Asking for Trouble

by Amy Andrews

  “He’s an improvement on Niall.”

  “An extra from The Walking Dead would be an improvement on Niall.”

  “He’s twenty-five, lives in Denver, works in a bank, likes to read, and he did a gap year before college, building houses in Africa for Habitat for Humanity.”

  Of course he did. Give the man a halo. “I bet you there are bathroom selfies.”

  She swiped through the five images. Joel with his dog. Joel with a woman who was old enough and similar enough to be his nana. Joel with his shirt off in Africa somewhere, (presumably) showing a skinny little kid with no shoes and a big smile how to belt in a nail with a hammer. Joel hiking in the wilderness somewhere.

  “Not one.”

  Forget the halo, give him a cross. Joel was a fucking saint. “He sounds perfect.”

  “Yeah.”

  She swiped right, and Tucker forced himself to smile. If this Joel dude was for real and he and Della hit it off, they could become a thing. She’d said she wasn’t after a relationship, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t happen. Then she might move to Denver. That was a good thing. Although Antarctica would be better.

  Out of sight—waaay out of sight—out of mind.

  He could shove her back in that Arlo’s sister compartment in his brain where he’d kept her for three years and from which she’d apparently escaped.

  A notification flashed up, its mere presence twisting like a tornado through Tucker’s gut. “That was quick.” He fixed his gaze to the pelt of raindrops falling against the foggy glass. “He must be eager.”

  “No.” Her arm brushed his as she busily navigated to the notification. “It’s not from him. It’s from Bailey.”

  Ugh. Great. “Let me guess. A banana? A corn dog? Some bratwurst?”

  “Umm, no… I think he’s dropped the subtlety.”

  Tucker snorted—subtlety? Is that what Bailey had been doing? The snort died on his lips as Della held up the screen to show him the dick pic she’d been sent. Fuck. Revulsion and rage warred within his chest. A throbbing vessel at his temple threatened to pop. What was wrong with some guys? Tucker loved his penis very much, but he wasn’t so blinded by its awesomeness that he was fooled into thinking it was photogenic.

  “Jesus Christ, Della. That’s horrifying. Delete. Delete and then block his ass.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know the drill. It’s not the first picture of a guy’s genitals I’ve received since I started this little adventure.”

  “It’s not?” She hadn’t mentioned that before.

  She shrugged. “I’ve had a few.”

  “God. I’m so sorry. I feel the need to apologize on behalf of my entire sex.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not your fault that some guys can’t keep it in their pants.”

  Their eyes met and locked, and Tucker searched hers in earnest, grateful for the pale luminescence of hers making them easy to read in the dark of the cab. “Della…are you sure you’re…up for this?”

  He smiled at her gently to soften the question. Tucker didn’t want to keep raising Della’s past, but it stood to reason things like this could be confronting.

  “Yes. I am.”

  Her hand slid onto his forearm, giving it a squeeze. Warmth streaked up Tucker’s arm and skittered a delicious kind of tension across his belly. It heated the air in his lungs and settled like a feather in a nest deep inside his chest.

  “What about you, wingman?” She leaned in, giving his arm a playful shove with her shoulder. “Think you can take it, or are you going to need a fainting couch?”

  Tucker chuckled, forcing himself to relax. If she wasn’t freaked out, he wasn’t going to carry on like a maiden aunt. “Brain bleach, maybe.”

  She laughed. There was a curve to her sweet mouth that Tucker wanted to nip, to lick, to explore. It took all his willpower not to stare at it. “I’m sure I’ll survive. I just wish guys didn’t feel the need to expose their junk on the internet.”

  “Me, too, but…” She shrugged. “You’re the one who told me I had to kiss a lot of frogs.”

  “Guys like Bailey are not frogs. They’re toads. Floating around in a pond that’s been contaminated with nuclear waste.”

  “How many frogs have you kissed?” she asked.

  Tucker blinked. How in the name of holy fuck had they ended up back here? Talking about kissing? He shifted uncomfortably. “An average amount, I guess.” Although it had been a long time since he had kissed a woman.

  “And what is average these days?”

  He shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  “Have you kissed more than five?”

  “Yes.”

  “More than ten?”

  Tucker reluctantly did the mental arithmetic. “Yes.”

  “How many more?”

  Jesus. “I don’t keep score, Della.”

  Both her eyebrows raised. “That many, huh?”

  “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” he obfuscated. Or send dick pics.

  “But you haven’t found your princess yet?”

  “Not yet.” Tucker drew in a ragged breath. It was stuffy in here. “I had a couple of relationships in my early twenties that didn’t end up going anywhere. And then my dad died ten years ago, and I moved back to Credence to take over Jack’s.”

  “And there’s been no one serious since?”

  He gave a half smile. “Not a lot of women in these parts, remember?”

  Over the past decade, he’d been the recipient of affection from the occasional woman passing through Credence who’d stopped into Jack’s for a drink and decided he was the closest thing to a genuine cowboy she was ever likely to meet.

  And then Della had come to town.

  Della, who was waiting for his answer. “Nothing serious, no.” Nothing like the things he felt when he looked at her.

