Baety, who’s been sleeping in her dog bed wrapped in one of Tucker’s oldest t-shirts, wakes up and calls out to her daddy. “Quack, quack.”
The duckling flaps her wings with obvious excitement when Tucker’s voice comes closer. “Hey.” His big frame fills the doorway as he stops to look at us, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “When you called out from the bedroom, I thought I was in for a hot surprise.” His blue eyes skim up and down the length of my body. “But I have to say, this scene of domestic bliss is quite nice, too.” He points at the practice jersey I was folding.
There’s a question in the dark blue depths of his eyes, but he doesn’t look angry.
I rush to explain, relieved that he isn’t upset to see me handling his clothes. “So, I gave Baety the little snack you left for her and she loved it. Then she took a nap, and I waswatching a documentary on TV. I swear I got distracted for a minute at most. One second she was in her bed by my side sleeping, the next she was gone. I found her in your hockey bag.”
“She loves sleeping in my clothes, and her favorite is my hockey stuff. The sweatier, the better. That’s why I named her Baety Swalls.” Tucker chuckles.
“Yeah, well. I tried to take her out of your bag and she tried to bite.” I continue.
Tucker shakes his head. “Baety.” His tone is reproaching and soft at the same time.
“Quack!” the duckling responds.
“What did I tell you before I left?” Tucker speaks to her the same way one would speak to a small child. “We agreed that you’d be a good girl for Taryn. Daddy loves… I mean, Daddycaresabout Taryn, and we don’t bite the people who are important to Daddy.”
Did he almost slip up and say that he loves me? My heart jumps in my chest at the thought, joining the rest of my body that’s in turmoil at the sight of how hot Tucker looks when he’s all paternal.
Call it a primal instinct, but seeing him so soft and patient with his little duck makes me think that one day he’ll be an amazing father.
“Did she bite?” He picks up the duck, but his attention turns back to me. “The good news is that it’s very unlikely that she would have rabies. But I feel terrible if you got bitten while doing me a favor.”
“No, I was faster than her.” I reassure him. “But I don’t know if it was the peas going straight through her, or if she was upset that I took her away from your clothes, but she had an accident. Most of the clothes in your bag were covered in duck poop, so Baety and I decided to makeamends by washing everything that was in the bag. Baety and I wanted you to come home to clean clothes.”
Tucker’s smile fades, his blue eyes widening with every word that comes out of my mouth. He doesn’t look happy. He looks alarmed.
Shit. Maybe I overstepped. “Look, I hope you don’t think I’m one of those girlfriends who doesn’t respect boundaries. In a normal situation, I would have never gone through your clothes without asking first. But I swear Baety made a mess. I felt terrible that it happened on my watch. That’s why I did it.”
A few seconds pass before Tucker’s throat works as he swallows. That wide-eyed, stunned look still on his face. “You did my laundry?” He asks.
Fuck. I shouldn’t have done it. I didn’t think about how this could come across. “Tucker, I?—”
“Did you wash everything in my bag?” he sounds almost scared.
“Yeah, I had to. There was poop everywhere.”
His gaze moves from me to the items I’ve been folding on the bed. It’s as if he’s looking for something. I know when he finds it because then is when his face drops. If I thought he wasn’t happy a second ago, now Tucker looks positively upset.
“You washed my lucky pants.”
The last sentence is barely above a whisper, but Tucker is holding a pair of athletic underwear with a bereft expression on his face; it’s one of those padded underwear that includes a jock cup.
“Tucker, Baety was all wrapped up in that particular pair. They took the brunt of the mess.”
He keeps staring at his boxers, his handsome face as pale as a sheet. It’s as if he had seen a ghost or somethingequally scary. “You washed my lucky pants.” He repeats, slightly louder this time.
Ok. It’s his favorite pair of athletic underwear. I get it. I have my favorite pair of dancing shoes that are perfectly broken in and fit me like a glove. I wore them for all the audition rounds with the Shooting Stars, and they used to be my performance shoes in college. The shoes we were given as part of our uniforms are great, but I must admit that, given a choice, I’d rather wear my favorite pair.
“Tucker,” I close the distance between us. My hand shakes a little when I touch his muscular forearm. “I promise I wasn’t trying to be nosy or intrude in your business. And if this can make you feel better, I washed them on a delicate setting and in cold water. I checked the label of every item before putting them in the wash, but those are quite worn, so the label wasn’t readable. They’re fine though, look. They didn’t get out of shape or anything.” I take the garment from him, turning it in my hand to show him that it survived the wash unscathed.
Tucker’s broad shoulders sag as he sighs. “The point is that you washed them.”
He’s taking this really hard, and I’m confused. “Yeah. I mean, they had duck poop on them. It’s not like you could have worn them in that state.”
It’s my turn to look shell-shocked at the look that passes on Tucker’s face.
“You would have worn them like that?” I gasp.
