Tucker’s mouth twitches at the corner in the hint of a smile before he pulls away, out of my space. We both clear our throats and continue to eat, but I pray his dads weren’t watching. I wish on every sunrise to keep these soft moments between Tucker and me tucked away where no one can steal them from us.
CHAPTER NINE
TUCKER
Idrove to Charles’ house for Tuesday’s lesson so that I could comfortably bring baked goods and the gift bag without worrying about my guitar slung over my back. I have to admit the Camaro looks pretty nice parked in front of Charles’ sizable beach house. Shaking the thoughts away, I march toward the house with arms full and more determination than I’ve had in a very long time.
I knock gently in case Cupcake is napping. Charles answers the door with a tired smile, his hair a little limper than I’m used to seeing it. I imagine the fear of possibly losing Cupcake probably did him in. I’m struck with the urge to make him feel better, to ease that pain a little. I feel that way with River a lot, but not many other people can make me feel soft and gooey. Charles does though, and I don’t know what to do with that fact.
“Here,” I say and shove the aluminum tray of gluten-free brownies at him. “I used to bake these and get high in college.”
Charles’ eyebrows rocket into his hairline. “You got high?”
I shrug and push into the house, doing my best to not takea deep breath of his summer-storm scent. “It was a rite of passage. I’m paranoid when high, so I don’t do it much anymore.”
“Ah,” Charles says with yet another tired smile. Charles points at the gift bag in my hand. “What’s that?”
I lift my head high in challenge. “Not for you. Where is Cupcake?”
Charles looks simultaneously confused, worried, and a little pleased as he nods toward the living room. I assume she’s in her normal spot in front of the fire in her dog bed. I’m proven correct when I walk in to find her snoozing slightly in her usual spot. When she spots me, her tail beats hard against the wood floor. I fall to my knees beside her and pet her side, gently, because Orson told me everything there is to know about bloat when I called him in hysterics wanting to make sure he did everything he could to keep Charles’ special girl alive.
“I brought you a gift.” I reach into the gift bag and pull out the small stuffed animal. It has no squeaker, and it’s probably more of a child’s toy, but it’s a stuffed starfish and I thought she had to have it when I saw it. I hesitantly hand it to her like she’s a person because I don’t have much experience with dogs.
Cupcake takes the toy gently between her jaws, then drops her head to the pillow in apparent exhaustion. I pet her snout again while whispering stupid shit to her. At first her size had scared me, because she’s fucking huge, but she really lives up to her name. She’s a real cupcake.
I pet her for a while until she’s snoring gently. I only stir when Charles drops beside me, a twinge on his lips at some pain in his body.
“She’s okay?” I ask quietly.
Charles nods gently. “Yes, she handled it like a champ. Orson said that he received a phone call threatening bodily harm to him if she didn’t leave in perfect condition.”
My cheeks go nuclear, so I turn my gaze back to Cupcake. I can feel the weight of Charles’ stare on me—the weight of his curiosity too. He’s probably wondering why I’m so invested in Cupcake, as if someone can’t be invested in their friend’s dog without any sort of ulterior motives. My ulterior motive is making sure Charles never does anything but smile, because the idea of him crying makes me want to punch the moon in anger. I can’t really explain why, and I’m not ready to yet, but it means enough for me to protect the sweet girl who’s currently snoozing under my hand.
“I’m glad she’s okay.”
“Me too,” Charles agrees and gently knocks his shoulder into mine.
I give Cupcake one final soft pet, then stand and move over to the couch where Charles kindly took my guitar out of the case. He sits opposite me on the couch, and I try not to stare at him again. He’s waking something up inside me that’s been asleep for most of my life. When he smiles shyly at me over the top of the guitar, the world tilts sideways and I have to orient myself so I don’t tumble over into something. One of his strong hands grips the neck of the guitar gently, despite their strength, and for one long moment I wonder what those hands would feel like on my body. Would he squeeze my hips hard enough to bruise as I kiss the air from his lungs? Would he leave thumbprint-shaped bruises on my neck after an hour-long make-out session? Would the pads of his fingers tickle down my spine as I fall asleep beside him after a long day of doing absolutely nothing?
“Tucker?” Charles asks in what sounds like concern.
“Sorry.” I clear my throat and strum a quick chord progression that has his gaze snapping down to my hands. “Let’s learn something new today.”
I walk him through forming a bar chord, and of course he can do it perfectly due to the extra-large size of his hands. We focus on the guitar for an hour, moving in and out of bar chords. Last week I tasked him with picking a song and memorizing it, which is a skill that most gifted guitar players pick up early on. When he starts to strum the opening chords for our shared favorite Nolan Hastings song, my ribs feel a little too tight. While I can’t carry a tune at all, Charles very clearly can. His voice is a deep timbre that works its way through my body.
I hold back a shiver at the sound of those words on his tongue. His strumming is a little clumsy still, but it’s getting there, and sometimes the passion a musician has means more than technical skills. He finishes the song with a shy smile, and I clap like the absolute goofball I am.
“I did good?”
I grin at him so hard my cheeks hurt. “You did great! Now we can have a gluten-free brownie.”
Charles’ cheeks warm at the praise, which makes me feel far happier than it should. I put my guitar away in the case as Charles puts his on the stand in the corner. Being with Charles is always easy, in a way I can’t quite explain. All those nerve endings that spent years on edge, waiting for a slammed door or unkind word, are at baseline level when I’m in his presence. Where Anthony always tried to make me feel his presence to ensure I behaved the way he wanted, sometimes I think Charles just likesme, and I don’t know what to do with that.
“Should I warm up the brownies?” Charles asks from the kitchen.
“Oh, hell yeah.”
I follow Charles into the kitchen and lean my elbows on the counter, dropping my chin into my hand to watch him warm up the brownies. The kitchen fills with the smell of chocolate and Charles, two things that shouldn’t work together but somehow do. A summer storm with a chocolate chaser.
