Tucker

by Emily March

“I see smoke,” Maisy cried excitedly.

  He hoped she was looking at Gillian’s fireboard and not his crotch.

  Torture. This was pure torture. With a note of hoarseness in his voice, Tucker said, “You see the black dust that’s formed in your notch since you’ve been bowing? You’re making progress.”

  He released her and backed away. “If it keeps smoking, you may have a coal.”

  “I won’t be able to lift my arm for a week.”

  “But you’ll be warm.” Tucker watched the thin wisp of smoke rise from the notch in her fireboard. “Okay, Glory. I think you have your coal.”

  “I do?”

  “Think so. Set your bow drill aside and fan it with your hand.” As she followed his instructions, he added, “There you go. See how it holds together in a clump? That’s your coal. Now, gently transfer it to your tinder. Hold it up and blow gently. Gently. See, it’s glowing red. Keep blowing, Glory. Long, sustained gentle breaths. There you go. There you go.”

  The tinder in her hands burst into flame. “I did it!” she exclaimed. “Look, I have fire! It’s gonna burn my hands!”

  “No, it won’t. Gently add it to your fire lay.” When she did so, he added, “Now, kneel over and blow. Not from the top. Keep it low. There you go.”

  She was down on both knees with her chest on the ground and her round ass in the air. Tucker had to jerk his gaze off that sweet temptation when she looked up at him, her blue eyes glittering with pleasure. “Thank you. I didn’t think I could do it.”

  “My pleasure. I knew you’d do it.” Smoke comes naturally to you.

  * * *

  Gillian survived Survival 101. Just barely, and only because Tucker’s was one of the few wilderness schools around that didn’t require overnight camping, and she had reserved a room at the Fallen Angel Inn and taken advantage of their hot tub.

  That night, she’d dreamed of a jungle and Tucker playing Tarzan to her Jane.

  Sunday afternoon, she’d trudged toward the car at the end of the day with her thoughts a whirlwind. She was exhausted, yearned for a bath and her bed, but at the same time, she dreaded returning to Redemption and reality.

  She needed to put her disturbing Tarzan dreams aside and deal with Jeremy being back in town.

  At home, soaking in a tub of hot water and nursing a glass of wine, she reflected on the thought that had occurred to her first on Saturday. Maybe she should attempt to adapt Tucker’s lessons to coexisting with her ex in a small town. He’d used the acronym S.U.R.V.I.V.A.L. at the end of class today. It might do her good to adapt it to her situation.

  “S,” she said aloud. “Size up the situation.” Well, she’d been doing that ever since the breakup. Nothing new to size there.

  U was: Use all your senses. Guess she could try to be aware whenever she was out and about in town so he didn’t take her by surprise, and she ended up back in another bathroom. She could look for him, listen for him; she knew his scent. Be hanged if she’d taste him or touch him, though.

  R: Remember where you are. That was easy and paired with U. Out in public in Redemption, she’d need to be sniffing, seeing, and listening.

  V: Vanquish your fears. Now, that one was more of a challenge. She had to recognize and acknowledge her fears to vanquish them, and she hadn’t managed to do that. Her gaze shifted to her glass. Maisy would say that was what wine is for. Gillian lifted her glass and took another sip.

  I was for Improvise. She frowned, unable to relate it to her situation, so she skipped to the second V for Value living. According to Tucker, that meant focusing on at least one of your reasons for living and not giving up. That was easy to do in a survival situation, but in a relationship one? She’d have to think about it.

  Next, A: Act like a native. Tucker’s theory there was that natives were best of the best, that the fittest—us—had survived. That the very fact we walked the earth instead of our line having died out meant we had the right stuff to survive. “Another one that needs thinking about,” she muttered before taking another sip of wine.

  That brought her to L: Live by your wits, which Tucker had said meant feeding inspiration and thinking outside the box. Gillian thought he’d gone a little Zen by the time he got to the second part of the acronym, and she came up dry on L too. So that left her with S.U.R.

  “Batting less than .500,” she muttered in a glum tone before lifting her feet and allowing herself to slide down the tub and sink beneath the surface of the bathwater.

