“Mikey is the nicest of them all.”
“And Raphael is sarcastic and sullen.”
Instead of getting irritated or mad, Tucker just sends a blinding grin my way. “That’s why he’s my favorite.”
“Of course.”
“No tattoos for you?” Tucker leans heavier against the side railing, his thighs bulging under his jeans, arms holding him up. My gaze gets stuck on his stomach for a moment before snapping back up to his confused gaze. “Charles?”
“Sorry, I… What?”
“Tattoos? You?” Tucker asks with restrained laughter in his voice.
“No, I’m scared of needles.”
“Aw, sad day.” Tucker pushes away from the side railing and turns to the beach, holding his hand up over his eyes to block out the dying light of day. “Looks so calm now. Hard to imagine this time tomorrow we’ll be getting one-hundred-mile-per-hour winds.”
“Yeah, hard to imagine.”
Tucker turns toward me with a cute frown. “What’s up with you?”
“Nothing, just nervous about the storm.”
“Still want me to stay?”
“Yes. Yes, stay.”
Tucker tilts his head to the side, almost like Cupcake when she’s trying to figure out what I’m saying. I tear my gaze from him and look out at the ocean, eyes caught on the swelling waves.
“I’ll go grab some clothes, some emergency supplies too.”
“I have a whole-house generator.”
“We’ll just have to turn the lights off and light candles to pretend so you get the real hurricane experience,” Tucker says as he leaves me behind, disappearing out the front door.Cupcake comes to me in question, as if wondering if he’ll be back.
I head back inside and inspect the house to the best of my abilities. It’s pretty clean, and everything is in order. Same light oak floors, dark furniture, and light blue walls that make the house feel as homey as possible. Tucker doesn’t even knock when he comes back, just strolls into the house with his guitar slung over his shoulder along with a duffel bag at his hip. Just as I’m thinking about saying something stupid likeI want to kiss you, taste your breath, know what you sound like when you toss your head back and come, my phone rings.
Of course, it’s Rafe.
“I gotta take this,” I say, not wanting Tucker to think I’m ignoring him.
He waves me off. “Go on.”
“Hey.”
“You’re not still on that island, are you?” Rafe asks, an edge of urgency in his usually neutral voice.
“Yep.”
“It’s a category four!”
“Oh well.”
“Chuck!”
“I’ll be fine. I’m not worried at all. This is how I felt before the first time I played in the Super Bowl.”
“Jesus.” Rafe sighs deeply. I can picture him pressing his fingers into his eyes, unable to put up with another second of my stupidity. “I cannot tell the world a Super Bowl winner died in a hurricane.”
