Chapter 9
Tuck
The big Texan guy beside me eyes the plate of crumbed lamb.
“Mind if I take that?”
“Sure.” I nod. “Go for it.”
Then I lean back from the lavish table spread, letting my gaze drift down the long communal table to where Pen’s deep in conversation.
“ No way —” her voice lifts excitedly, face angled against the light. “I saw that production three times, just to take in all the costumes. That was you behind it?” she gushes to the sleek-haired woman across from her.
We’re a couple of courses into dinner at Brady’s new restaurant, Lucky Bunny, which marks his big departure from the LA scene to open up shop back here in our old hometown. By all accounts, business is thriving.
Three long tables stretch across the room, all packed with guests. The food is heartier than Brady’s city endeavors—homely, rustic, rich with flavor. The whole place buzzes with conversation, wine flowing, plates being passed, bursts of laughter, and clinking glasses.
I figure this is what Pen needs after today—a room full of happy people, good food…nourishment in every form. A welcome distraction from funeral arrangements.
But still, her enthusiasm feels a little too dialed up. And there’s something in her eyes each time they flick toward me—something I can’t quite place.
Not that she’s looking at me that much.
She positioned herself two seats away on the opposite side of the table. Meanwhile, I’m wedged between the loud Texan and one of the local Kingsley brothers—the younger one—who’s so infatuated with the woman Pen’s talking to that he’s either staring at her, slack-jawed, or rambling to me about how cool she is.
“Misha was the Head of Wardrobe on the production they’re talking about,” he informs me between mouthfuls of spicy beef goulash. “And it’s up for a Tony for Best Costume Design in a Musical. How incredible is that?”
“Amazing,” I nod.
“She also has her own business in upcycled fashion. She’s saved, like, a thousand tons of clothing from landfill.”
“How about that?” I mumble, reaching for my wine.
No wonder Pen is vibing with Misha. They’re both personally invested in trying to save the planet. I should be glad to see her so animated, but I suspect that’s more to do with the flowing red wine and pre-dinner margaritas.
Funny—I rarely see Pen connect with other women. She’s close to her studio team and industry people, of course. But outside that circle, real friendships seem few and far between.
Sometimes I wonder if that has something to do with her mother, absent father, or a specific childhood trauma.
But even though Pen sure doesn’t like to dwell on the past, she burst into laughter when Brady greeted us with his old, ridiculous catchphrase the moment we walked into the restaurant.
“We ride at dawn!”
We used it whenever we locked in a plan—whether it was grade school antics like greasing the monkey bars, relieving high school boredom by pulling the fire alarm, or a signal to bail on a dead party and regroup at the nearest bar during our early city days.
Brady’s dramatic delivery only made it funnier, startling the hell out of his cooking class participants as he pummeled the air and bellowed his war cry.
Then he rushed over—all bear hugs and instructions to grab a drink, join the crowd for dinner, and be ready for a proper catch-up after he was done with service.
It was classic Brady, total off-the-wall energy. But, admittedly, more restrained than the times I’d visit him in LA. Back when he was up for anything and never switched off. He went harder than anyone, and as a hot-shot celebrity chef, the temptations were endless.
But that’s all changed. He’s fallen for someone—Vivian. A woman from his past who not only helped him tame his demons but also came with a surprise package: his kid. The one Brady had no clue about.
And Finn—he’s Brady’s clone. It’s uncanny. That messy, snow-white hair, the wide, goofy grin. Even the unmistakable bright blue eyes that used to land Brady any girl he wanted.
Not that I didn’t do just fine, too. Never had trouble pulling chicks. I scored more than my share of one-night stands and girlfriends.
My gaze drifts across the table to Pen.
And then there was always her…breaking my heart when she dated other guys, soothing my soul when I got her back. Except, I never really had her. Not entirely. Because Pen’s more elusive than a snow leopard on a mountainside at dusk.
I watch on as she accepts a top-up of wine, picks at the pickled green bean salad, and shares her favorite thrift shop venues with Misha. They rave about Fab Scrap in New York. Then Pen’s face lights up as she describes a mall in Sweden where everything for sale is either repurposed, recycled, or sustainably and organically produced.
“Amazing! That’s my kind of place,” Misha asserts excitedly.
Then the blonde woman directly opposite catches my eye. “Are you in fashion, too?” she wonders as she passes the beets. “I saw you guys hanging out together by the bar when we arrived.”
