by Amy Andrews
“Here.” He placed the frothy concoction in her hand. “Drink up. Fries and cheesy garlic bread arriving soon.”
“Mmm.” She shut her eyes as she sucked on her straw. “Cheesy garlic bread. My favorite.”
Yeah. He took a pull of his beer. Arlo had told him she liked it when she’d first come to town, and Tucker had put it on the bar menu.
“Thank you.” She turned her eyes on him, the mascara on her lashes making them seem bigger and bluer.
Tucker’s heartbeat got loud in his ears again. “It’s just cheesy garlic bread.”
“Not for that. For not saying I told you so.”
“Well…” Tucker shrugged. “No one likes a smartass.”
She grinned and picked up her glass as if to toast him. “I’ll drink to that.” And they clinked.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes.” She crossed her eyes at him a little and laughed. A slice of her hair fell forward, and she absently pushed it back over her shoulder. “Don’t I look okay?”
Oh man…she looked more than okay. But that was not what she’d meant. “You do, I just…”
She nudged him with her shoulder when he didn’t finish the sentence. “What?”
“You had such high hopes for the date, and I thought you’d…I don’t know…be upset if it didn’t meet your expectations.”
“Did you think I was going to come over here and cry in your beer?” she teased.
Tucker’s heart skipped a beat at the sparkle dancing in her eyes, and he gave her a rueful smile. “Maybe.”
“No.” She shook her head, turning back to her drink. “I’ve cried more than enough the past three years. Hell, the last seven years. I’m done with that.” She glanced at him again, the straw still in her mouth. “I’m not going to break, Tuck. I may have come across that way in the past, but I’m stronger now.”
Tuck. He wished he didn’t like the way she called him that so much. “Yeah, I can see that.”
Their eyes locked and held, and the general hubbub around them faded for long seconds until the waiter interrupted with her food. “Mmm.” Della lowered her face toward the steam rising off the piping-hot curly fries and inhaled. “Salty, oily goodness.”
She picked one up, blew on it, then popped it in her mouth before pushing the basket toward him. Next she reached for a piece of garlic bread, pulling it away from the other three slices and smiling as two long strings of melted cheese followed. She took a massive bite, then shut her eyes as she let out a hearty moan.
Watching a woman scarf down garlic bread like it was her first meal in a month should not be sexy. Except, fucking hell, it was. The gleam of oil on her lips made them even shinier as they closed around the bread, and that sound of appreciation…
It was practically pornographic.
But also, remembering all those times he’d watched her pick at her food, it was satisfying in a very non-pornographic way. He pushed the basket of fries back in her direction. “Don’t let these get cold.”
They didn’t really talk for the next ten minutes. She ate, and he drank his beer, watching the basketball game reflected in the window. “So,” she finally said, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin as she fished around in her bag and pulled out her phone. She swiped the screen a couple of times. “Who else looks good, do you think? Guy with his dog who just wants to be the big spoon?”
Tucker blinked as her thumb swiped left a few times. “You want to keep going?”
She glanced at him, surprised. “Of course. I’m in Denver every two weeks. Why not?”
He stared at her for several beats. After tonight’s disaster, he’d have thought she’d delete that fucking app ASAP, but she just kept on surprising him. He liked that about her. She’d been down for a while, but her determination to reclaim her life was admirable.
“Because,” Tucker said, dragging his head back in the conversation. “There might be more Codys?”
Della shrugged. “Maybe. But I’m not giving up after one non-date.” She went back to swiping. “There’s a guy wearing a traffic cone on his head who describes himself as a space gypsy?” More swiping. “Or bathroom-selfie guy whose carpet apparently matches the drapes.”
Tucker almost choked on his beer. What the hell?
“Oooh.” She sat up high and looked around the bar. “Says he’s under a mile away…he could be in here.”
“Ohh-kay. Nope.” Tucker snatched the phone out of her hand. “No bathroom-selfie dudes.”
