CHAPTER THREE #2
“Liar.”
We looked at each other for a moment, and the air between us felt charged with something I couldn’t quite name.
Something electric and dangerous and probably very stupid to pursue.
But I couldn’t seem to look away from him, from the way his eyes had gone slightly warmer, from the almost smile that softened the hard lines of his face.
Then his expression shifted back to that guarded look, and he glanced at my tire. “You’ve got a flat.”
I looked down at it, then back at him. “Right. I do. Very observant.”
His jaw tightened. “Can you change it?”
“Would if I had a spare. And before you ask, no, I don’t have a spare. Yes, I know that’s stupid. No, I don’t need a lecture about proper vehicle maintenance.”
He sighed—that same heavy, put-upon sound that suggested I was personally inconveniencing him by having car trouble. Like I’d gotten a flat tire specifically to ruin his day.
“So, what were you going to do?” he asked, his tone somewhere between exasperated and concerned. “Just sit here all night eating fruit?”
“No, I was trying to decide what to do. My mother doesn’t get off until later and my brother doesn’t have a car.
Which is really beside the point since I have no cell service.
I was either going to walk to town or back to Mr. Kowalski’s.
I was putting off that decision since neither of those options appealed to me.
Luckily someone drove by. You.” I took another bite of apple and smiled at him sweetly.
“No boyfriend?” I felt as if the question had been dragged out of him and it made me want to smile. But I didn’t.
“No. No boyfriend.” Again, I could have been coy and flirty, but really? That just wasn’t me. I was curvy and honest—to traits most men didn’t like but I owned.
He stared at me for a long moment, and I couldn’t quite read his expression. There was annoyance there, definitely, but also something else. Something that looked almost like relief? Would it matter to him if I had a boyfriend? Probably so he could dump me at his doorstep.
Then he muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse. “Hell. Get in the truck.”
I raised my eyebrows, not moving from my perch on the hood. “Is that how you get people to like you, Mr. Grumpy Pants? By barking orders?”
He looked at me, and I saw his jaw work like he was grinding his teeth. “Do you want a ride to town or not?”
I knew when not to poke a bear. I hopped down from the hood, tossing the apple core into the trees—biodegradable, I rationalized. Maybe an apple tree would grow there next spring. I grabbed my medical bag and the apples from the passenger seat. “How could I refuse such an offer.”
Another muttered curse as he stalked back to his truck. I followed, mentally patting myself on the back for not tripping over my own feet like I usually did when attractive men were involved.
Famous last words, Emily.
My foot caught on something—a rock, a root, the universe’s sense of humor—and I stumbled forward with all the grace of a newborn horse.
The medical bag went flying. The apples scattered.
And I would’ve face-planted directly into the side of his truck if two very large, very strong hands, hadn’t caught me by the waist.
Suddenly I was pressed against Tucker Barrett’s chest, his hand on my wide hips, his face inches from mine. Close enough that I could see the lines around his eyes, the texture of his lips. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off him.
Oh.
Oh no.
My hands had automatically grabbed onto his flannel shirt to steady myself, and I could feel the hard muscle underneath, the faint ridges of the scars I’d seen earlier.
I could feel his heart pounding. And every single nerve ending in my body—especially the ones in the southern hemisphere—woke up and started cheering like they’d just won the lottery.
“You okay?” His voice was rougher than before, strained, like the words were being forced out of him under the threat of torture.
“I’m—” I started, but my brain had apparently vacated the premises because all I could focus on was the way his thumbs were pressing into my hips, the way his breath was warm against my face, the way he was looking at me like I was something he wanted. Period.
Say something witty. Say something sassy. Say literally anything that isn’t a weird squeaking sound.
“I’m fine,” I finally managed. “Just testing your reflexes. You pass.” I patted his shoulders awkwardly before dropping my hands to my sides.
His eyes dropped to my mouth, and I watched his jaw clench and watched something dark and desperate flicker across his face.
“Fuck it,” he growled.
And then his mouth was on mine.
