“Have some faith in me, officer.” I flip Scooter the bird, and he lifts a brow. “You are a ray of fucking sunshine tonight. What’s gotten into you?”
“Not a damn thing.”
“Scooter, beer, now,” my brother says, sitting on a stool beside me. Scooter slides a draft across the bar, and Dean picks it up. “Where’s Chloe?”
“Sleepover with a friend.”
He nods. “You’re drinking tonight, I see.”
“One or two.”
“One-word answers. Who pissed in your Cheerios?”
“No one. Christ, what is up with you two tonight?”
Dean looks, and Scooter quickly waves him off. “Don’t worry, he’s just PMSing. I’m pretty sure our boy Tucker grew a vagina. That’s the only explanation I’ve got for the grumpy mood.”
I flick the cardboard coaster at Scooter’s head. He chuckles at my failed attempt and sets another on the bar top for me to use. I consider leaving the rest of my beer and heading home. A quiet night to myself sounds pretty damn good right about now, but there’s no way these two fuckers will let me get away with that.
Not when they can already tell that something is bothering me.
Well, not something. Someone.
Dean and I grew up with our cousin, Scooter. We were all close in age, and with our mothers being twins, we spent the majority of our childhood together. Which means, my brother and cousin are overprotective and nosy as hell, and if I leave now, one of them will likely follow.
“Your bad mood doesn’t have to do with Scarlett being back in town, does it?” Dean guesses, and I narrow my eyes at him while I take another sip of my beer. Shit, this might be the first time in years that I decide to have more than two drinks. I have Scarlett to thank for that.
“Wait.” Scooter stands up straight, a wicked gleam in his eye. “Scarlett is home?”
I tip back my head and finish off my beer. “Yup.”
“Scarlett Kincaid?” he clarifies.
“The one and only.”
“No shit?”
“She got back a few days ago,” Dean offers.
“She still hot?”
“Can we not fuckin’ talk about her?”
Someone must walk through the front door of the bar because I feel a gush of warm air, but I don’t turn to see who it is. Instead, I slide my glass to Scooter.
“One more.”
He ignores my request as his eyes lock on something over my shoulder. “Oh, yeah, she’s totally hot.”
“I said I’m not talkin’ about it.”
“You don’t need to. I’ve got a front-row seat.”
Dean and I whip around and, sure as shit, there she is in pink cotton shorts and a white tank top, looking nothing like the woman she’s become and everything like the girl she used to be. Her dark hair is a wild mess on top of her head, and there isn’t a lick of makeup on her gorgeous face. She’s never looked as beautiful as she does right now.
I scowl as I shift in my seat, my dick twitching at the sight of her.
Down, boy.
“What the fuck is she doing here?” I grumble.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t little Scarlett Kincaid.” Scooter lays the charm on thick, and she answers with a blinding-white smile. “Welcome to Scooter’s,” he says, rounding the end of the bar.
“Scooter Bennett.” Scarlett giggles when he wraps her in a giant hug. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”
“Did you hear that, everybody?” he yells, garnering the attention of everyone in the room. “Scarlett Kincaid loves me. We’re getting married.”
She swats playfully at his chest and pushes him away. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Neither have you, darlin’.” He gives her a kiss on the cheek and takes his place back behind the bar.
“When did you do all of this?” she says, looking around the tavern.
I turn around, trying to take in the place through the eyes of a newbie. Scooter’s is like a second home to me. Hell, my daughter practically lived here when we gutted the place.
Exposed wood beams run the length of the ceiling. The hardwood floors are scuffed and worn, a testament to the number of people who have enjoyed a twirl around the dance floor. High-top tables and a few booths are scattered along the walls. A stage, which boasts a live band on any given Friday and Saturday night, is tucked in the corner. A small billiard room sits off to the right, and my favorite part about this place, the kitchen, is situated behind the bar.
You won’t find a better piece of apple pie than the one Scooter serves.
“We remodeled a few years ago.” He pats the bar top. “It’s my baby.”