  Just as the water closed over her head, she heard the echo of Tucker’s voice in her mind, clear as a bell. You’ve never really failed at something until you’re dead. On its heels came her mother’s voice. If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.

  Hmm. Maybe S.U.R.V.I.V.A.L. wouldn’t help her with Jeremy, but perhaps the life lesson here was to climb back on the proverbial bicycle and give another relationship a go. It was something to think about.

  She levered up from the water and reached for her shampoo and remembered Tucker’s kiss in the cave. She wasn’t ready. She still wasn’t ready.

  But maybe she would be ready someday. Maybe if she could figure out the rest of the word, the V.I.V.A.L. part of S.U.R.V.I.V.A.L., she could move on.

  She finished shampooing, conditioned, rinsed, and climbed from the tub. Twenty minutes later, with her hair dry and wearing her Next Chapter Bookstore sleep shirt, she climbed into bed and patted her mattress. Peaches accepted the invitation and jumped up onto the bed. Meeting her puppy’s loving gaze, Gillian spoke in a solemn tone. “One thing is for certain. The first step in my S.U.R.V.I.V.A.L., Peaches, is to not hide in the bathroom the next time I see my ex.”

  Then she turned out the light and went quickly to sleep. This time, she dreamed about Tucker and a desert island. And beach sex.

  An uneventful week went by, and on Friday morning—April Fool’s Day—she arrived at Bliss an hour before opening with a smile on her face and a spring in her step, having made the public walk from home to the bridal salon with her senses on alert. No rat sightings whatsoever. Her mother had her annual checkup and wasn’t due in until the afternoon, so they had not scheduled any fittings or bridal appointments this morning. Gillian planned to spend an hour or so on display window redesign. She wanted to do something outdoorsy.

  She was deep in design mode half an hour later when a pounding on the front door pulled her from her thoughts. Wonder what this is about? She was expecting a delivery from UPS, but they always came to the back door.

  Jeremy. Could it be Jeremy? Had he come to get the awkward first meeting over with privately? It wasn’t a bad idea. She could see him doing it.

  She should have anticipated this. She heard the echo of Tucker’s voice in her mind saying, Preparation is your most important survival skill.

  Pound. Pound. Pound. Pound. Gillian’s stomach dropped to her knees. No, it sank all the way to her ankles. “S.U.R.,” she murmured as she rose from her seat in her tiny office. The time had come to get her V. Vanquish your fears.

  Her legs only trembled a little bit as she made her way downstairs and to the front of the shop. Not Jeremy, she thought, experiencing a wave of relief. A woman. Erica Chadwick.

  “Oh, no,” she breathed. She’d almost prefer to see Jeremy.

  If Lindsay Grant and her bride tribe were on their way in, Gillian was going to duck out the back door. Summoning a smile, she flipped the lock and opened the door. The woman barged inside and sailed toward the parlor saying, “I know you’re not open yet, Gillian, but I am pressed for time.”

  Gillian gritted her teeth, shut the door, and pasted on a smile. “Good morning, Erica. If you’re soliciting prizes for the alumni fundraiser, we already donated.”

  “Oh, I’m here as a bride.” Erica lifted her left hand and wiggled her fingers, flashing a large diamond solitaire. “I need a gown of my own, and I remember a dress from when I was here with Lindsay.”

  Gillian grimly managed to maintain her smile. “Let me get our appointm
ent book, and we’ll get you set up.”

  “Oh, no.”

  Erica rested her right hand on her belly, drawing Gillian’s gaze. Oh. It was an obvious baby bump. She had to be in her third trimester.

  Erica continued, “As you see, we are in a bit of a rush. At first, I didn’t think I wanted to get married, but as time went on, I changed my mind. Luckily, I don’t need one of your regular bridal appointments because I know exactly which gown I want. It’s a boho style.” She named the designer and described the dress in detail. “It shouldn’t need alterations.”

  Gillian knew exactly which gown she meant. It was another gown in the collection from which she’d chosen her own wedding gown.

  If her mother were here, she’d have passed Erica off to her. She did not want to work with the woman. But at least, judging by the looks of things, it wouldn’t be a customer experience that dragged on. “I’m pretty sure I know which dress you mean. Have a seat in the parlor, and I’ll bring out the sample.”

