Chapter 16
IT WASN’T NOTHING.
Scottie
Standing in the bathroom with my palms bracing the edge of the sink, I stare at my reflection like the mirror might give me an answer I don’t already know. I didn’t even realize I was smiling until my cheeks started to ache. It’s as if my body is still convinced I was kissed even though I wasn’t.
It’s stupid. It’s reckless.
It’s not what I’m supposed to be here for.
Andrea yelling “cut” still rings in my head like a warning bell.
The moment the words rang through the air he didn’t pull away or drop his hands. He stood there, touching me, and close enough that my breath hit his mouth, and I felt him inhale like he was starving.
I panicked and ran.
Now I’m here, in his apartment over the garage, trying to convince my heart rate to return to a normal pace. It’s been almost two hours since that moment and it still hasn’t slowed. Of course it hasn’t, because this is Tucker.
I’ve already convinced myself he’s over it. He’s probably working his shift at the bar right now laughing with the patrons and rolling his eyes at the dramatic influencer who bolted the moment things felt a little too real.
Maybe he’s relieved.
I drag my hands down my face before reaching for the washcloth to wash the mess of the day off. I should probably eat something. I should do anything other than stand here re-living the exact moment his thumb brushed the corner of my mouth like he already knew what it tasted like.
Groaning to myself, I scrub my face enough that it’s red.
As soon as I’m done, my phone buzzes on the bathroom counter. The name on the screen makes my stomach drop so hard it feels like it hit the tile. The universe never fails to remind me that peace is only temporary.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, answering the phone reluctantly.
“Scottlyn,” she says, her voice sharp like she’s already annoyed with me for simply existing. “Is this a good time?”
I want to say no.
It’s never a good time when you call.
“Yes,” I say instead, because the truth is a luxury I don’t get with my mom. “Yeah, it’s fine.”
“Your father and I were just discussing the project. I haven’t seen much content posted from you. Is the production behind?”
I step out of the bathroom and into the small living space, pacing automatically like movement might drain the anxiety out of me. “I’ve been very busy with the house and filming,” I say carefully. “But we did have some minor delays with the weather.”
It’s not a lie. My social media accounts have taken a backseat during this project.
Not to mention, I can’t share too much online until the show airs on TV.
They gave me the go-ahead to share very little behind the scenes, but I can’t share videos or things of me renovating the house yet.
I’ve focused on just sharing pictures here and there to keep the account alive.
“And how is that going?” she asks. “Are they showcasing the right things? This is very important for your image.”
My image.
The version of me my mom can quietly measure against my cousin. Against what she thinks a successful life is supposed to look like. The version that makes me…enough in her eyes.
“I know.” I sigh, but keep my voice as bright as possible.
“Hmm,” my mom hums, unconvinced. “So, how is the house coming along anyway? It’s going to be a success when all is said and done, right?”
And there it is.
Not how are you? Or are you okay?
It’s the same question she always asks dressed up in different words: Are you succeeding in a way that reflects well on us?
“It’s going really good,” I lie smoothly. “We’re even ahead of schedule.”
“I knew she could do it,” I hear my father in the background, making my gut churn.
If there’s anyone I don’t want to disappoint with this, it’s him.
As much as I tend to resent how easily he believes in me the way my mom never could, it also means I carry that belief around like something fragile. Like it’s mine to protect.
“That’s great, honey,” my mother says. “I just worry this is a lot for you. You know that failure isn’t an option here. Not with the world watching you.”
My fingers grip my phone so tight that I almost snap it in half.
“I got this,” I say, forcing a laugh to ease the tension. “Everything is going fine.”
I allow my mom to talk for another minute about timelines. She tells me how I need to make sure I stay polished and to keep my posture during filming until my head feels like it’s filled with cotton and my throat aches from holding in everything I want to scream.
“Okay, I have to go,” I finally say. “We’re starting early in the living room in a few days.”
“Don’t stay up too late, honey. You’ll get dark circles under your eyes.”
“Okay.”
Then I end the call before I can hear another word.
Tossing my phone on the couch, I fall back onto it and feel the tremble in my hands.