It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It wasn’t a sweet, tentative first kiss or a testing-the-waters kiss. This was possession. This was hunger. Pure, unadulterated, male hunger.
For me.
His lips were firm and demanding, claiming mine with a confidence that made my knees forget how to work.
One hand slid up my back to tangle in my hair, tilting my head back so he could kiss me deeper, harder, while the other hand dug into my soft flesh, pulling me flush against him until there was no space left between us.
I could feel his body. His hard. Excited body.
And my body answered him.
I gasped against his mouth, and he took advantage immediately, his tongue sweeping in to taste me.
And oh my God, the man could kiss. This wasn’t like anything I’d experienced before—not the one or two fumbling make-outs in high school, not the disappointing dates in college. This was... this was everything.
The dark stubble on his jaw scraped against my skin, rough and perfect, sending sparks of sensation racing down my spine.
Heat pooled low in my belly, spreading through my limbs like molten honey.
My nipples tightened against the fabric of my bra, suddenly painfully sensitive, and I felt a rush of warmth between my thighs.
I was grateful that I was pressed against his truck because my legs had officially given up.
Holy sex goddess, this man tasted like heaven, and I wanted more.
I kissed him back just as desperately as he was kissing me.
My hands fisted in his shirt again, trying to get closer even though we were already plastered together.
His groan vibrated through his chest and into mine, and the sound of it—rough and hungry and barely controlled—made everything inside me clench.
He kissed me like he’d been denying himself for so long that now that he’d given in, he couldn’t stop. His hand in my hair tightened, not painful but possessive, holding me exactly where he wanted me while his mouth devoured mine.
I’d read about kisses like this. Answered surveys in magazines about what a good kiss would be like. I’d daydreamed about them during long shifts and lonely nights. But imagination had nothing—nothing—on the reality of Tucker Barrett kissing me like I was the best thing he’d ever tasted.
My hands slid up his chest to his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle there, the strength barely leashed.
His body was hard everywhere mine was soft, and the contrast made me dizzy.
Or maybe that was the lack of oxygen. Hard to tell when your brain had melted and relocated somewhere south of your waistband.
When he finally pulled back—not far, just enough to breathe—we were both panting. His mouth was wet and swollen and his hands were still on me like he couldn’t quite let go. His eyes were wild, looking at me like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.
“Fuck,” he breathed, and I’d never heard a single word carry so much weight.
“Yeah,” I agreed, because my vocabulary had apparently shrunk to monosyllables. My lips felt swollen. My body felt like it was vibrating. And my underwear was definitely ruined, which was information my brain decided to share at the least helpful moment possible.
Great. Add buy new panties to tomorrow’s to-do list. Right after I figured out how to function like a normal human after being kissed into another dimension.
He pulled back a little more, his jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle ticking. His hand stayed on my hip.
“Emily, I—” His voice was wrecked. Absolutely wrecked. And knowing I’d done that to him sent another wave of heat through me.
“Don’t,” I interrupted, my voice shakier than I would’ve liked. “Don’t you dare apologize.”
His eyes met mine, dark and conflicted and hungry. “That was—”
“Inevitable,” I finished. “Amazing. Possibly the best kiss of my entire life. Take your pick.”
That earned me a rough sound that might have been a laugh.
I smoothed my hands down his chest, feeling his sharp intake of breath, the way his heart was still racing. “For the record, you taste like coffee and something I’ll probably regret. And I’m absolutely going to want to do that again.”
His hand tightened in my hair and for a second I thought he might kiss me again. I could see it in his eyes—the want, the need, the desire fighting with whatever demons were telling him this was a bad idea.
But instead, he let go of me, took a careful step back and put distance between us that felt like miles. The evening air rushed in where his warmth had been, and I had to resist the urge to pull him back.
“Get in the truck, Emily.” His voice was strained, barely controlled.
I bent down to gather my scattered apples and medical bag, grateful for the chance to hide my flushed face.
My hands were shaking. My whole body was still humming with want.