  In the stockroom, Gillian sorted through the gowns, until she found the one Erica had described. Pasting a smile on her face, she carried it out into the parlor. “Is this the gown?”

  “Yes!” Erica shot to her feet and clapped her hands. She reached for it, held it up against herself, and turned to and fro as she gazed at her reflection in one of the parlor mirrors. “This is it. It’s the one I want.” She gave a little laugh and added, “Sometimes it takes more time than I’d like, but in the end, I always get what I want.”

  Then she turned around and faced Gillian. The light in her eyes suddenly glittered with triumph that Gillian remembered well from campus days. Erica’s smile slowly went stiletto sharp.

  Suddenly, before her old sorority sister said another word, the pieces fell into place. Gillian’s gaze dropped from Erica’s face to the belly swollen with child. Third trimester. Late August, early September. This. This is what happened. This is why he did it.

  Erica’s voice dripped with malice as she said, “Jeremy will love this wedding gown, don’t you think?”

  * * *

  When Tucker had a weekend class, he ordinarily took Mondays off. Sometimes, Tuesdays too. Wednesdays, well, it depended on what the next weekend’s schedule held. But this Monday he found himself in Redemption, at the shop, counting the minutes down until lunchtime. He intended to take Gillian to lunch and have a serious discussion.

  Following this weekend, his patience was at an end. Friction fire on Saturday had almost crippled him. The body temperature and shelter section of the course on Sunday had damned near killed him. The way she’d looked at him when he lectured about the ways heat is transferred from your body had made him a model for that Viagra commercial: If your erection should last more than four hours.

  Well, he didn’t need to seek medical help. He knew exactly what he needed. Judging by the tension that had sizzled through them all weekend, he knew what Gillian needed too. The time had come to do something about this friendship business and make a strategic step forward with Operation Horny Toad.

  He had a proposal to make to Gillian over lunch. He had decided that a romantic getaway for the two of them was in order. They had spent the past weekend roughing it, and now he intended to pamper her and ply her with five-star indulgences. He’d drag his tux from the back of his closet and show her a night on the town. He was still debating which city, but he had a handful in mind depending on how much time she could steal away.

  He was sitting at his computer researching restaurants in New Orleans when he heard his front bell jangle. Considering that he still had the CLOSED sign displayed on the door, hearing the sound surprised him. Rising, he exited his office and upon seeing his visitor, stopped dead in his tracks. Oh, hell. Something terrible has happened. “Gillian, what’s wrong?”

  Her voice held a note of hysteria. “I tried, Tucker. I got the S and the U and the R and even pretty much got the V. I know I’m not supposed to feel sorry for myself or lose my cool or let myself get overwhelmed and maintain my sense of humor, but I can’t help it. There is nothing funny about this.”

  She had a wild look in her tearful eyes. “Gillian, sweetheart.” He went to her and grasped her shoulders. “Calm down. Tell me what happened.”

  The story poured out of her like vomit. Tucker was simultaneously shocked and unsurprised. Jeremy had Gillian’s body and soul, and he cheated on her? What a dumbass.

  She babbled on, repeating enough of his class lecture points that it proved she’d paid attention. “I have sized up the situation like I’m supposed to do,” she told him. “I know where I am. I can’t be here anymore, or I won’t survive! Prevention is the most important survival skill. I need to get out of here. Now. Away from Redemption. Otherwise, I’ll probably go to jail for murder, and that would break my mother’s heart. Will you take me somewhere, Tucker?”

  Me. She came to me. Not her mom, not her friends. Me.

  “Will you take me now? Today? Will you help me survive? Not in Enchanted Canyon. I don’t need peace. I need people. Lights. Action. Alcohol. Lots of alcohol. Take me somewhere that I can drink and dance and forget. Somewhere I’m not tempted to get a gun and go Roxie Hart on him.”

  “Roxie Hart?”

  “Chicago. The musical. ‘Cell Block Tango.’ Please, Tucker. I’ve never been this angry in my entire life. Take me away before I do something I’ll regret!”

  Then her dam burst and Gillian began to cry.

  Tucker had never earned the rank of general. However, he did master a general’s set of skills. He knew how to adapt his strategy and redeploy his assets amid battle. Therefore, after half a minute of consideration, he said, “Okay, let’s go.”

