“Don’t stay up too late, honey. You’ll get dark circles under your eyes.”
“Okay.”
Then I end the call before I can hear another word.
Tossing my phone on the couch, I fall back onto it and feel the tremble in my hands. No matter how far away I go, I still feel like I’m standing in their living room after graduation and being told to apply for corporate jobs because it’s my only option. Being told to be more like my cousin who has a better career and close friends.
My eyes blur enough that I close them, fighting the burn because crying is useless.
Crying won’t change anything.
I sit up with my elbows on my thighs, pressing the heel of my palm against my eyes and breathe through the sting. The weight of the conversation and thinking about the timeline of the project sits so heavy on my mind that I feel I’m seconds from spiraling.
Then there’s a knock on my door.
Two firm raps that cut through my spiral, and I freeze. I already know who it is. I can feel him like the air changes when he’s near. Like my body clocks him before my brain does.
When I don’t move, I stare at the door, willing him to walk away.
It’s late, which means Tucker must have just gotten home from his shift at the bar. I want to hear his footsteps retreat back to his place, but they don’t. Instead he knocks again, slower this time, like he’s giving me space to choose.
I walk to the door on legs that don’t feel steady and rest my hand on the knob without opening it.
“Scottie.”
His voice is low and rough. It doesn’t sound like the playful Tucker I’ve been working with or the one who calls me babe and smirks for the camera. His voice sounds like he’s holding something back.
“Open the door,” he says. “Please.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and I press my forehead to the back of the door. “Tucker?—”
“You don’t get to run away from me.”
I rear back, eyes flying open at his sharp tone. I swing the door open and come face to face with Tucker standing on the other side. He has one hand on the door frame and the other in the pocket of his jeans, resting casually.
“You were doing too much,” I snap. “Faking for the cameras or not, that can’t happen again.”
“Too much?”
“Yes. Too much.” My voice rises. “You don’t get to say things like that and touch me like that when you don’t mean it. That’s not what this is, and it’s giving me mixed signals. I can’t afford to sit and think about it for too long because we’re already behind schedule on the renovation!”
My throat burns with every word. The second the sentence leaves my mouth, my pulse is already punishing me for it, hammering in my ears. My fingers clamp harder around the edge of the door like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
Tucker doesn’t move. He stands there, clenching his jaw so tight the muscle ticks in his cheek, like I’ve slapped him instead of throwing words.
“It wasn’t nothing,” he grits out.
My stomach flips like my body heard him before my brain could catch up. Heat crawls up my neck with part embarrassment, part anger, and part something far worse.
The space between us feels…crowded. Not with bodies, but with everything we’re refusing to say. It presses into my lungs until I have to remind myself to breathe. His eyes are hard, but not cold. There’s something raw under the anger and it terrifies me more than if he’d smirk. I swallow, but it doesn’t help. My mouth feels dry the longer his eyes bore into mine.
“Scottie.”
The way he says my name should be illegal.
It shouldn’t sound like a warning and a plea all at once.
“I’m fine,” I lie automatically.