“What’s wrong with a bathroom selfie?”
He glanced at her. “You want a guy who’s going to be looking at you or himself?”
She nodded slowly. “Good point.”
Tucker returned his attention to the phone. “No guys wearing traffic cones or big spoons. Jesus. Have all dudes in their twenties had lobotomies?”
“I don’t think they’ve ever been subjected to Arlo’s the perils of social media class.”
Tucker laughed as he swiped left and left and left on so many dickheads. “They all failed if they did.”
“What are you doing?” she asked, leaning in close to peer over his shoulder.
“Trying to find someone who isn’t an idiot among this lot.”
“But how can you tell? I mean, sure, there are some obvious hard passes, but most of them present well.”
Tucker snorted. “I’m a guy. Trust me, I speak fluent idiot. Like this one?” He stopped at Trent, who was twenty-four, wearing a suit, and holding a red SOLO cup.
“Games champion, freelancer, runner,” she read.
“Which means he wins at beer pong, is unemployed, and doesn’t have his own car.”
She laughed, and for a second her forehead pressed into his biceps, and he could smell cupcakes again, and Tucker’s brain temporarily shorted out.
“Okay, then fine. You’re right. I need help. Congratulations. You’re now my official Tinder wingman.”
His brain kicked back into gear. “Wait. What?” He shook his head. “No.”
“Yes. You said it yourself. You speak fluent idiot. You can help me navigate this whole confusing maze.” She laid her hand on his arm and said, “Please, Tuck?”
Crap. A sudden flare of heat bloomed behind his sternum. He never had been able to say no to Della. Tucker was doomed.
“Fine.” He sighed. She needed his help, and he did speak guy.
She did a little seat jig and clapped her hands together. “Also, I need to ask another favor.” She dug around in her bag and handed over the booklet from the DMV. “Can you teach me to drive?”
Tucker looked at the offering. It made sense that Della 2.0 would want her own wheels. But him and her and cupcake in the close confines of his truck? Christ. He glanced up from the booklet. “I think Arlo might want to do that.”
She quirked an eyebrow at him. “And would you like to be taught by Arlo?”
Tucker grimaced. He would rather shove a stick shift in his eye. Arlo would be thorough and methodical but also strict to the point of terrifying, and God help anyone who didn’t have their hands at ten and two on the wheel at all times.
“There are no driving schools in Credence, and I can ask Winona, but I know she’s behind on a book deadline. Drew would help, but I’m not sure I want to take lessons in a hearse, and, well…Jack’s doesn’t open until ten, right? So I was thinking maybe we could go out in the mornings for a few weeks when it fits in with your schedule?”
She deliberately batted her eyes at him, a smile playing on her mouth, her hands clasped together as if she was praying. “Please? I promise to be very attentive and follow your instructions to the letter.”
Ordinarily, Tucker would have some quick flirty reply to a woman promising him those kinds of things, but Della hadn’t meant it that way. He’d worked hard to keep their friendship a neutral space. He wasn’t going
to fuck that up now.
“Yeah, okay.”
Him and her in his pickup. Alone. In cupcake hell. What could possibly go wrong?
Chapter Four
Della was striding past Rosemary’s villa on Monday morning when “How was your date on Friday night, my dear?” drifted out through the open door.
The twenty-four villas were all self-contained units at the back of the complex, connected by a network of paths. Della backtracked and entered. “Morning.”
Rosemary was sitting at the window seat with a book, soaking up the unseasonably warm weather that had arrived over the weekend and was predicted to stay for the next few days before a cold front came through.
“Are you reading one of Winona’s books?” Della was sure that was the cover of Winona’s latest.
Peering over her glasses, Rosemary quirked an eyebrow. “Date was that bad, huh?”
“It was a bust,” Della admitted as she sat down on the end of the seat and leaned her back against the wall.
“Let me guess. He lied about his height?”
