Asking for Trouble

by Amy Andrews

  “Attagirl.” She grinned. “Anything else happen you want to tell me about in the last ten minutes?”

  “I walked in on Rosemary and Ray in bed together last week. At two in the afternoon.”

  Selena’s lips twitched. “Were they watching television?”

  Della shot her shrink a funny ha-ha look. “No.”

  “Doing sudoku?”

  “They were doing it.”

  Selena laughed, obviously delighted at the news. “I love that there are eighty-year-olds out there having nooners.”

  “I do, too,” Della said. “I just don’t want to be the one walking in on it. He was…under the covers all the way—” She dropped her gaze to her lap before flicking it up again. “Down there.”

  Selena dropped her voice to a dramatic whisper. “You mean he was performing cunnilingus.”

  Della squirmed a little at how easily that word rolled off Selena’s lips. “I assume so, yes.”

  “And you don’t approve?”

  “What? No. On the contrary. I’m jealous there are people fifty years my senior out there who have more in their sexual repertoire than I do.”

  The first book of Winona’s she’d ever read had featured a steamy scene in which the hero had gone down on the heroine, and it had gotten her very hot and bothered. Todd had never given her cunnilingus. In the beginning, they were both ridiculously inexperienced. They’d been each other’s firsts, and sex had been a series of quickies in backseats or school toilet cubicles whenever they could snatch some time away from their respective domineering fathers.

  It had been fast and furtive, about racing to the finish line—his finish line—more than the journey. And then she was pregnant. They’d married, and Todd had treated her body like some kind of divine receptacle. Not for sex or pleasure. But for a higher purpose. And she’d felt treasured and revered.

  Worshipped.

  After the miscarriage, he hadn’t touched her for months. Had left her alone to grieve and worry in their marital bed while he drank, smoked pot, and raved and blamed himself. And then the abuse had started. Him supposedly punishing himself for losing the baby by hurting her.

  Selena reached across the desk, sliding her hand over Della’s. “You’re young. There’s plenty of time to add it to your repertoire.”

  Della hoped so. As of now, it was going to the top of her bucket list.

  Chapter Eight

  Della had decided on a dressy pair of jeans for her date. She’d found a pair of dark blue boot-cut jeans in downtown Denver with prominent white stitching and rhinestones on the back pockets. She’d also picked up a plaid, long-sleeved shirt in pinks and blues with more rhinestone detailing on the pockets and around the snaps. It was the kind of shirt that would be perfectly at home on the streets of Credence, and she hadn’t been able to resist.

  She’d rolled it up at the sleeves, teamed it with her ankle boots, and pulled her hair back into a high ponytail to complete the look. She’d also found some cheap chandelier earrings with light pink stones, and she loved how they brushed the sides of her neck when she moved her head.

  Tucker had looked her up and down from head to toe and said “Yeehaw” when she’d emerged from the bedroom, and even though there was nothing lingering or sexual about the way he’d inspected her, it was a vast improvement on nice. It boosted her confidence.

  The fact he was dressed in denim and plaid himself gave her a little kick. They looked like they could be a couple—the cutesy kind that wore matching clothes—and even though she couldn’t imagine Tucker ever being on board with his-and-her matching clothes, the thought still did funny things to her pulse.

  “Did the gentleman know what time the booking was for, ma’am?”

  The waiter who’d been hovering in the background for the last twenty minutes smiled sympathetically at her as he filled up Della’s water glass. Again.

  Great. He thought she’d been stood up.

  “Yes,” she said, smiling pleasantly. “I’m sure he’ll be along shortly.”

  Della grabbed her phone and looked at her messages. Nothing from Joel. He’d messaged her only a few hours ago saying he was looking forward to their night. So surely he hadn’t decided to leave her hanging? Maybe he’d had an accident on the way here? Maybe his granny had taken ill suddenly. Maybe there was an important Habitat for Humanity crisis and he’d been whisked back to Africa with no time to let her know?

  She typed and deleted several different messages on the screen before settling on a casual tone. Hey. Hope everything is okay? Are we still on for tonight? Della sent it off into the ether.

  A glass of white wine appeared near her right hand as she placed the phone on the tablecloth. “Here you go, honey.” The drinks waitress smiled at her. “On the house.”

  Della blinked up at her, then glanced around. The bartender gave her a warm smile and an encouraging nod. Terrific. Everyone thought she was some kind of loser. How freaking depressing. “Thank you,” she said, taking a large sip as she checked her phone again. No reply.

  Well…she was damn sure not going to sit here looking like a Nellie no-friends.

  Grabbing her phone again, she tapped out a message to Tucker.

  Joel running late. Can you come sit with me until he arrives? Waiter looking at me like there’s a giant L on my forehead.

  She stared at the screen, waiting for the three little dots to appear, expecting an immediate reply, and when it wasn’t forthcoming, she felt even more depressed. Maybe she should just leave and save herself any more pitying looks. Before she could decide on a course of action, Tucker was striding toward her, and day-um he looked good. The earthy strains of “Save A Horse (Ride A Cowboy)” ground through her head at his long-legged gait and the way his well-worn Stetson sat low on his forehead. The smile on his face and those sexy dimples stole her breath.