I return her friendly smile. “You could say that. But I can’t claim the design or green credentials of those two.” I tilt my head toward Pen and Misha. “I’m just in it for the money.”
She lets out a throaty laugh. “A pragmatic businessman! I like it.” Her smile deepens. “Someone has to keep the economy chugging along, right? My family’s in the shipping industry, so we got hit hard by climate regulations in recent years. I mean, good on those who strive to be sustainable, but small companies are drowning in compliance costs while the giant corporations barely feel it.”
I nod sympathetically. “So it’s just the big players left standing?”
“Pretty much.” She swirls her wine. “They’ve got the cash to retrofit fleets, invest in alternative fuels, lobby for their interests—all that. Meanwhile, family-run operations like ours are either shutting down or getting swallowed up. It’s not really about sustainability. It’s about who can afford to stay the course.”
She shakes her head, dimples flashing. “But business talk at dinner is so tacky. Tell me something else about yourself—uh?”
“Tuck,” I say, reaching out a hand as she does the same.
“Odette.” Her grip is firm and lingering. “So where do you hail from, Tuck?”
Before I can answer, Pen leans forward, cutting across the guy between her and Odette. “Oh, don’t let the flash haircut and linen shirt fool you. Tuck’s born and bred in good ol’ Blue Mountain Lake.”
Odette blinks at the sudden interjection. “Huh. It’s such a tourist town, I figured most people here tonight were from elsewhere.”
I study Pen. Wide, exuberant eyes, glowy skin, loose gestures. She can usually hold her liquor, but something about tonight—the cocktails, the wine, the day’s emotions—has her more wound up than usual.
“I live in New York,” I say, catching Pen’s gaze. “But my parents are still here, so I get back regularly.”
“Tuck’s great like that.” Pen flutters her lashes, all mock innocence. “Reliable, solid, very family-oriented. Relationship -oriented,” she adds, her tone just a little too pointed.
“Thanks, Pen,” I say dryly. “Maybe I’ll let you update my Tinder profile.”
Odette raises a brow. “Oh, so…you two aren’t together?”
Pen props her elbow on the table, her wine glass tilting dangerously. “Tuck’s just ‘ helping me through ’ my mother’s recent death.”
The table quiets.
Odette shifts uncomfortably. “Oh…I’m so sorry—”
Pen waves a hand, the gesture sweeping wider as Misha and a few others murmur condolences.
“It’s fine. I’m fine,” she insists. “I just meant, Tuck’s a great guy. Single guy. On-the-market kind of guy.” She gives Odette an exaggerated wink. “So if you’re into those attributes, well…life’s short. Then we die. I sure got that memo this week.” She lifts her glass. “Seize the moment!”
Fuck.
I catch the waiter’s eye and tilt my head toward Pen. “Some iced water for the table?” I say smoothly. “And more bread?”
Luckily, our dinner companions take Pen’s outburst in stride—maybe out of sympathy, maybe because she’s now badly quoting song lyrics.
“When you get that kind of news, what can you do?” She shrugs. “You gotta go ‘skydiving…Rocky Mountain climbing…’” she struggles through, humming the familiar tune well off-key.
Then she frowns. “Whatever. You get the idea.”
The Texan guy jumps in, crooning smoothly: “ I loved deeper, and I spoke sweeter, and I gave forgiveness I’d been denying… ” He places his hand to his heart as he reaches deep. “ And he said, someday I hope you get the chance to live like you were dying.”
There’s a smattering of applause for his deep-voiced rendition, and he tips his head graciously.
“We played Tim McGraw at our wedding.” His wife leans in. “Not that one, of course!” she clarifies. “Another of his songs, ‘The Rest of Our Life’ . It was our first dance.” Her smile softens. “Right, honey?”
“We sure did, baby,” he says affectionately.
I smile at them, figure I can leave them to their canoodling. But apparently not.
“You know, I had totally given up on love,” she tells our end of the table. “I was so done. Then three years ago at the Livestock Show—there I was, manning the Honolulu Hog Spud stand all alone. And this guy—” She nudges him. “He keeps coming back for more.”
“I ate, like, five before I got the nerve to ask her out,” Tex says, bashfully—not what I expected from a guy who looks like he could wrestle a feral pig into submission without breaking a sweat.
“And the rest is history.” She laughs, squeezing his arm.
“Well, you know what they say—when you stop looking, that’s when it finds you,” Pen chimes in.