“Well…yes, actually. How did you know?”
Rosemary shrugged. “He looked shorter in his pictures.”
Della blinked. He did? “Why do men do that?”
“It’s a penis thing,” the older woman said nonchalantly.
“A penis thing?”
Della was starting to think Rosemary was a little obsessed with dicks. Or maybe she just liked saying scandalous things? Either way, Della found it endearing.
“Yeah…you know. Anatomical proportionality and all that.” No, Della did not know, but Rosemary wasn’t done with the questions. “What else did he lie about?”
“He said he didn’t want to just hook up, but…”
“He wanted to just hook up.” She tutted. “What a dumbass.”
Della laughed, surprised to hear this refined old lady cussing. She filled in the gory details for Rosemary, assuring her she was fine. “Plenty more where he came from. And Tucker’s going to help me pick my matches from now on. He’s also going to teach me to drive.”
Their first lesson was tomorrow morning at eight. She’d studied her booklet all weekend and was going to the municipal offices after work to take her written test for the instruction permit. Della was so excited she couldn’t help but grin crazily. A fact not lost on Rosemary.
“Is he now?” Another quirked eyebrow was followed by a long speculative look.
“Uh-huh.” Della looked away from that imperious eyebrow in case Rosemary read too much into her excitement.
A knock sounded at just the right time, and both she and Rosemary glanced across to find Ray Carmody loitering in the open doorway, flowers in his hand. Ray had been a resident of the old folks’ home for a few years. He was a tall, elegant man with close-cropped gray hair, dark skin that was remarkably unwrinkled, and a frame still impressively erect, despite his eighty-plus years. He’d worked for the electric company for five decades.
His eyes darted between the two women. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you had company. I’ll come back.”
“Don’t be an old fool, Ray. It’s just Della.” Rosemary swung her legs around so her feet were planted on the ground and gestured for Ray to enter. He looked like he wanted to flee, but he entered anyway.
“I found these out on my walk today. Rocky Mountain columbine.” He thrust the collection of blue-and-white wildflowers in her direction. “I thought you might like them.”
Rosemary reached for them, staring at the petals. “So they are.” She sniffed them, then shook her head at Ray. “What on earth are they doing out in February?”
“I think the heat the last couple of days got ’em all confused.”
“Well, thank you. I love them.”
Ray beamed, the smile finally making some slight crinkles in the otherwise smooth skin of his face. Neither of them said anything for a beat or two, just kept smiling at each other.
Hmmm.
Obviously remembering they weren’t alone, he cleared his throat and dragged his attention from Rosemary. “How’d your date go, Della?”
Della almost laughed. This was the disadvantage of working in a place where people had too much time on their hands and about the most exciting thing that ever happened was when they switched out cobbler for pumpkin pie on the menu in October.
But, having grown up without grandparents, Della liked that these people looked out for her and treated her like their collective granddaughter. It had been strange at first, but she’d quickly become fond of the affection.
“Terrible,” Rosemary said, jumping in for her. “The young man expected her to go home with him. On an empty stomach!”
Ray scowled. “I’m sorry, honey. Boy clearly hasn’t got the sense God gave a goose.”
“It’s fine.”
“You want me to kick his ass?”
Della did laugh then. “Thanks, Mr. Carmody. I handled it.”
Another knock, and all three turned to find Bob Downey at the door. He and Ray were old friends and practically joined at the hip since moving to the old folk’s home a few years back. They swaggered around the facility, cracking themselves up constantly, like Dean and Sammy in Vegas.
“Come in, Bob,” Rosemary called. “The more the merrier.”
“What you all in a huddle about over here?” He still felt the need to be involved in everything, mayoral robes or no.
“Talking about Della’s date,” Ray confirmed. “The boy put the hard word on her.”
“What?” Bob’s bushy eyebrows knitted together. “What’s wrong with him?” he demanded of Ray. “Only got one oar in the water?” He turned to Della. “You want me to kick his ass?”
