by Amy Andrews
“Oh, this guy seems sweet. He likes quiet nights at home and staying up to the wee small hours talking.”
Tucker snorted. “Hard pass.”
“Why? It’s a change from the I like to party till I puke guys.”
“Because what he means is, he’s too poor to go out and he’s a raging insomniac.”
Della sighed—man, this was complicated. She looked out the window as they passed the goodbye from Credence sign. The landscape was looking greener as spring sprang all around them. Trees were growing leaves, and buds were blossoming.
“Where are we going?”
“To the old abandoned industrial estate on the way to the lake. Past the old red barn. Its deserted, and there are roads and a couple of parking lots. It’s a good place to learn the basics before you go on the open road.”
Deserted.
A thrilling kind of frisson slid down Della’s spine. They’d be alone out there. In his pickup, which was already gloriously warm and smelling like the coffee from Deja Brew and the bagels from Annie’s he’d handed her as she’d got in the vehicle. She’d shed her coat—it was on the bench seat between them, along with his well-worn Stetson—and bitten into her bagel before she’d even buckled up.
Glancing at Tucker’s profile, she felt her heart give a little flutter at the strong set of his features and the scruff at his jawline. He was in denim and plaid, his shirt sitting flat against his stomach and rolled up at the elbows to reveal thickly muscled forearms. His thigh nearest her was hugged to perfection by his Levi’s. His hair was damp at his nape, like he might have stepped out of the shower not too long ago, and Della tried really hard not to wonder what Tucker would look like in only a towel.
She wondered instead what it’d be like to unbuckle, slide across the seat, snuggle her head into his shoulder, and slip her hand onto his thigh. Like she’d seen in about a hundred country music videos. Unfortunately, she didn’t need to wonder what his response would be if she did make such a move. He’d go all tense. Probably stop the car and get out and pace for a bit before he said anything to her, because Tucker always chose his words so carefully and he’d be kind and gentle and patient in his rejection.
But the driving lessons would be over before they’d even begun.
Which was why Della wasn’t going to risk it, because riding in Tucker’s pickup felt very grown-up. Very independent. Deliciously…adult. And while he might not be attracted to her, she could at least indulge in spending time alone with him and pretend, even for a little while, that they could be a thing.
If she was looking for a thing. Which she was not.
Determinedly quashing the urge to snuggle into him, Della returned her attention to her phone, swiping left on faces, occasionally checking out bios. “I don’t get half these acronyms they use. Like…what’s BDE?”
When he didn’t answer, she looked at him, just catching the bob of his Adam’s apple. His expression left her in little doubt he wished he was anywhere else but here right now.
“It’s okay, Tuck. I’m a big girl.” She wasn’t some nineteenth-century ingenue. “I can deal.”
“It’s…big dick energy.”
Della blinked. What in hell did that mean? Was it a comment on the size of a guy’s package or its stamina? “Okay…think I’m going to need that clarified.”
“It’s a guy who knows what he brings to the table without having to brag about it. So for example, in this case, that guy does not have BDE. If you have to tell people you have it, you don’t have it.”
Della glanced at the picture of twenty-three-year-old Zack. Nothing about him said BDE. Tucker, on the other hand…
“What about—” She searched her memory for some of the shorthand that had been bothering her the last little while. She’d made do without explanation, but since she had a Tinder regular here in the truck with her, why not? “GSOH?”
“Good sense of humor.”
“MBA?”
“Married but available.”
Ugh. Each to their own, but…ugh. “SD?”
“Sugar daddy. Could be single daddy.”
“FBO?”
“Facebook official.”
Della blinked at his rapid-fire responses, impressed. “So you’re…what? The Merriam-Webster of dating acronyms?”
He shrugged. “I pay attention.”
“I was looking at someone’s profile yesterday that said he wasn’t interested in mermaids. I assumed he wasn’t talking about Ariel.”
“Ahh…yup.”
“Because Ariel is awesome.”
“Okay…” Tucker frowned. “Sure.”
“Are you saying Ariel isn’t awesome?”
He glanced at her. “She gave up her voice for some drowned dude she barely knew.”
What? Della gaped at him as he turned his attention back to the road. Well, yeah…she supposed that was true. “I didn’t realize you had opinions on Disney princesses.”
“Sure. Arlo, Drew, and I have regular deep and meaningful conversations about them.”
Her first instinct was to laugh, but Tucker seemed serious. “I don’t think that’s something you should admit out loud.”
He grinned but continued. “Drew’s a Snow White fan, but we’re pretty sure it’s because he has glass-casket envy. Arlo’s more of a Rapunzel fan.”
“Of course he is.”
“No, no. The kickass Tangled one. He loves a chick who can wield a frying pan as a weapon.”
“And you?”
“I’m more of a Mulan guy.”
Della wasn’t sure how they’d found themselves here, but it was official—this was the most bizarre conversation she’d ever had with an adult male. And she could have run with it if she wasn’t convinced that Tucker was trying to deliberately drag the conversation off track from her original question.
Screw that. “Tucker Daniels, are you stalling?”
He nodded. “Absolutely.”
“Quit it.”
