“I think he ate two plates, so probably.”
“Do you think his motorcycle has a name?Carly at school says they call their car Eleanor.I don’t know why they would give their car a name, but she says everyone does.Maybe porch man names his motorcycle.”
I blink.“I have no idea.”
“Do you think he was lonely on the porch?”
My hands pause in her hair for just a second.Then I keep brushing.“I don’t know, baby.”
She yawns.I get her into bed, read her a story, and kiss her forehead goodnight.Then I lock up the house, turn off the lights, and climb into bed telling myself I’m only tired.
That’s all this is.Exhaustion.Stress.Nothing else.
Then I dream about him again.
Not exactly the same as the night before, but close enough that when I wake up, my skin is warm and my heart is racing and I bury my face in the pillow with a mortified groan.
“This is ridiculous.”
I sit up, drag my robe on, and shuffle toward the kitchen for coffee.
The house is still.Quinn is asleep.
Morning light spills through the windows soft and gold.For one glorious second, I think maybe today will be normal.Then I carry my coffee to the front window and pull the curtain aside.
And there he is.Again.
Tucker is stretched out on my porch like some kind of stubborn, overprotective guard dog in boots.
This time he’s on his side, one arm tucked beneath his head, that same duffle bag under him like a pillow.
I stare.Sip my coffee.Stare some more.Then I set the mug down and march to the door.When I open it, he’s already waking.One eye cracks open.Then the other.He pushes up onto an elbow and looks entirely too calm for a man caught sleeping on a woman’s porch two mornings in a row.
“What,” I ask, “are you doing?”
“Morning.”
“That is not an answer.”
He sits up fully, stretches his shoulders once, and looks up at me.“Same thing I was doing yesterday.”
“You cannot keep sleeping on my porch.”
He shrugs one shoulder.“It’s for my peace of mind.”
I stare at him.“Your peace of mind.”
“Yeah.”
“You know that sounds insane, right?”
“Probably.”
I cross my arms.“Tucker.”
He gets to his feet, towering over me on the porch but somehow not making it feel threatening.Just solid.
“You can tell me to stop,” he says.