“This is wonderful, Scooter. I’m real proud of you.” Scarlett turns toward the bar and has no choice but to acknowledge me. “Hey, Tuck. Dean,” she adds, tipping her head at my brother.
He tilts his beer in her direction. “How are ya, Scarlett?”
“I’m doing good. Thank you for asking.”
“What can I get ya to drink?” Scooter asks, grabbing a glass from under the bar.
“Oh, I’m not here to drink. I called in a to-go order of food with the kitchen.”
“Let me go see if it’s ready.”
Scooter disappears, and Dean clears his throat. “So, uh, how’s your dad?”
“He’s good. Came home two days ago.”
“Is he waiting in the car?” I ask, ready to go out and talk to him if he is. I haven’t seen Rick since his stroke.
“Oh, no. He’s at home.”
I furrow my brow. “Is Lexi with him?”
“No.” Her eyes dart to Dean and then back to me. “Is she supposed to be?”
“Are you fuckin’ kidding me? You left him at home by himself?” My harsh words echo through the bar, and a hush falls over the small crowd.
“For five minutes. He’ll be fine.” The flippant tone of her voice only fuels my anger.
“He had a stroke, Scarlett. What if he tries to get up and falls?”
“I told him not to get up until I get back.” She props her hand on her hip, lifts her chin, and pins me with those defiant eyes of hers.
I laugh humorlessly. “And you think he’s going to listen?”
“Of course, he will.”
“You’re a piece of work, and you’re the one who hasn’t changed a bit. You don’t think about anyone but yourself.”
“Fuck you, Tucker.”
“There’s not enough alcohol in this bar to make that happen.”
Dean stands up and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Calm down, brother.”
I easily shake him off. “Do you even know your father? He’s more stubborn than you are. He thinks he’s fine and doesn’t need anyone to stay with him, and you think that just because you told him to sit tight, he actually will?”
Scarlett’s lips part, no doubt to give me a piece of her mind, but nothing comes out. Her face pales, and next thing I know she’s running out the front door mumbling something that sounds an awful lot like “shit, he’s totally right.”
“Two spaghetti dinners and an extra side of garlic—” Scooter’s words cut off when he notices that Scarlett is gone. “Where’d she go?”
“Loverboy here just made the poor girl cry.”
I shoot Dean a look. “She did not cry.”
“Maybe not, but you were an ass.”
“She left Rick home by himself,” I argue.
“Well, congratulations.” Scooter sets the bags of food on the bar in front of me. “You just bought two spaghetti dinners and a side of garlic bread. That’ll be eighteen fifty.”
Rolling my eyes, I pull my wallet from my back pocket and slap two tens on the bar. “Your spaghetti is overpriced.”
“And you’re a shitty tipper.” He snags the money and shoves it into the cash drawer. “Now, get outta here and take that poor girl and her dad their food.”
“Poor girl, my ass,” I mumble. Grabbing the bags, I turn for the door. “You’re dea
d to me, Scooter. You too, Dean,” I say when he snickers.
Scooter just laughs. “We still on for Sunday dinner?”
“Yeah, yeah. See ya then.”
“Good. And, Tuck,” he yells, when I kick open the front door. “Pull that stick outta your ass before you knock on her door.”
By the time I make the short drive home, my anger subsides, and I almost feel bad for the way I talked to Scarlett. Rather than pull into Rick’s driveway, I park in mine and walk across the front yard, which is overgrown. I make a mental note to get it mowed sometime this week.
With a deep breath, I climb up the steps toward the front door. The house is quiet aside from the murmur of the television wafting through an open window. With the bags hanging from one hand, I use the other to knock.
“No, you stay put,” I hear Scarlett say.
The sound of the television is muted, and a second later, the door flings open. Scarlett stands in the doorway, and she looks pissed.
Or maybe hurt.
A pang of guilt hits the center of my chest.
“What do you want?”
I hold out the bags of takeout. “You forgot your food.”
