tucker, who tensed and contemplated playing dumb. But the truth was, Arlo was going to find out sooner or later. Maybe it was best for him to be prewarned.
Maybe they could talk Arlo off the ledge preemptively.
Tucker pulled the cloth from his belt and absently wiped the bar top, which did not need wiping. It was such a clichéd barkeep from a Wild West saloon thing to do, but it gave him time to think. After a beat or two, his hand stilled, and he met Arlo’s gaze. “I’m going to tell you something, but you need to stay calm.”
Arlo’s jaw turned to granite. “It’s Jimmy fucking Hutchins, isn’t it?”
Tucker shook his head swiftly. “No.” It was on the tip of his tongue to tell Arlo it was way fucking worse than Jimmy Hutchins, but he was determined to be upbeat.
Maybe Arlo would follow suit.
“It’s not bad.” Tucker forced a smile. “It’s a good thing.”
“If you don’t tell me what’s up in the next five seconds, I’ll throw your ass in jail.”
Or maybe not…
“Della’s joined Tinder,” Drew said. He’d always been a rip-the-Band-Aid-off-quickly kinda guy.
If Arlo had been someone else, Tucker might have found the quick change of his expressions comical. From what the fuck to over my dead body in two point five seconds. Arlo stared at Drew for a long time, as if deciding which of his guns he was going to use to shoot the messenger, before he shifted his gaze to Tucker.
“I need you to tell me this guy who used to be my
friend is joking. And if not, I need you to help me bury his body.”
Drew didn’t look too perturbed by Arlo’s hyperbole. “Arlo.” Tucker sighed. “She’s twenty-five. You don’t get a say.”
“Goddamn it,” he hissed, his eyes flashing, his jaw tightening so hard Tucker worried it might shatter. “She’s not your average twenty-five-year-old.”
“But she wants to be, Arlo, and you stomping around like fucking Conan the Barbarian is not going to change that.”
Drew nodded in vigorous agreement. “You gotta let out the rope, dude. Any one of my sisters would have junk-punched me by now for even having an opinion about this.” Drew had four sisters—he spoke from obvious experience.
“It’s a hookup app!” he ground out through clenched teeth. “She’s not ready for that testosterone swamp.”
“She says she is.” Tucker’s voice sounded surprisingly calm. Della being on Tinder made him want to cut up a truckload of lemons, but what she needed from him—from all of them—was support. And that’s what she’d get.
Arlo looked between his friends, from one to the other. “So you both think it’s okay for her to be…getting out there again?” he demanded.
Theoretically, Tucker was fine with it. It wasn’t his life, and it sure as hell wasn’t his or Drew’s or Arlo’s business. Whatever Arlo’s justification for trying to keep Della wrapped up safe—it was null and void. She was a grown woman who was in control of her life. Just because she’d handed that control over for a while didn’t mean it wasn’t hers to take back.
And she clearly wanted it back.
“It doesn’t matter whether we are or not,” Drew reiterated, echoing Tucker’s thoughts. “It’s got nothing to do with us. Or you.”
“I know, I know. I just can’t…” For a second, Arlo seemed to be at a loss, and he couldn’t hide the flash of distress distorting his spare features. “I can’t get that night out of my head.”
Tucker knew how he felt. Just the secondhand knowledge of it was bad enough. “She’s not that woman anymore,” Tucker said, trying to appeal to what he knew was a large vein of fairness hidden behind Arlo’s tough-guy exterior. “And not all men are like her ex. You’ve done all the right things as a brother—to make her feel safe, to provide for her while she worked through her trauma. But she’s had three years of therapy, and she’s telling you she’s ready, and it’s time to step back.”
