“Well,” says Clem, trying to change the mood, but she’s got nothing.
“I work for your son as well,” Tucker adds.
“Yes!” Dad says, charging in with the change-of-subject brigade. “He does indeed. One of my best guys.”
“Thank you, sir,” Tucker says.
For the rest of dinner, Tucker and I tell everyone all about our experiences on prom court, and everyone is excited, but Grammy glows with pride.
Mom makes fresh whipped cream and serves it with berries over the pound cake Tucker brought. When Cleo and Bernadette get home from bingo, they join us and tell us all about their latest adventures and even a few dirty jokes, until it’s getting dark enough that Grammy has to turn on the lights.
Tucker glances at his phone. “I better get going.”
“Prom court panel tomorrow,” I remind him. “Dress code is—”
“Sunday best,” he finishes, like the very detailed email from Mrs. Leonard said. Tomorrow, the entire prom court will sit on a panel in front of the whole senior class in an effort to make the voting process more than a popularity contest.
“I’ll walk you out,” I say.
After he says some quick goodbyes to my family, I lead Tucker outside to where he’s parked on the street.
I lean against the tailgate of his truck with my armscrossed. “Thanks for the pound cake?” It comes out more like a question.
“Are you sure about that?” He laughs, and then swallows. “You were pretty incredible last night.”
“Thanks for the nudge,” I say, feeling suddenly shy as I remember his lips on my neck.
He steps toward me and pushes the toe of his boot between my two feet. “I guess I’m a really, really efficient nudger.”
Overhead, the streetlights flicker to life. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears. I’ve spent the last few weeks explaining away every little touch or sign, but there’s only one explanation left.
Tucker snakes an arm around my waist and presses his hand flat against my back, pulling me to him.
I let out a short gasp, and run the tip of my fingers along the line of his jaw, something I’ve wanted to do for a very long time, I think. His lower lip is full and tempting.
“I need to talk to you,” he says, and his voice is husky.
“I don’t feel like talking right now.” I kiss him, my lips parted, before he can say another word. Whatever he needs to say can wait. His hand against my back is unmoving as our bodies press so close together we could melt into one. My hands race up and down his arms as his tongue deepens our kiss. Nothing about this first kiss is gentle or patient.
I open my eyes for only a second, but it’s long enough to see one of Grammy’s curtains shift, and I’m quickly reminded that we’re standing in the middle of a streetmaking out like we’re starved for it.
I tilt my head back so that I’m barely out of his reach, and he leans forward still searching for me. It takes his body a moment to catch up, his lips still nipping at the air between us. It’s maybe the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say breathlessly. “Sunday best.”
He nods, finally taking a step back.
I feel all the blood rushing back to my brain and away from my pants.
“Monday morning,” he says from the driver’s side of his truck. “Sunday best.”
Twenty-Seven
I find Hannah pacing the backstage of the auditorium on Monday morning. She’s wearing black jeans, combat boots, a white button-up shirt, and a WORLD’S #1 DAD tie.
The minute she sees me, she says, “I’m kind of freaking out. Like, to the point I’m wondering if I should lie and say my ’lita died to get out of this.”
“Excuse me?” I ask. “The ever-cool-as-a-cucumber Hannah Perez is fuh-reaking out?”