She seems shocked that I’d take the time to bring it to her. She stares at the bags for a few seconds and then yanks them from my hand and slams the door in my face.
Okay, I probably deserved that.
I’m still processing what just happened when the door whips back open.
“Here.” Scarlett holds out some money. “I forgot to pay for the food before I left.”
“Don’t worry about it, I’ve got it covered.”
“Take the damn money.” She tries to shove it against my chest, but I step back, preventing her.
“I don’t want your money, Scarlett.”
“Well, I don’t want to owe you, Tucker.” I’m quick. She’s quicker. In the blink of an eye, she has the wad of money shoved into the breast pocket of my shirt, and the front door slams in my face.
Again.
Damn, she’s feisty.
Stunned, I run a hand along the back of my neck and debate whether to knock or say “fuck it” and go home.
Home would be the easy choice.
But she deserves an apology.
I’ve been in a shitty mood since she arrived back in town, and it has nothing to do with the woman herself and everything to do with the feelings I harbor for her. Feelings I thought were long gone. Feelings I damn sure don’t want to have.
For the third time tonight, her front door flies open. “What’s your problem, Tucker?”
“You,” I blurt, startling us both. There’s silence for a heartbeat as we just stare at each other.
“Me?”
I’ve already admitted it, there’s no sense turning back now. “Yup.”
“But I haven’t even been home. What could I have possibly done to make you mad?”
“That’s exactly the point. You haven’t been home. For twelve fucking years. You’re so goddamn selfish. You just up and left your friends, your family. Everyone. And you never looked back. Not once.”
“Hold grudges much?” But it’s not bitchy. In fact, she looks completely flummoxed.
“I’m not holding a fucking grudge, Scarlett. I’m hurt.”
Good Lord, Scooter is right. I grew a fucking vagina, and now I sound like a pussy.
Scarlett’s eyes widen and then soften at my admission. “Tucker—”
“Tucker, is that you?” Rick sidles up next to Scarlett and pokes his head out the door.
“Daddy! What are you doing up? You know you’re not supposed to get up on your own.” She looks at me with wide, pleading eyes. “Can you keep an eye on him for one second while I grab his walker?”
“Sure.”
I step forward. With one hand against Rick’s back and the other on his arm, I make sure he’s steady.
“You here to ask my little girl on a date?”
I nearly choke on my saliva. “No, sir. I just stopped by to drop off the spaghetti.”
“Oh.” He frowns. “Well, that’s too bad. Scarlett could use a good, strong man like you in her life.”
Scarlett shows up a few seconds later with the walker. “I don’t need a man, Daddy. Quit trying to pawn me off.”
“If you don’t need a man, then I don’t need this damn thing.”
“Yes, you do,” she admonishes. “Your physical therapist and occupational therapist said you need to use the walker until you regain the strength in your arm and leg.”
Rick looks at me and rolls his eyes before skirting off toward the living room. “Come on in and have some spaghetti with us,” he hollers. “We can talk about the date you’re going to take her on.”
“Daddy, Tucker and I are not going on a date.”
“Sure, ya will. Just as soon as ya both pull your heads outta your asses.”
Scarlett closes her eyes and fights a smile. When she looks up, I feel it like a punch to the gut. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay.”
“I, uh…I’m gonna go eat before the food gets cold.”
“Yeah.” I glance over at my house and then take a step back. “I need to get home anyway. It’s been a long day.”
She nods, and I turn on my heel. I’m halfway down her walk when Scarlett calls out to me.
“Tuck?”
“Yeah?” I glance at her over my shoulder.
“Thanks for bringing the food over.”
“You’re welcome, princess.”
Her easy smile falls. “Quit calling me that.”
“Call it like I see it.”
I expect some sort of quick retort. Instead, Scarlett growls and slams the door.
5
~ Tucker ~
“Hey, sweetheart. How was your sleepover?” I grab Chloe’s bag from her hand and wave to Jessica’s dad as he pulls out of the driveway.