  “Are you not interested in…meeting a”—she made air quotes—“nice girl? Settling down?”

  The question seemed straightforward enough, but the answer was complicated.

  “Or a boy.” She shrugged, her mouth tilting in a small smile. “Whatever revs your engine.”

  Unfortunately for Tucker, she revved his engine. He grinned. “Thanks. If Keanu Reeves ever comes out, I might switch teams. Until then, I’ll stick to women.”

  “But not to settle down?”

  “It’s…not something I really think about.” The truth was, he’d always thought he would find someone, get married, have some kids. Settle in Credence. Pass on The Lumberjack to said kids, if they were interested. But life hadn’t worked out that way, and now there was Della, who was strictly off-limits and most adamantly didn’t want a relationship anyway.

  “Well…that’s a shame.”

  It was? Tucker knew he shouldn’t ask. This conversation was veering into dangerous territory, and he should get it back on neutral ground, but…he wanted to know why, damn it. “It is?”

  “Of course. Face it, Tucker, you’re a great prospect. On paper, anyway.”

  He snorted. “Gee, thanks.”

  “No, seriously. You’re a great guy.” She held up her hand and proceeded to tick points off her fingers. “You’re generous.” Tick. “You’re protective.” Tick. “You’re friendly and loyal.” Two ticks in quick succession.

  God, he sounded like a puppy. “I’m housebroken as well,” he said derisively.

  She laughed, ignoring his sarcasm as she ticked off her last finger. “And you have a job.”

  “Employed and housebroken. Yeah, I sound like such a catch.”

  “Well…you’re also a really attractive guy who”—her gaze dropped to his mouth—“looks like he knows how to kiss a woman just right.”

  And they were back to the k word again.

  Chapter Seven

  Tucker’s breath practically stopped in
his chest as her gaze fixed on his lips. His lips. And not in a you-have-something-stuck-in-your-teeth kinda way but with…interest. With heavy eyes and a parted mouth.

  If it was still raining, Tucker couldn’t hear it.

  “I…haven’t had any complaints.”

  Which was not what he should have said. He should be shutting this down. He should not be here with Della like this, talking about kissing.

  But it was dark and warm and private with the windows fogged and the rain a steady drumbeat. Every fiber in his body pulled taut in anticipation, and this thing that he’d been trying to ignore for so long stirred. The way she stared at his mouth told him that maybe something was stirring in her, too.

  That should have been enough to pull him out by the roots of the hair, because Della was not a woman he should be making out with in a car, but her arm was brushing his and she smelled like cupcakes and hell if he didn’t want to anyway.

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  Her voice was low and husky, but he heard the hitch. Yeah, he heard that right down to his toes. Hell, he heard it deep inside his balls. His aching balls.

  Tucker’s throat was dry as dirt, and he dragged his eyes off Della to stare blindly out the windshield. His heart was pumping hard, like he’d just chopped a bunch of wood instead of sitting on his ass in a car next to a woman who was looking at his mouth like she wanted to take it for a test drive.

  “The rain’s easing up,” he said.

  It was still coming down, but he could actually hear himself think now, which was a bonus. Maybe he’d start using his big head instead of letting his little one call the shots.

  “Tucker?”

  “We should be able to go soon,” he continued, refusing to look in her direction. Hell, if he’d been in the driver’s seat, he’d have just started the engine and hightailed it out of here already. “Don’t want Arlo to get antsy and come looking for us.”

  He wouldn’t put it past Della’s brother, and the last thing Tucker wanted was Arlo in a cop uniform shining his flashlight into this fogged-up cab.

  “Tucker. Look at me.”

  No fucking way. He groped for his phone, remembering he’d been checking out the radar, and consulted it again with a feeling akin to desperation, clutching at straws for something to do, something to look at other than Della. “Another ten minutes.”

  “Tuck.”

  It was the soft reproach that did it. He shouldn’t be able to hear something not much more than a whisper over the rain, but his body was utterly attuned to the pitch of her voice.

  Against his better judgment, he turned his head.

  Her eyes sought his, and he was lost as twin blue searchlights probed for God knew what. And then they drifted again to his mouth, and any hope he had of tearing his gaze away, of maintaining some kind of control and keeping his distance from her, evaporated.

  “What?” he asked, exasperated at his inability to deny this woman anything. This woman he had no business having feelings about.

  “You’ve never looked at me like that before,” she said, her voice still low and husky.

  Tucker swallowed. “Like what?”

  How had he looked? Deep down, he’d always known he felt things he shouldn’t for this woman—things he couldn’t articulate aloud—but since becoming her wingman, they’d been getting harder and harder to ignore, and maybe that was spilling over onto his face.

  Was that what she was seeing? These feelings that were getting too big to deny? Because if she was, he needed to work harder at his poker face.

  “Like I’m a woman.”

  “You are a woman.” His voice came out all gruff. “How else would I look at you?”

  She smiled. “Like Arlo’s sister.”

  “You are Arlo’s sister.”

  “I know.” She smiled again. “But I really like it when you don’t look at me like I am.”

