Prologue #2
“And if I had to guess, you’re a nice guy from a little small town in the middle of nowhere, and you ride horses into the sunset?”
“Close, but no. How did you guess small town?”
“You have lumberjack arms.”
“You noticed my arms?” He grins. “If you must know, these are working man’s arms. If you did what I do every day, you might chip that manicure,” he teases.
“And what is it you do?”
“I build houses…in said small town.”
“Please. I could out-hammer you any day.”
“Yeah?” His eyes sparkle with mischief, sitting up taller for the challenge. “Name three kinds of nails that aren’t on your fingers.”
“Finishing. Casing. Brad.”
His eyebrows rise, and he pauses, staring at me. “Marry me.”
I laugh and lift my drink to my lips, reveling in the booze hitting my system. “You said before that no one has been able to figure out that drink,” I say, not even acknowledging what he just said. “But I think our friend behind the bar has nailed it. No pun intended.”
Tucker studies me. His eyes remain fixed on my face as if memorizing me—the color of my eyes, the tone of my skin, the crinkle around my eye. It’s uncomfortable but also exhilarating.
I’ve never had a man look at me like he’s captivated by me.
“I like you,” he says.
“We’re still strangers,” I say in a tone that says he is not having an out of body effect on me.
“I’m like a fast pass in the amusement park. We can get past the stranger-danger zone and into friendship territory very quickly.”
This time I laugh hard—full on, bending over the bar top with laughter.
“Did you really just say that?” I ask, catching my breath. “That sounds like a corny pickup line.”
“All great love stories start with a corny pickup line.”
I don’t have time to respond because the server drops our food in front of us.
But my cheeks feel warm, and I hope it’s not obvious.
I can’t believe he just said that…but I kind of like it.
It’s bold. He’s bold. Tucker didn’t even flinch when I called him out on how corny it sounded.
Most guys would have backpedaled, but he doubled down. I’m not sure if it’s cocky or charming.
Maybe both?
I find myself staring at this man next to me, and he seems like the kind of guy who knows exactly what he’s doing, standing here with that smirk on his face, and slowly sipping his bourbon. Still…there’s something in the way he just said that, like he actually believes it.
Like he’s daring me to believe it, too.
“So, you said you’ve got an interview tomorrow,” Tucker says, thankfully changing the topic. He picks up a french fry, bringing it to his lips. “What’s the interview for? Anything I can help you with?” he asks, before taking a bite.
“It’s a TV thing.” I shrug.
“Damn. So you’re not just some girl walking around the city in a bright yellow jacket, huh?”
“Nope. I’m a girl in a yellow blazer who might be on your TV one day.”
He smiles so wide that for the first time since he sat down next to me, I see a dimple form. Dammit, I’m supposed to be acting completely uninterested here, and he’s making it very difficult.
“I don’t watch TV,” he replies, eyes laser focused on me. There it is again, the steady stare that makes my stomach flutter like champagne bubbles rising inside of me. “But if you’re on it? I’d learn your schedule, set reminders, and make it my new favorite show.”
Heat prickles my skin, and suddenly the air around us feels heavy.
Trying not to show how his words have affected me, I decide to accept his offer to help with this. Maybe he can even give me a better answer than I’ve come up with for one of the interview questions they gave me ahead of time.
I turn in my chair, fully facing him. “Maybe you can help me with an interview question since you build houses for a living.”
“Shoot.”
“What does home mean to you?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. I watch as the smile on his face fades just enough for me to notice, but I can tell he’s hiding it.
He reaches for his drink, taking a sip before placing it back down.
I immediately regret asking because it seems to have triggered a memory for him, but the words have already left my mouth. I can’t take them back.
“A lot of people think a home is composed of walls and a roof where you live. A structure that you fill with belongings and memories. But it’s more than that.
It’s who’s inside those walls. It’s a place where you’re seen without needing to explain yourself.
A place where you can breathe and your flaws don’t need to be hidden.
It’s where you don’t have to pretend. You can just… be.”
The final words land like a sharp sucker punch to the gut.
I didn’t realize until hearing it from him that I want that. Someday, I want a home that feels exactly like what he just described. A place that’s mine. Where I don’t have to perform or impress or earn my right to take up space. Somewhere I finally get to just…be.
“Sorry.” He laughs, breaking the tension. “That was way too deep—even for me. But in conclusion”—he clears his throat, and the funny guy I know from just moments ago is back— “home isn’t just about the structure. It’s less about where you live, and more about where you feel whole.”
“That’s…wow. That’s a good answer.”
“Feel free to use it to nail your interview.” He winks. “I need a reason to start watching TV again.”
For the next half hour, we each order another drink, leaving behind the unintentional deep conversation we just had, to eat our meal.
Tucker splits both burgers in half and we share them to get a taste of the two different kinds.
It feels like we’ve slipped into our own bubble at the bar, the kind where the noise around us fades away and it’s just the two of us.
My cheeks hurt from laughing so hard as he holds up the burger like he’s presenting a case in court about why this burger is the best he’s ever had.
I can’t decide if I’m more full from the meal, or from the way he makes me laugh.
“My jaw officially hurts from laughing this much,” he says, relaxing, but then his eyes widen and he turns to face me on the barstool. “Do you think we’ve exceeded the legal limit for laughing at a bar?”
My smile falls, and I offer him a serious look. “Do you think the bartender will write us a citation?”
“Fuck,” he says, equally serious—matching my sarcasm. “I hope not. I’m not good with fines. You think we should make a run for it?”
I lean in, keeping my voice low. “Are you suggesting we flee the scene?”
He nods. “It’s a very serious crime.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re ridiculous.”
He smiles playfully, placing cash on top of the receipt to pay for both of our meals. I should protest. I usually do. I’m careful about owing anyone anything or about letting moments get misread into something more than they’re meant to be.
But there’s something about him.
The way he’s so casually gotten under my skin, like it didn’t require effort or strategy or a perfectly timed smile.
“I never thought I’d say this but…” I glance at Tucker, my voice softer than I expect it to be. “I don’t want this night to end.”
His eyes lock with mine, and goose bumps pebble across my skin from the intensity of his stare. “Same.”
One word, barely above a whisper.
A stark contrast to our playful laughter moments ago.
“Do you…maybe…want to come back to my hotel room?”
Oh god. I can’t believe I actually said that out loud. Since when do I do this? Since when do I risk rejection instead of hiding behind silence? Instantly, I wish I could rewind to ten seconds ago and swallow the question, but the braver part of me is already blushing, waiting to see what he says.
“Yes.”
One word to make me completely unravel. Heat rushes to my neck and my pulse sky rockets like it doesn’t know what to do now. He stands from his barstool, extending his hand to me. I take it and feel the heat of his palm in mine all the way to my core.
I remind myself that this is just one night.
One night to let myself go and forget about tomorrow.
One night without rehearsing who I need to be or thinking about how I’ll need to prove that I deserve this show.
One night with a stranger that I won’t ever see again.
“Lead the way, Scottie.”