“We had fun.”
“What’d you do?”
She shrugs. “Stuff.”
“Stuff. That’s it? What kind of stuff?”
“Just…girl stuff.”
Okay. This conversation is going nowhere fast. “What do you want to do today?”
“Can I play on my iPad?”
“Twenty minutes. It’s nice outside, and you’re not going to waste your Saturday staring at a screen.”
“None of my friends’ parents limit their electronic time.”
“You’ll thank me later.”
“Probably not.” Chloe grabs her iPad and curls up in the corner of the couch.
My little girl is growing up so fast. Long gone are the days of her following me around the house, begging to play dolls or have a tea party. There’s no more water gun fights or digging in the mud. These days, she’s all about her friends and clothes and makeup—which I refuse to let her wear. Maybe when she’s twenty we’ll talk about it, but eleven is way too young, and I don’t give a shit what other girls in her class are doing.
What I wouldn’t give to rewind time and relive the earlier days of her childhood. The ones where she didn’t back-talk or roll her eyes. The ones where I was her hero and could do no wrong.
Everyone told me to enjoy it while it lasted. At the time, I thought they were crazy. How in the hell was I supposed to enjoy fatherhood? It was never-ending: the sleepless nights, crying, bottles, and an endless number of poopy diapers. Oftentimes, I walked through life like a zombie, praying that I’d get more than four or five hours of sleep. So, yeah, at the time, I wasn’t enjoying parenthood.
But I was also a single father working a full-time job and taking care of a house entirely by myself. It was exhausting. Still is, albeit a little easier without a tiny rug rat attached to my ankle.
Hindsight is twenty-twenty, and I see now what everyone was talking about.
“Hey, Chlo?”
She doesn’t even look up. “Yeah?”
“Do you wanna shoot some hoops?”
“Nah.”
“We could have
a water gun fight. I’ve got those old Super Soakers in the garage.”
“I’m good.”
“Afraid you’ll lose to your old man?”
Chloe finally glances up. She looks so much like her mother that I sometimes have to blink to remind myself that it’s not Valerie sitting there. “Dad, I just wanna watch this YouTube video.”
Damn. “Okay. I’m going to be outside.”
“Okay, Dad.”
I’m just finishing up changing the oil in my truck when I hear a muted curse. I grab a towel from my workbench and walk outside in time to see Scarlett kick her dad’s lawnmower.
“Stupid piece of shit.”
“Everything okay over there?”
Scarlett looks up. She blows a chunk of hair out of her eyes and waves me off. “Fine. Everything’s fine.”
This is going to be entertaining. I grab a lawn chair from the garage and park my ass in the middle of the driveway.
When Scarlett sees me sitting there, she stops fussing with the mower and glares at me. “What’re you doing?”
“Watching you.”
“This isn’t a fucking show, Tucker. Go back to whatever it is you were doing.”
“I’m done doing what I was doing. Now, I’m watching you.”
My words prompt her to flip me the bird. “I hate you, Tucker Andrews.”
“The feeling is quite mutual,” I lie.
Because I don’t hate Scarlett Kincaid. Not one bit. I sure as hell wish I did because it would make things a lot easier. But after lying in bed awake half the night thinking about her, I realized one thing; despite all the anger I’ve carried around, my feelings for her haven’t changed. She’s still the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. She still drives me absolutely crazy. And she knows how to press every button I have. I’m utterly and completely smitten by the girl, attitude and all.
And for the first time in twelve years, I find myself smiling for no reason.
“What the hell are you smilin’ at?” she huffs.
“You. You make me smile.”
That has her standing up straight. “Are you drunk?”
“Nope.”
“High?”
I laugh. “I wish.”
Scarlett just shakes her head and goes back to the lawnmower. I could tell her that it’s not starting because it’s out of gas, but what would be the fun in that? I’m actually kind of glad I forgot to fill it back up after I mowed Rick’s lawn two weeks ago.
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