  She may possibly have ovulated.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said as he pulled up beside her, leaned in to plant a kiss on her cheek, then took the seat opposite. “You look good in that shirt, baby.” He removed his hat and rubbed his hand over his hair, ruffling it deliciously as he placed the Stetson to the side.

  Okay…she definitely ovulated this time.

  Della glanced around, noting the avid female interest in the room. Suddenly everyone was looking at her with envy rather than pity. “Thank you.”

  Casually, he picked up the menu. “What’s good to eat?”

  The waitress who’d brought Della the drink approached. “Your date arrived.”

  “Yes.” Tucker had ridden to her rescue in spectacular style. Yee-freaking-haw.

  “And may I say, he was worth the wait.” She winked at Della before turning her attention on Tucker. “Can I get you started on a drink, sir?”

  He smiled politely at the waitress. “I’ll take a Bud, please.”

  “One Bud coming right up.”

  The waitress departed. Tucker did not check out her ass as she walked away. “You okay?” he asked, his voice lower as he made a show of checking out the menu.

  “I’m fine. Thanks for keeping me company.”

  “What’s keeping Joel?”

  “I don’t know… I’ve messaged him, but he hasn’t answered.”

  Tucker glanced up from the menu. “He’s stood you up?”

  “No.” Della bugged her eyes at him. Why was everyone jumping to that conclusion? “He told me three hours ago he was looking forward to it. I’m actually worried something’s happened to him.”

  “That does seem strange.” Tucker frowned. “I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

  Della’s phone vibrated, and she leaped on it. It was Joel. Quickly, she opened the text.

  Sorry. Something came up. Rain check?

  She stared at the message blankly for long moments. So much for an explanation. Something had come up?
And he was only telling her now? Half an hour after he was supposed to be meeting her?

  Tucker, who was watching her face intently, leaned forward. “What?”

  “Guess I have been stood up.” Handing over the phone, Della sat back in her chair. Had Joel ever had any intention of meeting with her tonight? And why on earth would he string her along?

  “What the hell?” Tucker said, glancing from the screen to her. “Something came up?”

  A sudden spike of irritation flushed through her system, and she held out her hand for her phone. She wondered if he was idiot enough to broadcast what had been more important. On a terrible hunch, she navigated to his Facebook. An hour ago, he’d checked in at Hooters. Twenty minutes after that, he’d posted Making friends with my buddies and a picture of him and three other guys draped around two pneumatic blondes wearing tiny white T-shirts and even tinier orange pants.

  Oh yeah. Something had come up all right.

  Della was torn between crying and hurling her phone across the restaurant. Not because Joel had decided that the women at Hooters were preferable to her company, but because he hadn’t considered her important enough to clue her in earlier. And to think she’d been worried that something might have happened to him. It looked like his only risk of injury at the moment was a black eye from being slugged with one of those giant boobs.

  God alone knew what her face looked like, but Tucker actually slid his hand over hers as he leaned even closer. “What?” he said in a half whisper, his voice urgent.

  She turned the phone around to show Tucker the post. It took about two seconds for his face to go from anxious to grim.

  “What an asshole.” He flicked his gaze to her face. “Are you okay?”

  The concern in his voice rattled her already shaky foundation. Hot tears pricked at the backs of her eyes, and she blinked rapidly to dispel them before they got a foothold. “I’m fine,” she dismissed.

  “Della.” He squeezed her hand. “That dude is not worth your tears.”

  “I know.” And she did know. She wasn’t crying over Joel. She was crying over how damn inadequate he’d made her feel. “I just don’t understand how three hours ago he texts me to tell me he’s looking forward to tonight, and then he stands me up to stare at big-boobed women with his buddies.”

  “As much as I don’t want to make any excuses for the guy, I suspect three hours ago he was still planning on seeing you, and then he…”

  Della’s brain picked up where Tucker was leading. “Got a better offer?”

  “Yeah… Something like that.”

  And just hadn’t bothered to tell her? Della glanced at her phone again. At the white toothpaste smiles of the pretty women, their impressive cleavages drawing the eye. “I don’t even understand why he even wanted to date me if Barbie boobs are his thing.”

  She’d added three more pics to her Tinder profile since she’d joined. Two of them were full-length. It was plainly obvious from both that she was never going to win a wet T-shirt competition.

  She certainly would never make it at Hooters.

  Tucker went back to studying the menu like he was going to get a test on it at the end of the night. She glared at his downcast head. “This is your cue to say something like, your boobs look great, Della. They’re fine just the way they are, Della.”

  Taking a breath, he shot her a composed look. “I’m not saying that.”

  “Why not?” She sat up straight, her chest thrusting out a little as she looked down at her breasts. Thanks to her bra, she had some cleavage tonight, a slight swell of it just visible. “I’m wearing a push-up bra.”

  “I’m not talking about your boobs.”

  Della quirked an eyebrow. “You’re not a boob man?”

  His expression turned exasperated. “All straight men are boob men.”

  “Ahh.” She nodded. “It’s not an Arlo-approved topic?”

  He snorted. “Hell no.”