And when I stood back up and caught him staring at me—at the way my scrubs pulled across my curves, at the way my lips were swollen from his kiss—I saw the same hunger reflected back at me.
Down, girl. You’ve already broken the grumpy mountain man once tonight. Don’t push your luck.
As I climbed into the passenger seat, I could still taste him on my lips, feel his hands on my body.
With shaking hands, I fastened my seatbelt and watched him slid behind the wheel.
He was close. Too close. I knew he felt it too, the tension between us.
I was breathing hard, and his knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel.
Without a word, he pulled the truck back onto the road.
Silence stretched between us, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was charged. Heavy. Thick with everything we’d just done and everything we weren’t saying. I could practically hear him thinking, see the war happening behind his eyes.
I watched him drive, watched the muscle in his jaw tick, watched his hands flex on the steering wheel like he was fighting the urge to reach for me again.
“For what it’s worth,” I said softly, “I’m glad you stopped. For the flat tire and... you know. Everything after.”
He didn’t look at me, but his hands relaxed fractionally on the wheel.
I smiled and looked out the window, watching the trees blur past. My car was still sitting back there on that mountain road, but I’d deal with it tomorrow. Right now, all I could think about was the way Tucker Barrett had kissed me.
We reached the edge of town, and I gave him directions to my house—the small place with the peeling paint and the yard that was more weeds than grass. When he pulled into the driveway and killed the engine, neither of us moved.
We just sat there in the gathering dusk, and I tried to figure out what to say. How to acknowledge what had happened without making it weird, without pushing too hard.
“Thank you,” I said finally, turning to look at him. “For the ride. And for catching me before I gave myself a concussion on your truck. That would’ve been embarrassing.”
His lips twitched. Almost another smile. “You would’ve blamed me anyway.”
“Absolutely. Your truck is a hazard.” I reached for the door handle, then paused. “Tucker?”
He turned to face me, and the intensity in his eyes made my breath catch all over again.
“This was real,” I said quietly. “What just happened. And I’m not going to pretend it wasn’t.”
His jaw worked, and for a second I thought he might argue. But then he just nodded, once, sharp and decisive.
I climbed out of the truck before I could do something stupid like crawl over the console and kiss him again. I grabbed my medical bag and the apples and headed for my door, painfully aware that he was sitting there, watching me.
When I finally got the door open and turned back, he was still there. Still sitting in my driveway, hands back on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead like he was having an argument with himself.
I stood in my doorway and watched him, this complicated, damaged, beautiful man who’d kissed me like I was salvation and damnation all wrapped up in one curvy package.
After what felt like forever but was probably only a minute, he started the engine. Backed out of my driveway, turning his truck back toward the mountain. I watched his taillights disappear around the corner, then closed the door and leaned against it, my heart still racing.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I must have gotten service back now that I was in town. I pulled it out and saw a text from Mandy. Besides being the mainstay of town gossip, she was somewhat of a mother hen and always checked on me after I’d made deliveries.
How was the house call? Mrs. K behaving herself?
I stared at the message, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. How exactly did I explain that I’d gotten a flat tire, been rescued by the town hermit, and then been kissed so thoroughly that I was pretty sure my entire understanding of the laws of attraction had been rewritten?
I typed back. House call was fine. Got a flat tire. Tucker Barrett gave me a ride home.
Simple. Factual. Completely leaving out the part where his tongue had been in my mouth and I’d almost melted into a puddle at his feet.
Three dots appeared immediately. Then: WHAT. Calling you in 5 minutes. Don’t you dare leave anything out.
I smiled despite myself, and headed for the kitchen, my fingers brushing my still-tingling lips.
While I waited for Mandy’s inevitable interrogation, I thought about Tucker.
About the way he’d kissed me like he was starving.
About the way he’d looked at me afterward—hungry and desperate and terrified all at once.
Whatever this was between us, it was real. And it was growing.
And I had absolutely no idea what to do about it.
Except maybe get another flat tire.