Della suppressed the absurd urge to cry as the two old men stood ready to defend her honor. She didn’t need it, but there was something nice about their paternalism. Her father sure could have learned a lot about having her back from these two. “No need, Mr. Downey. But thank you.”
He squeezed her shoulder. “Anytime, just holler. Ray and I are at your service. We could probably get Arthur and Harry to join us.”
Ray snorted. “Harry’s blind as a bat and deaf as a post.”
“Yeah. But the kid don’t know that.”
Della wasn’t sure how the kid could miss it, considering Harry had a pair of coke-bottle glasses so thick her eyes watered in sympathy every time he peered at her through them.
“And besides,” Bob continued, “he’s sprightly.”
“Well, thank you,” Della said with a solemn nod, touched by the idea of her own personal A-Team, no matter how geriatric. “I will remember that.”
Satisfied that Della obviously knew they had her back, Bob clapped Ray on the back. “I was just heading to the pool table. You joining me?”
Ray glanced at Rosemary for a second or two. She was still clutching her flowers, and she smiled at him before he turned to Bob and said, “Sure, why not. Kicking your ass never gets old.”
“Ha!” Bob snorted in disgust. “You’re just having a run of luck there, sparky, but that’s all coming to an end this morning. I can feel it in my water.”
Ray snorted back. “They got antibiotics for that these days.” And then they both cracked up. When they finally pulled themselves together, Ray performed a little bow, his gaze lingering on Rosemary as he said, “Excuse us, ladies,” before letting Bob drag him to the games room.
Rosemary tracked Ray’s progress all the way out the door, and it was Della’s turn for a speculative look. “I think Ray Carmody has a bit of a crush on you.”
“Well, I hope so. I’ve been giving that man so many damn signals I’m beginning to feel like a traffic light.”
Della blinked. “So…you have a crush, too?”
The older woman shot her an impatient look. “Why not? He’s handsome, funny, smart, and
still has all his own hair and teeth. Nice soft hands, too. Reckon they’d feel mighty nice on my skin.”
From the way Rosemary’s fingers stroked absently up her inner arm, Della was left in no doubt that she wasn’t just talking about holding hands. “So…what? You want to get married again?”
“Goodness, no.” She laughed as if it was the most absurd thing she’d ever heard. “I’m too old for all that fuss. Now I just want a man to occasionally tell me I have a great tushy and to warm my bed when the feeling takes us.”
Yeah. Della wouldn’t mind a guy complimenting her tushy every now and then, either.
Her brain automatically went to Tucker. Tucker, who’d never checked out her ass. Damn it—why must her heart want someone so completely uninterested?
“You don’t approve?”
Della dragged her mind back to the conversation. “Don’t be silly. I say go for it. If you ever need me to pass a note—” She grinned. “Let me know.” Holding her hands out for the flowers, she asked, “Would you like me to put those in a vase?” Rosemary passed them over, and Della said, “I’ll be right back.”
“Thank you, dear.”
When Della got to the doorway, she paused and turned. “Rosemary?” The older woman glanced up from her book. “You do have a great tushy.”
“Darlin’,” she said, her eyes twinkling all the way across the room. “I have a spectacular tushy.”
“What about Daniel?” Della asked, inspecting the face on the screen as Tucker drove out of Credence.
He grimaced. “Della and Daniel?”
She rolled her eyes. “He has a very cute dog. He’s twenty-four, enjoys a good time and running—” She sighed at the next word. “Ugh…maybe not.”
“Another dude with no car?”
“No…he’s spelled amok as two words. And the mok is spelled with a u instead of an o.”
“If you’re after good spelling, that’s going to rule out about seventy-five percent of the Tinder pool.”
This was true. There was an appalling lack of spell-check going on in the app. She’d ignored it up until Cody, but now she had to get more discerning, and the ability to spell seemed a good a line as any to draw.