  He grabbed his wallet and phone and, making a spur-of-the-moment decision, the small flat jeweler’s case he kept locked in his desk, and tossed the items into one of his go bags. Slinging the strap of his bag over one shoulder, he flipped the lock on his front door, and then took Gillian’s hand and led her out the back. He drove her home, told her to go inside and pack a bag. When she collapsed on the sofa in misery, he did her packing for her while making the phone calls his plan required. One was to Jackson, arranging care for Peaches. Another was to Jackson’s ex, who’d moved to Redemption at the end of last year and who had more money than sense. She owned a helicopter and had a pilot on call to ferry her to the airport in Austin. Tucker’s relationship with Coco had improved once he’d begun working with Haley on her wilderness skills, so she was happy to help.

  Within the hour, they were headed for Austin. Gillian roused herself long enough to ask about her dog, and he explained the arrangements he’d made. By early afternoon, they’d boarded a plane and settled into their first-class seats with the first of the drinks she’d requested. A little less than three hours later, they landed.

  Welcome to fabulous Las Vegas.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mentally reviewing the past year of her relationship with her ex, Gillian paid scant attention to her surroundings. This had been her first time to ride in a helicopter. Under other circumstances, she would have been excited, maybe a little nervous. Today, she hadn’t cared. She didn’t care how she traveled or where she traveled. All that mattered was that Tucker took her away from Redemption.

  Her first Bloody Mary on the airplane took the edge off. The second put her to sleep. She awoke slowly as the plane taxied toward the gate. Hearing the sound of Tucker’s gentle encouragement to awaken, she smiled automatically in response. She was leaning against him, her head resting on his shoulder. He felt so nice.

  Then everything came rushing back. Gillian opened her eyes and sat up to find Tucker watching her warily.

  She would not break into tears. She was done crying over that man. The sleep and maybe the vodka had helped clear her despair. Yet, she was far from empty of emotion. Gillian was still angry, to the marrow, every cell of her body engulfed, extremely, supremely, profoundly, and murderously pissed.

  “That bastard,” she said. “That lo
wdown, lying, cheating, Arnold Palmer–wannabe bastard. How dare he!”

  “Atta girl,” Tucker said with a smile, as relief melted across his face.

  The plane arrived at the gate, electronic bells sounded, and passengers began standing and retrieving their belongings from the overhead bins. Gillian gave her head a shake and freed her seat belt. “Gosh, I’m a ditz, but where are we again?”

  “Vegas. You wanted lights and action. Can’t get any brighter and busier than Vegas.”

  A smile flirted with her lips. “Vegas, huh? Is it still run by the mob? Maybe I could hire a hit man while we’re here.”

  Tucker grinned, but shook his head. “You’ll be too busy to look for a killer.”

  “I will?” she asked as the door opened and passengers began to file off the plane. Seated in first class, they were one of the first to exit. “What will I be doing?”

  “We should have just enough time to check into our suite before you head down to your spa appointment for a massage.”

  “A massage! Oh, Tucker, I adore you!” She leaned over and went up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

  As they entered the chaos and cacophony of McCarran International Airport, Gillian gave her companion a sidelong, speculative look and thought about sleeping arrangements. He’d said “check into our suite.” Not room. Not rooms, plural. Suite. It could be two bedrooms. He’d paid for first-class airline tickets. The man apparently wasn’t afraid to spend money on this trip.

  Tucker didn’t hide the fact that he had a thing for her. He was too much of a gentleman to expect her to sleep with him just because he’d dropped a bundle on last-minute airline tickets. He might, however, try to seduce her. Probably wouldn’t take much. A wicked wink might do the trick. Or a suggestive smile. Shoot, it might be the other way around. Maybe she’d seduce him. She might grab him by the necktie and drag him off to her bed.

  Not that Tucker wore neckties. She’d never seen him wear one. As far as she knew, he might not even own one. He’d have worn one when he dressed in uniform, of course. She had a hard time imagining him as Mr. Squared Away Spit and Polish. That was so different from the earthy, native wilderness guy. Bet he cleaned up pretty. Grubby, he was to die for handsome.