  “But surely commenting on my appearance is a wingman conversation?”

  “If I was one of your girlfriends, sure. But I’m a dude, and it’s not appropriate to be talking about this with a woman who is the sister of a friend. You and me? We don’t talk about your boobs.”

  “You told me about BDE.”

  “Yeah.” Tucker gave a little shudder. “Don’t remind me.”

  “Fine.” She huffed out a breath, wondering if he’d prefer the topic of cunnilingus instead, which had been on her mind ever since speaking to Selena about it. Hell, ever since she’d stumbled upon Rosemary and Ray in the act.

  She bet it was in Tucker’s repertoire.

  “So kissing and boobs are off the table?”

  It was the first time either of them had mentioned what had happened in his truck, and Della braced herself for awkwardness or retreat. Instead he said, “That sums it up.”

  The waitress arrived with Tucker’s beer, and Della waited for her to be out of earshot before asking, “You want to drink that, or you want to leave?”

  “What’s your rush?”

  “My date’s a bust. There’s no point hanging around.”

  He took a pull of his Bud before setting it back on the table. “Screw that. You got all dressed up for a date, so a date you shall have.” He opened the menu. “What do you want to eat?”

  Della blinked, touched by his thoughtfulness but not wanting to be humored. “I don’t need a pity date, Tuck.”

  “Pfft.” He shut the menu and locked his gaze with hers. “This isn’t a pity date. This is an assessment date. How am I supposed to do my job as wingman properly unless I know your first-date strengths and weaknesses? I should have done that right back at the beginning. I mean, maybe there are things you’re doing wrong. It’s important to know what you bring to the table in anything you do and, as a”—he straightened his shirt—“man.” He waggled his eyebrows and lowered his voice so it came out all deep and macho, and Della laughed. “I can give you a unique insight into the kinds of things we like and don’t like.”

  Tucker was full of shit and just messing around, clearly trying to lighten the mood—but what he was suggesting actually made sense. It wasn’t like she had practice or experience on her side. She’d been with one guy, and they’d never really dated.

  “Okay.”

  He nodded. “Good. Now—” He reached for the menu again. “What do you want to eat?”

  They ordered—pasta for her, steak for him—and Della went ahead and also ordered a cocktail. If she had to sit opposite Tucker at a small table, their knees (thanks to the length of his thighs) practically touching underneath while they fake dated, then she was going to need something a little stronger than white wine.

  “Okay,” Tucker said after the waitress left. “First piece of assessment. Chitchat. What’s your small-talk game like?”

  “Um, good…I think?”

  She’d been isolated from pretty much everyone during her marriage and had kept mostly to herself for the first couple of years after she’d moved to Credence, but since starting work at the old folks’ home a year ago and meeting Molly and Marley over the summer, she’d stretched her conversational muscles.

  “Alrighty then. Lay it on me.”

  She blinked. “What…just start talking?”

  “Yeah, pretend I’m a real first date. What’s your opening line?”

  Pretending Tucker was a real date was like pretending she’d won the lottery. He’d made it perfectly clear that they’d never have that kind of relationship, so putting herself in that headspace was bizarre. She might as well be sitting opposite Idris Elba.

  “So…Tucker…” Suddenly this felt like a real test. “Where are you from?”

  “Predictable.” He tsked. “But I can run with it. I’m from a little town way out in Eastern Colorado, not far from the Kansas border, called Credence. You probably haven’t
heard of it.”

  “Actually, I have,” Della confirmed, forcing herself to smile, to relax and stop being so damn stiff and predictable in case she failed this bogus assessment. “I hear the bar there is very good. The Lumberjack?”

  “Best bar in town. Best bartender in all Colorado, too.”

  Della laughed. “Wow. The whole state? That a fact?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Lordy. She was not prepared for the way he ma’amed her. Sure, they were playacting, but her ovaries didn’t know that. They were popping out eggs now like a slot machine paying out a jackpot.

  “The chief of police is supposed to be a bit of a hardass,” she said, hoping the mention of her brother would freeze those suckers in their tracks.

  Tucker laughed this time. It was rich and warm and vibrated between them on the kind of frequency that was too low to be measured but could be felt all over. Unfortunately, there was no freezing going on anywhere. There was only heat.

  So. Much. Heat.

  “He runs a tight ship. Is a stickler for the rules and doesn’t suffer fools gladly. He has an overdeveloped sense of responsibility for every single person in his jurisdiction because his mom was sick a lot when he was a kid and his dad traveled away frequently. If he lived a few hundred years ago, he’d have a white charger.”

  Tucker couldn’t have described her brother any better if he tried. Arlo had told her all about his mom’s illness and his father’s—her father’s—occupational absenteeism.

  “Do you have any siblings?” she asked politely, continuing the charade.

  “Only child.”

  “And your parents?”

  “My dad died ten years ago. My mother moved to North Carolina to be closer to her twin sister about a year after that.”

  “Your mom’s a twin?” Arlo had told her about Tucker’s mom leaving Credence to be with her sister, but she didn’t know they were twins.

  “Yep. Twins run in my mom’s family for generations and generations. Identical ones, too. Family get-togethers are a real trip.”