Chapter 23 #2
The words sit on the tip of my tongue to ask her to come inside, and ask her to skip dinner with Lily and stay here with me.
I want to pretend it’s casual, but I know better.
Not with the way she’s still looking at me, and not with the way my chest tightens at the thought of choosing a night with her over working at the bar for once.
This is the moment I should crack a joke and keep things easy.
But easy doesn’t look like this.
“I’m…uh…” I start, clearing my throat and hiking a thumb over my shoulder toward my house. “I’m about to make some dinner if you want to come inside.”
She hesitates but then nods. “Yeah. Dinner without the loudness of the bar sounds nice.”
I grin wider than I should, stepping to the side and putting my arm out to guide her into my home.
She reaches for her phone, likely sending a quick text to Lily about her change in plans.
Once we get to my door, she takes off her shoes by the door without me asking, then pauses like she’s conscious of every step into my life.
I try to see the place through her eyes as she looks everywhere, taking it all in.
It’s different from the loft—old, scuffed floors, hand-me-down furniture, and a couple of framed photos on the wall of me, Griffin, and Dallas, and then some of me with Lily and Poppy.
Her hand covers her mouth in a chuckle when she spots Nan alone in a picture.
One that she demanded I have in this place.
“This place suits you.”
“Does that mean you don’t think it’s a disaster?”
She shoots me a pointed stare. “No. It means it’s real.”
I swallow around the lump suddenly lodged in my throat and retreat to the safer territory of the stove. “I was just getting dinner started.”
She follows me, sliding into one of the stools at the small island, resting her elbows on the counter. I can feel her eyes on me as I move, preparing the chicken and vegetables.
“How long have you lived here?” she asks.
“I’ve been in Wyoming all my life. But moved to Bluestone Lakes when I was twelve, and then I got this place when I turned nineteen,” I say, flipping the chicken and listening to the satisfying sizzle.
“My uncle helped me buy it. It needed a lot of work, but it’s what I like doing, so I didn’t mind. ”
“You did a good job,” she says, looking around at the walls. “I’d never be able to tell this house was anything other than this. I like it. It feels…safe.”
“I like safe.”
“Yeah,” she says softly. “Me too.”
We fall into a conversation that feels different from the ones we have on set while I finish cooking. It feels slower because no one is waiting off-camera to yell cut. It feels natural.
I set the plate down and slide it across the island in front of her.
She stares at it for a moment before she grins. “So, you mean to tell me that you can build things and cook?”
I plate my food, rounding the island and taking the seat next to her. “I contain multitudes.”
Turning my head to the side, I watch as she takes the first bite. I bite down on my bottom lip as I watch her eyes fall closed as all the flavor hits her at once. When she opens her eyes, she swats my forearm with the back of her hand. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Look pleased with yourself.”
I shrug. “It’s not my fault you’re easy to impress.”
She narrows her eyes. “I’m not impressed. I’m…adequately fed.”
I lean back on the chair, draping one arm over the back of hers. “You made a sound when you tasted that.”
She lifts the fork to her mouth, but she pauses with it an inch from her face when my words register. I didn’t mean them the way she’s taking them. I can see by the way her eyes widen just barely, and she stares down at the food on the fork.
“It was a happy sound,” I add.
She moves then, taking another bite, slower this time. Swallowing, she pats her mouth with a napkin. “This is really good, though. I’m impressed. What is this called?”
“Marry Me Chicken.” Her gaze snaps to me, and I can’t help but laugh. “That’s really the name of the recipe. It’s said the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. So, whoever came up with it meant for whoever eats it to fall in love with the others cooking.”
She stares at me for a beat, and now I fear I’ve really said too much.
That’s not why I made this recipe, though. It’s just the easiest thing I know how to make here at home without a screenshot of a recipe on my phone. I can make this dish from memory.
“At least that’s what the internet says,” I continue, shrugging and facing my food.
