She feels it.I can tell.Her eyes hold mine a fraction longer.Then she steps back, hand tightening around the doorframe.
“Goodnight, Tucker.”
I should leave.
Instead I stand there another second, taking in the quiet house, the soft lamp glow from the living room, Lucy barefoot in the hallway with one side of her hair falling over her shoulder.
Comfortable.
That’s the word again.
Terrifying and true.
“Night, Lucy,” I say finally.Then I make myself walk out before I do something reckless like stay.
THIRTEEN
LUCY
Aweek goes by, and somehow Tucker becomes part of my days.Not all of them.Not in some huge obvious way.But enough that I start noticing the spaces where he isn’t.That realization should probably alarm me more than it does.
Monday, he comes into the diner for breakfast.
Tuesday, it’s lunch.
Wednesday, he’s there again just before the rush, sitting at the counter like he doesn’t own a watch and like I don’t notice he times it for my section every single time.
He never says much in front of other people.Mostly he orders, eats, watches me with those beautiful, steady eyes, and leaves too much money on the table.But sometimes he lingers.
He always makes sure he asks how Quinn is.Sometimes he waits until I’ve caught my breath between tables and says something low and dry enough to make me laugh when I’m trying very hard not to.And every single time, my stomach does something stupid.
By Friday, Harold at the diner has fully given up pretending he doesn’t know exactly what’s going on.
“Mornin’, honey,” he says when I refill his coffee.“Your biker ain’t here yet?”
I almost pour coffee directly onto the counter.“He is notmybiker.”
Harold just grins into his mug.“Mm-hm.”
I roll my eyes and move on to the next customer, but my face is burning.And the worst part?Five minutes later, the bell over the diner door jingles and I look up automatically.Like I was waiting for him.Like Harold was right.
Tucker steps inside wearing jeans, boots, a black T-shirt stretched across shoulders too broad for any man to have a legal right to, and that leather cut that somehow looks more dangerous every time I see it.
Our eyes meet immediately.Always.Always.And just like that, the whole room shifts.Not because anyone else notices.Though they probably do.But because I do.Because the second he’s here, I know exactly where he is without having to think about it.Because I’m aware of his presence in this small space in a way I’m not with anyone else.
He heads to the counter this time.Not a booth.Not the back.The counter, where he can sit in front of me and make pretending indifference nearly impossible.
“Morning,” I say, grabbing a coffee mug before he even asks.
His mouth twitches.“Morning.”
I pour his coffee.“Breakfast?”
“Depends.”
“On?”I wonder curiously.
“Whether you’re picking it for me.”