No matter how far away I go, I still feel like I’m standing in their living room after graduation and being told to apply for corporate jobs because it’s my only option.
Being told to be more like my cousin who has a better career and close friends.
My eyes blur enough that I close them, fighting the burn because crying is useless.
Crying won’t change anything.
I sit up with my elbows on my thighs, pressing the heel of my palm against my eyes and breathe through the sting. The weight of the conversation and thinking about the timeline of the project sits so heavy on my mind that I feel I’m seconds from spiraling.
Then there’s a knock on my door.
Two firm raps that cut through my spiral, and I freeze. I already know who it is. I can feel him like the air changes when he’s near. Like my body clocks him before my brain does.
When I don’t move, I stare at the door, willing him to walk away.
It’s late, which means Tucker must have just gotten home from his shift at the bar. I want to hear his footsteps retreat back to his place, but they don’t. Instead he knocks again, slower this time, like he’s giving me space to choose.
I walk to the door on legs that don’t feel steady and rest my hand on the knob without opening it.
“Scottie.”
His voice is low and rough. It doesn’t sound like the playful Tucker I’ve been working with or the one who calls me babe and smirks for the camera. His voice sounds like he’s holding something back.
“Open the door,” he says. “Please.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and I press my forehead to the back of the door. “Tucker—”
“You don’t get to run away from me.”
I rear back, eyes flying open at his sharp tone. I swing the door open and come face to face with Tucker standing on the other side. He has one hand on the door frame and the other in the pocket of his jeans, resting casually.
“You were doing too much,” I snap. “Faking for the cameras or not, that can’t happen again.”
“Too much?”
“Yes. Too much.” My voice rises. “You don’t get to say things like that and touch me like that when you don’t mean it. That’s not what this is, and it’s giving me mixed signals. I can’t afford to sit and think about it for too long because we’re already behind schedule on the renovation!”
My throat burns with every word. The second the sentence leaves my mouth, my pulse is already punishing me for it, hammering in my ears. My fingers clamp harder around the edge of the door like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
Tucker doesn’t move. He stands there, clenching his jaw so tight the muscle ticks in his cheek, like I’ve slapped him instead of throwing words.
“It wasn’t nothing,” he grits out.
My stomach flips like my body heard him before my brain could catch up. Heat crawls up my neck with part embarrassment, part anger, and part something far worse.
The space between us feels…crowded. Not with bodies, but with everything we’re refusing to say.
It presses into my lungs until I have to remind myself to breathe.
His eyes are hard, but not cold. There’s something raw under the anger and it terrifies me more than if he’d smirk.
I swallow, but it doesn’t help. My mouth feels dry the longer his eyes bore into mine.
“Scottie.”
The way he says my name should be illegal.
It shouldn’t sound like a warning and a plea all at once.
“I’m fine,” I lie automatically.
“You’re not,” he says, still unmoving from where he stands. “You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you pretend you don’t feel anything.”
My fingers tighten on the door I’m still holding. My skin is too aware of everything right now. It still feels the warmth lingering where he touched me earlier.
I want to tell him I can’t handle this.
I want to tell him I can.
But my voice is lodged somewhere between my ribs and my pride.
He shifts a half step forward, barely anything, but my body reacts like it’s a full lunge. My instinct screams to close the door, lock it, and go to bed. But my feet don’t move—they can’t.
I’m quite literally frozen in place by the same stupid thing that always gets me in trouble.
Want.
“Maybe I don’t feel anything,” I snap, keeping an even composure.
His gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second, and my breath catches like I’ve just been caught stealing from the grocery store.
“Bullshit.”
Tucker fills the doorway like he was made to. Broad shoulders, dark shirt, jeans, and work boots. His hair is mussed like he’s been dragging his hands through it. And his eyes…they aren’t teasing. They’re stormy and focused on me like I’m the only thing he can see.
“Are you done?” he asks.
“Why do you even care, Tucker?”
The words hang between us.
He narrows his eyes. “Do you really want me to answer that?”
My entire body goes hot and cold at once while my chest rises too fast.
“I want you to leave,” I lie, and my voice wavers at the end.
“Then tell me to.”
I swallow hard as his gaze flicks over my face, reading me like a blueprint.