  Yeah, well…Tucker didn’t. Tucker was more than happy when he could keep her in that box, but the universe—and Della’s desire to dip her toe into the dating waters—had other ideas.

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  And then, in a stealth move he really didn’t see coming, even though the air was ripe with the possibility, she kissed him. It happened quickly. One moment she was sitting in her spot, looking up at him, the next, her face was coming closer and her mouth was making contact.

  Light as a feather. Startling as a slap.

  He wasn’t actually sure it could be classified as a kiss. It was barely a press of her lips, really. She didn’t move to deepen it or to explore. Neither did he, his body going deathly still. And then it was over as quickly as it had begun. It lasted seconds. That was it.

  But still, he felt it everywhere.

  Tucker dragged in a breath as she pulled away, cupcake crowding his senses, his pulse like a washing machine in his ears. Her mouth was still a little too close for his liking but not on his anymore, allowing him to at least perform basic functions.

  She blinked at him, saying, “Sorry, I…” Then her gaze dropped to his lips just like it had before, and she closed the gap between them once more and kissed him again.

  This time, her lips were not passive. They shifted. Moved. Not a lot. Just a little. Just enough. They didn’t open, they…brushed. Gently. Along the contours of his mouth as if she was mapping it, reading him like braille.

  His body wasn’t so still this time. Things stirred and crashed and thrummed. And when she let out this soft little noise somewhere between a sigh and a moan and pressed herself closer to him, there was hardening.

  Rapid hardening. Quick-dry-cement hardening.

  Oh fuck no. Tucker pulled back abruptly, his breath a rough kind of pant as he sucked in the oxygen his lungs demanded. “What are you doing?” Which was possibly the dumbest question ever uttered by a guy being kissed by a girl in the front seat of a truck.

  But this was not happening.

  “I’m…kissing you?” She frowned like it was some kind of test and he’d just asked her a trick question.

  But why, for fuck’s sake? “You shouldn’t do that.”

  “You didn’t like it?”

  Didn’t like? In the grand scheme of kisses, it was not the flashiest or most technically challenging he’d ever experienced. In fact, it was fair to say Tucker had been the recipient of kisses that would have been perfectly at home in a porn film.

  This kiss wasn’t like that.

  This gossamer brush of mouth on mouth? And that little noise. Like it was enough and yet nowhere near enough at the same time. This kiss belonged in a movie. The non-porn type. The kind where the music swelled at the end and the lovers kissed for the very first time and even though the credits rolled there was no doubt the couple was about to get it on.

  And he’d liked it too damn much.

  “That’s not what I said.”

  The little v between her eyes disappeared and a smile touched her lips. “You did like it.”

  “Della…whether I liked it or not is not the point.”

  “It isn’t?”

  Tucker shook his head. “No.”

  “But…you must have an opinion?”

  “Nope.” Hell no. He’d already gotten himself into way too much trouble with that damn sexy dress, and he wasn’t heading back down that rabbit hole. “Other than that this”—he pointed back and forth between the two of them—“is not an option.”

  She folded her arms and huffed out a breath. “You said I should make out a bit.”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Isn’t making out in cars a part of the whole dating experience?”

  “Not with me.” Tucker didn’t exactly yell, but he did poke himself in the chest a lot harder than he should have as he tried and failed to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

  Della, on the
other hand, had no such compunction as her arms dropped. “Why not with you?”

  “Della.” Tucker gaped at her. Was she for real? “You know why not.”

  “Because of Arlo?”

  “Yes, because of Arlo,” he snapped. “Because you’re my friend’s sister.”

  “Because of some dumb bro code?” she demanded.

  “No. Yes. No. Because he trusts that I’m taking you for a driving lesson. Not…making-out lessons. And because I just…don’t think about you like that.”

  A flash of lightning illuminated the world outside the fogged windows, reminding Tucker that telling a big fat lie in the middle of a biblical-ass storm was probably not the best idea, even if they were on rubber. But the lie hit its mark, if the way she stiffened was any indication.

  Tucker felt lower than a rattlesnake’s ass, but it was better that she hated him, anyway.

  “And even if there wasn’t the sister stuff,” he continued because he was going in boots and all, “I’m eleven years older than you. Which makes me feel like some kind of dirty old man.”

  “You’re thirty-six, Tucker. Not eighty.”

  He shook his head. He knew it might seem like a flimsy argument, but he’d cling to any argument, no matter how flimsy, to keep his distance from Della. “I don’t fool around with women who were playing with Barbie dolls when I was backpacking around Europe.”

  “I didn’t own any Barbie dolls.”

  Tucker sighed, exasperation burning like a trail of lit gunpowder through his veins. “The point is, Della…you really should be playing with boys your own age.”

  Even if it did kill him to have to watch from the sidelines. Especially now that he’d heard that little sigh-moan. It was bound to play on repeat in his head. Probably forever.

  “Are you serious right now?” She glared at him. “For starters, you don’t get to tell me who I should or shouldn’t be playing with. And secondly, now you think I should be playing with the dick-pic generation?”

  Tucker grimaced. When she put it like that, he could see why Della didn’t seem to have a problem with their age difference. “I’m sure we’ll be able to find you someone whose genitals are camera shy.”