I smirk. “Quite the cliché queen tonight, Pen. Not like you to let sentiment override your cynicism.”
She swivels toward me, eyes flashing. “Well, you’d know all about clichés , wouldn’t you, Tuck? Since you’re a proponent of the ultimate one.”
I lift a brow. She’s riled up, and apparently, I’m the target. And I know better than to deflect. In some cases, the only way with Pen is head-on.
“Oh?” I challenge. “Enlighten me.”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “That men and women can’t have any kind of close relationship unless it’s of a romantic nature. How very progressive of you.”
A slow murmur of interest ripples through the table. She’s making a scene. And I have a feeling she’s just getting started.
Thankfully, we’re interrupted by Brady introducing the next course. He details the lineup of shared plates, rattling off the origins of each dish as waitstaff move efficiently around us. And Pen, momentarily distracted from maintaining her voodoo glare in my direction, turns back to her conversation with Misha.
But soon enough, she’s on the move. She rises from her seat, meandering past Brady, who’s now deep in discussion with a waiter. She says something as she passes, just enough to make him glance up and grin.
Then he clocks me. His eyebrows lift with concern.
I’m already on my feet and nod a response— on it.
I follow Pen into the passage leading to the restrooms.
She gives me a haughty look, attempting to stride ahead. But before she can slip away, I catch the crook of her arm and tug her firmly against the wall.
Her glassy eyes flicker up to mine.
“Pen, what are you playing at?”
She gives a slow, lazy smile, lifting a finger to tap the top button of my shirt. “What are you playing at, Buster? Must be fate, huh? She’s just your type.”
“You’re way off,” I say, gripping her elbow as she sways slightly. “We were just making conversation.”
She tilts her head, eyes gleaming. “Tall, honey blonde…neutral black and cream outfit, statement watch…bet she’s got an MBA.”
“Oh, keep going. This is really turning me on,” I deadpan. “You think I’m that shallow? That I have a checklist for women like I’m picking out a new car?”
Her gaze drags over my face, then my chest. Her fingers skim lower.
“Well…you turn them over with about the same regularity.” She pauses, then smirks. “Actually, no . I think you keep your cars longer than your girlfriends. Being with you, Tuck, is a very precarious business. Not exactly a long-term gig…”
Her head dips as she playfully tugs my shirt loose from my waistband. But my brain snags on her words. My track record. The implication that if we tried, I’d ruin it. Is that what she thinks?
She falls against me, unsteady.
“You’re pretty tanked, Pen, we should get you—”
“No shit, Herschel!” she gives a gleeful smile, as if proud of referencing the famous interspace observer we studied way back in grade school. “I’d be pretty disappointed if I weren’t after how much I drank.
“And guess what?” she sways happily. “I’m not done. So you can lose the tone, Mr. Judgy McJudge Pants. And since you definitely can’t stop me, you may as well lighten the fuck up and join me.” She pouts. “That’s if you’re not too busy comparing stock portfolios with your new friend, Odette.”
“Forget, Odette, okay?” I say gruffly.
She leans in, lips brushing my ear. “Well, in that case, we could enjoy a little mid-course interlude, what do you say?”
I smooth her hair back, searching her face— wanting her . But not like this. Not as a quick fix for whatever’s got her feelings churned up. Not as a fleeting distraction just so Pen can avoid dealing with shit. The way it always is.
This time, I want more.
“Or,” I say, voice low, “we could ditch the public restroom idea…”
She flinches as if wounded, then violently tugs against my grip, trying to break free.
I tighten my hold, my head dipping closer.
“Instead…I could take you home. Take you to bed. And fuck you all night long.”
Her mouth parts on an intake of breath, her eyes deepening.
Slowly, she presses her lips together. Blinking as if waking from a dream.
“Except…” She wavers. “What about Brady and Vivian?” She straightens. “We should probably get back to the table.”
“This isn’t about Brady and Vivian. Or Odette. Or being polite dinner guests.” Frustration creeps into my voice. “This is your typical tactical maneuver, Pen. You think I don’t know that?”
I drop my hands, letting her go.
She hesitates. “Tuck, don’t be like that.” Her tone is soft, coaxing. “Let’s just finish dinner, okay?”
I shrug. “Fine.”
“Oh—except I really do need to pee first—meet you back there?” She smiles, saccharine sweet.
And there she goes, flipping the narrative again.
Her pivot is almost impressive.
If it didn’t make me want to slam my head against the nearest wall.