Out of the corner of my eye I see her take another bite while we sit in silence. I should have told her it was called something else. It’s just…a stupid recipe that’s making me overthink this way too much. My brain though? A fucking traitor, because what if…
Not what if I were to marry her—god, not that fast. Just this flash of her in my space in a way that isn’t temporary.
Her laughing at something dumb I say while she’s barefoot in a kitchen that’s ours.
Her leaving a mug in the sink like she belongs here.
Her looking at me like she already knows the version of me I’m trying so hard not to show.
My chest tightens on reflex.
The old instinct that says: Careful. Careful. Careful.
If she sees it all, she’ll do what everyone does.
She’ll leave.
Yet here I am…letting her fucking in. I don’t let people in. I don’t have people over. I don’t give them the kind of access where they can bruise me without trying.
When I face her again, she’s watching me with that same careful focus she uses when working on her grandparents’ house, like she knows what I’m thinking, and she’s trying not to pry too hard.
We eat in silence for a stretch. It’s not an awkward silence, though.
She breaks it when she makes some joke about Nan’s battle with the bushes during filming, and I’m relieved for a different topic of conversation.
Then I tell her about the time Levi almost fell through a ceiling because he didn’t think the rotten spot was that big.
We both fall into easy laughter, and I feel something inside me soften in a way that scares me more than any unsafe building structure ever could.
Finishing up the last bite of food on my plate, I stand and round the counter to put my dish in the sink. When I see she’s done, she moves to stand but I stop her by grabbing the plate and putting it with mine.
I take a moment, watching her as she rests her elbows on the island and props her chin in her hands. The two of us with eyes locked on each other and so many things left unsaid.
I feel the shift in mood before she says, “Can I ask you something?”
I smirk. “You already are.”
She rolls her eyes, but her mouth is trembling a little at the corners. “I meant to ask you that night you found me on the stairs outside. But I need to know…” She pauses, fidgeting with her hands. “Why did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Leave,” she says, looking down at her hands on the counter. “That morning in San Francisco, you just…left without a word.”
The kitchen feels smaller all of a sudden.
I could lie. I could make a joke and shrug it off. But I can feel that this is where we draw the line. The place where I decide whether I keep pretending or finally tell her something true.”
“I wanted to wake you up,” I say, my voice low.
Her brows crease. “But you didn’t.”
“I know.”
I scrub a hand over the back of my neck, searching for the words that don’t make me sound like a coward.
“I was in San Francisco for two nights. Well, it was supposed to be two nights. Dallas had a meeting with his former team out there, and I was at Between the Buns waiting for him to finish. Never expecting to run into you…” I pause, feeling my body relax.
“I had a dozen or so texts on my phone when I woke up in your hotel room that he needed to leave as soon as possible to come back to Bluestone Lakes. And he sent it urgently, pushing through my Do Not Disturb on my phone.” I laugh lightly. “I got dressed and—”
The memory comes to me so vividly. Her hair splayed across the pillow, and her bare skin was exposed on her back where the covers fell. The only thing on my mind was that there was no way I deserved someone as beautiful and perfect as her.
“I stood there,” I continue. “And I thought, if I wake you I’m going to want to stay. If I stay, I’ll find a reason. And if I find a reason, I’ll start thinking I’m allowed to have something I want just because I want it.”
She stares at me, unspoken words on her face like I just rewired gravity.
“So I did what I’m good at. I left.”
She swallows. “That’s not an answer.”
I force myself to hold her eyes. “It’s the only one I’ve got. I didn’t leave because you didn’t matter, Scottie. I left because you did.”
The silence that follows is thick, humming with something I can’t put a name to. Her hands are on the counter between us, and I watch them flex.
“I’ve done a lot of things I don’t think about too hard. Usually, it’s related to my job, but walking out of that hotel room without waking you up?” I shake my head. “If life ever started handing out second chances, that’s the first one I’d ask for back.”
“Why are you telling me this now?” she whispers, looking down at her hands.