“Della… You know there’s this thing called the internet that you can find out a whole heap of information on, right?”
“And what do you think might come up if I google ‘what does mermaid mean on Tinder’?”
“Oh, yeah, right.” His fingers unwrapped, then wrapped around the steering wheel. “Don’t do that.”
She nodded in satisfaction and waited for him to continue. He did not. “Tucker.”
“Fine.” He huffed and did the wrapping/unwrapping thing again. “A mermaid is a woman who is fine with…stuff above the waist but not…below.”
Della frowned. That was it? “So…she only wants to go to second base?” Della had suspected it was something very unflattering to do with fish.
“Yes. Exactly.” He nodded vigorously, his face a picture of relief, like he’d been petrified she was going to ask him to draw a freaking diagram or something.
It was kinda cute how much this stuff made him squirm, and she laughed despite her irritation. “You’re really not comfortable with this, are you?”
“Talking about bases with my friend’s little sister? I’d rather set fire to the bar.”
Della suppressed the urge to scream. Little sister? She’d been twenty-two when she came to Credence, and she was twenty-five now. She’d never been Arlo’s little sister.
“I’m an adult, Tucker. I may be lacking in areas of knowledge a lot of women my age aren’t, but I’m not going to blush, stammer, or…faint if you tell me something a little risqué. You’re supposed to be my wingman, for God’s sake.”
“Right.” He nodded. “You make a good point, and I’ll take it on board, but oh…look…we’ve arrived now, so let’s change the topic.”
Tucker turned left, and Della glanced out the windshield. She’d been driven past here many times on the way to the lake but hadn’t ever really paid it
much attention. The estate was dominated by deserted concrete shells that had once housed businesses. They’d been abandoned one by one twenty years ago as the town experienced a series of downturns.
There was a general air of decay. Peeling paint, broken windows, pockmarked exteriors. Even the graffiti was faded. Aged burnout tracks stained streets that nature had taken back. Weeds thrived in the cracks of the road and the sidewalks and even the walls of buildings.
Della half expected to see a tumbleweed rolling along.
After a few more lefts, Tucker pulled the car up in a parking lot, letting the engine idle. “Okay. Your turn.” He unbuckled, grabbed his hat and her coat, and said “Scoot over” as he opened his car door and exited. Cold air invaded the warm bubble for the beat or two it took for him to shut the door.
Della watched him absently, utterly distracted by the way he moved, the breadth of his frame, the confident, easy strides he took as he rounded the vehicle to her side. She was staring at him through her window as he pulled up outside her door. He quirked an eyebrow. “Changed your mind?”
His voice was muffled, but she heard him well enough. She shook her head absently, distracted by the way the window framed his shoulders.
“I’m freezing my ass off out here.”
His warm breath misted into the air, galvanizing Della into action. “Shit, sorry.” She fumbled with her seatbelt, finally releasing it and sliding across—just like she’d fantasized about—until she was sitting behind the wheel of the idling truck.
Tucker opened the door. “Seatbelt,” he said as he climbed in. Della reached for it as Tucker shut the door. “I’m going to sit in the middle for a bit.”
He announced it with a degree of trepidation in his voice, like he was about to cross the Rio Grande, not three feet of bench seat. Della swallowed. “Okay…sure.”
“Just until you get a hang of the gear changes. You should take some lessons in Denver with a stick shift, but the foot/hand coordination is the same with a column shift, and that’s always the tricky bit when you’re first learning to drive.”
“Okay.” Her voice sounded weird, and it took Della two attempts to get the seatbelt clicked into place as Tucker slid across.
All the way. Until he was sitting right beside her.
Sure, there were a good couple of inches between them—he wasn’t touching her at all—but heat from his body blasted like a furnace, and her pulse skyrocketed regardless.
“Right. You ready for this?”
Della nodded. “Bring it.”
She listened carefully as he talked her through the gear positions, getting her to engage the clutch as he demonstrated them, then getting her to cycle through the gears over and over—from one to two to three to four and then reverse—until he was satisfied she knew them by heart.
Next he explained the combo of clutch/accelerator action to move the car forward. He got her to repeat it back to him a couple of times until he was confident she had the theory right.
“Okay.” He blew out a breath and rubbed his hands together. “Want to try?”
Della nodded vigorously, her heart just about beating out of her chest. Partly because holy shit she was about to drive. Partly because holy shit she’d never been this close to Tucker for such a sustained period of time.
“All right, then,” he said. “Let’s go. Clutch in first gear, then clutch slowly out, accelerator gently down.”
Della drew in a steadying breath, nervous and excited all at once. She wanted to do this. Being able to drive was the first step in her independence. Also, if she was being totally honest, she wanted to ace it in front of Tucker.
She did not ace it.
She took her foot off the clutch too fast and didn’t give it enough gas, then overcompensated, which stalled the vehicle dramatically in a wheel-screeching bunny hop. Thank goodness for her seatbelt or she’d have been thrown into the steering wheel. Her hand jolted off the wheel and grappled for purchase on the nearest solid thing, which just happened to be Tucker’s thigh.