“Because you asked,” I say quickly. “And because I’m fucking tired of you thinking you weren’t worth a goodbye. Because you were. You are. It’s why that night we slipped in the apartment, I made a point to tell you I wasn’t running.”
The air between us snaps tight.
She stands up from the stool, rounding the island between us. I stay where I am with my back against the counter. My heart pounds in my chest with every step she takes. Stopping in front of me, she looks up at me with a mix of anger and hurt—something molten that steals the oxygen from the room.
“You made me feel disposable,” she says. “You know that, right?”
“And I fucking hate myself for it.”
“Good,” she breathes out, chest rising and falling. “You should.”
We both stand there, staring at each other. The space between is charged enough to light the whole damn town. She’s so close that I can see every fleck of color in her eyes. They bore into mine, filled with so much heat.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about the last time I kissed you,” I admit, the words pouring out of me like a confession.
“Because it was the first time I didn’t feel like running.
I think that’s what wrecked me, because I don’t let people get close like this.
But you keep…” I shake my head. “You keep finding every fucking crack.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
Her gaze drops to my mouth then snaps back to my eyes like she’s angry for even thinking about it.
The look on her face is pure conflict. But then her eyes go dark—a warning and a challenge all at once.
The kind of look that says don’t you fucking do this to me again.
Her breathing is shallow, but her voice doesn’t come.
Something snaps in me. I reach for her, hands coming up to frame her face. Her skin is warm under my palms. She sucks in a breath, fingers flying to my wrists. It’s not meant to push me away, but to hold on.
“All I think about is how your mouth felt on mine and how much I didn’t want it to end,” I say, my breath against her lips and she doesn’t move. Instead, her body moves an inch closer to me, pressing her body against mine. “Last chance to change your mind, Scottie.”
“Don’t you dare.”
I lower my mouth to hers.
The world narrows when I feel her lips against mine.
A soft sound escapes from the back of her throat before her hands move from my wrists to my chest, fisting my shirt like she needs this as much as I do.
I pull her in hard until there’s not a breath of space left between us, one hand sliding into her hair, and the other across the small of her back.
She melts, kissing me back with a kind of desperate relief. I stumble her backward a few steps until her hips hit the edge of the counter. My thumb strokes along the line of her jaw, tilting her head to deepen the kiss.
She lets out a soft, broken sound that goes straight to my knees.
When her fingers slide under the hem of my shirt, heat sparks across my skin.
I groan softly into her mouth before I can stop myself.
My grip tightens on her waist as if I can anchor both of us to this moment before it spins out of control.
Her body fits against mine. Every curve presses close, familiar in a way that makes it hard to breathe.
I lift her to the counter, and her legs open instinctively so I can step between them.
The movement pulls a laugh from her, but I swallow it when my lips are back on hers.
This kiss isn’t frantic anymore. It’s slow and deliberate as we both acknowledge every feeling we’ve been fighting to hold back.
Her hands slide up my arms, fingers digging into my shoulders, and it nearly undoes me.
“I don’t think I can stop,” I murmur against her mouth, letting my thumb trace the curve of her jaw. “You need to tell me to stop if any part of you doesn’t want this right now.”
She wraps both arms around my neck, pressing her forehead to mine. “I don’t want you to stop.”
I kiss her again. Each one is heavier until I’m painfully aware of every place we’re touching.
I move, peppering kisses along her jaw. She tips her head to the side, allowing me full access to the sensitive spot on her neck.
Pulling down one of the straps of her tank top, I trail my lips along her collarbone.
“Tucker,” she practically moans.
“Yes, babe?”
“More.”
I pull back to look at her. I see the woman who makes me want things I swore I didn’t need. The woman who keeps stepping closer to the cracks I’ve forced shut. Something settles in my chest when I cup her face. My lips brush hers in a kiss that feels like a promise.
“This doesn’t stay fake anymore,” I tell her, my voice rough. “Not tonight. Not ever again.”
She reaches for the hem of my shirt and pulls it over my head.
“Good.”