It tensed to granite beneath her palm. Even through the noise of her pulse thudding in her head and the scrambled state of her brain, Della was aware of that ominous tightening. Aware that she should remove her hand but also kinda paralyzed.
“Are you okay?” Tucker asked after a beat or two.
Dragging in a ragged breath, Della nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry. I—”
“It’s fine.” His dismissal cut her off. “You’ll get better. It just takes practice.” He peeled her hand off his thigh and placed it back on the steering wheel. “Let’s try again.”
He gave her a smile, but Della didn’t miss how he eased away a little as she turned the key in the ignition.
…
Tucker was unsurprised later that day when Arlo was at Jack’s at two minutes after four—his official knock-off time. Drew had been holding up the bar for fifteen minutes, and they’d taken bets on how long it’d take Arlo to join them.
“How’d the lesson go?” he demanded as he strode toward them.
“And a good afternoon to you, too,” Tucker said.
“Two minutes on the dot.” Drew tossed five bucks down on the bar. “You win.”
Arlo ignored both of them. “Did she do okay?”
Preferring to let Arlo sweat a little, Tucker asked, “What’d she say?” He knew Della would have texted her brother, and he was curious what she’d thought about the experience.
“She said you were patient and”—Arlo mimed air quotes—“wonderful.”
Tucker grinned, trying not to let that go to his head. “That’s because I am. Wonderful.”
“She said you said she’s the best student you’ve taught.”
“I did.”
“And exactly how many people have you taught to drive?”
“None.” He grinned again. “But she was very good.”
“Yeah?”
Tucker suppressed a laugh. Arlo was more mother hen than tough guy when it came to his sister. “Yeah.” He grabbed a beer from the fridge and handed it to Arlo. “She was shaky to start, but she picked it up quickly.”
“She was so nervous this morning. I was nervous for her.”
Tucker had been, too, but for an entirely different reason. Until Friday, he’d never been alone with her in such close quarters. Sure, he’d seen her plenty over the years, gotten to know her, but always in plain sight of people. Hell, in plain sight of the entire fucking town.
That changed when they were in his truck.
And the way she’d devoured that bagel, like it was the holy grail of bagels, had been fucking indecent. He’d had to think of his tax bill to stop his traitorous dick from misbehaving. But there’d been no hope for him when her hand had gripped his thigh.
Not even the thought of a full IRS audit had been enough to stop that hard-on.
Between her nearness, her cupcake aroma, and the way she ate like it was some goddamn erotic art, he was never not going to be nervous when she was in his truck.
“She did fine,” he assured, because thinking about Della eating a bagel with her brother right there was weird. And Arlo could sniff out weird better than anyone he knew.
“I could have taught her,” he muttered as he took a swig of his beer.
“Yeah,” Drew said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “That’d be a real treat for her.”
Arlo placed his bottle on the bar. “I’m a police officer. I know the rules of the road upside down and back to front. I’m the perfect person for the job.”
“True.” Drew took a mouthful of his beer. “But this way, you get to be her brother, and he”—Drew stabbed a finger in Tucker’s direction—“gets to be the bad guy. Nagging her about her speed and checking her rearview mirror. You get to be the bad guy all day, every day at work, let him do it for a change. Hell, dude, he gets to teach her t
o parallel park. No one in their right mind wants to teach anyone to parallel park.”
Arlo narrowed his eyes at Drew, then turned them on Tucker. “You get to be the bad guy. Hmm.” He nodded slowly. “I like that.”
Tucker shrugged. “I’m okay with being the bad guy.”
Except that conjured up all kinds of ways he could be bad, and Tucker could feel her hand on his thigh again. It had been so unexpected he’d actually felt it like a jolt to his chest, and for a crazy moment he’d wanted to cover her hand and shift it higher and higher so she could feel what her touch did to him. He’d wanted to grab her and haul her on top of him until she was straddling his thighs and push his hands into her hair and kiss her mouth deep and wet while he stuck his hands inside her panties and made her moan until she came her brains out.
But that was never going to happen. Besides the obvious reasons for keeping his distance, it didn’t take a shrink to understand Della needed a slow hand. Not a quick grope in a pickup.
“You told her I liked Rapunzel?”
“Yeah.” At Arlo’s grimace, he said, “What? We got talking about Disney princesses.”
“Now she’s giving me shit about having a thing for damsels in distress.”
Drew laughed. “You do.”
Arlo scowled. “I do not.”
“Bro, just take it.” Drew clapped Arlo on the shoulder. “You lost your leg rescuing a woman from a flooding car.”
“And you kicked down Della’s door and rescued her from her fortress,” Tucker added, although it had apparently been a shitty backwoods hovel and not a thorny tower. “Face it. You’re a damsel magnet.”
“Fuck’s sake, I’m a cop,” he grouched. “Damsels find me. And anyway, you’re supposed to be concentrating on driving.”
“Jesus.” Tucker shook his head. “It was before we started the lesson. And it beat the alternative topic of conversation.”
“Oh yeah? What was that?”
“Big dick energy.”
Arlo almost choked on his beer. “What?”
“She was having some trouble with Tinder acronyms.”
