Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
HAZEL
Three mornings later, I woke up with my heart pounding and my pillow damp, like my subconscious had decided to throw a sold-out showing of my greatest hits.
My breath came in shallow gasps, and my chest felt like I’d run a mile in my sleep. Sweat slicked the back of my neck.
I hadn’t had that dream in years, and the ache felt brand-new.
It had been so vivid, I could still hear the hum of my old car’s engine and the slicing wind through the windows as I drove away from everything I’d ever known, including Tucker.
Because he hadn’t shown.
And I’d waited.
God, I’d waited.
That night, eighteen and shaking, I was ready to tell him everything—about losing track of my period and then not realizing I’d skipped one until I’d actually skipped two… Then the pregnancy tests, the doctor’s visit, the ultrasound.
I’d kept the blurry printout, tucked deep inside an old book I hadn’t opened in a decade.
I’d been so scared. I didn’t want to leave unless he was with me.
But he hadn’t come.
No call, no explanation. Just…nothing. So I did what hurt girls did best—I ran.
And a few weeks later, I’d lost the baby.
Now, twelve years later, I still hadn’t told him—not about the pregnancy or the miscarriage.
I hadn’t told anyone. And sometimes, I still dreamed about the shape of a life that had never gotten the chance to exist.
I stared at the van’s ceiling, blinking against the soft glow of morning. A part of me still wanted to blame him for not showing up, for shattering my carefully laid plans. But in the quiet, uncomfortable place I usually buried under sarcasm or doughnuts, I knew the truth.
Tucker never did anything without a good reason.
I’d just never given him the chance to explain.
I sighed and flopped my arm over my eyes. “Years of therapy, and you’re still the reigning queen of emotional constipation.”
I needed caffeine and maybe a maple bar. And definitely a plan for how the hell to finally come clean and tell Tucker the truth.
The truth that could blow everything up.
I sat up and took in my day’s forecast: slightly exhausted with a 100 percent chance of scattered sarcastic comments throughout the afternoon.
“Mew.”
Her Fluffiness, of course. Like clockwork, she came by every day for her snuggles.
And tuna. Okay, maybe the snuggles weren’t just for her, but at this point, she and I were in a full-blown situationship.
She was my most consistent source of physical affection.
Even my shower massager was starting to feel taken for granted.
Yawning, I got out of bed and gathered my stuff to head into dad’s house and shower.
But I must’ve taken too long, because when I slid open the van door, the cat was already waiting for me on the sidewalk like she owned it, fluffy tail twitching, judgment radiating off her tiny, murderous body, retired-librarian-with-a-grudge vibes.
And honestly? Same.
“Good morning,” I said. “Do we have a problem?”
Her eyes narrowed.
Translation: You know what you did. Feed me.
I bent to give her some love and spotted the note.
If you’re reading this, you’ve clearly ignored all warnings and fed me. I live with you now. Best of luck.
Oh no, he didn’t. It was like the man wanted to get himself throat punched before breakfast.
I jammed my feet into sneakers, scooped her royal pain-in-the-buttness up, and marched across the dewy grass toward Tucker’s. I didn’t even get a satisfying knock in before the door swung open, stealing my thunder and half my vocabulary.
Tucker stood there, all sleepily mussed, barefoot and shirtless, wearing low-slung sweats that should be illegal. He had a pillow crease high on his left cheek, and his voice was morning rough, not to mention way too sexy. “You bribe her with food. Whatever she did, it’s on you, not me.”
I scowled as my brain struggled to reboot from the sight of him. He was all hard lines and sleek skin. And muscles. Lots of muscles.
He raised a brow. “Problem?”
Hell, yes, there was a problem. And it was him. Sir Sexiness, loyal knight to Her Fluffiness. “Just wondering what kind of midlife crisis leads a man to write passive-aggressive cat notes.”
He grinned.
I crossed my arms. “What?”
“You’re flustered,” he said.
“I’m not flustered! Take that back.” I was absolutely flustered. “And if you don’t want people feeding your cat—because name me one human who can resist her pathetic cry—then keep her on your damn side of the fence!”
Still looking amused, he stepped aside. “I wrote that note last night. Sorry she keeps bugging you, but hell if she listens to me.” He gestured that I was welcome to come inside.
I tried not to stare at him as I did. Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t—damn. His body was carved from a daydream. He had a lot of nerve still looking so fit that it made me want to lick him like a lollipop.
I caught sight of a slashing scar low on his belly from the emergency appendectomy he’d had in our freshmen year.
The scar on his chin was slightly more recent, from a Colburn-sibling scuffle sophomore year.
But there was a new scar on his right pec that I didn’t have a story for but refused to ask—
“You could take a picture. It’d last longer.”
It took me an embarrassingly long time to find my words. “Shut up.” I marched past him. I tried not to look. Really. But the man was a walking temptation wrapped in bad decisions, so I definitely took another peek.
Or a hundred.
Hey, it was natural curiosity. Scientific research. Hormones. Whatever.
I took in the interior of the house. While my dad’s drowned me in memories, this one didn’t.
Given the challenges Tucker had growing up here, we’d spent almost zero time at his place; mostly I’d run wild with the Colburn siblings outside, through the oak-dotted green hills, along the river, and through the high rocky bluffs leading to the Pacific coastline.
I’d never spent time inside these walls. Not really. Not like this.
Twelve years ago, this place had been a typical ranch-style home, smallish, run-down. Tucker had completely renovated; it was warm and sun drenched, all farmhouse charm with wide wood-framed windows, shiplap walls, and creaky honey-colored floors that made you want to stay a little too long.
It smelled like sawdust and coffee.
Like comfort.
Like home.
But suddenly I needed a minute. Maybe more than just one. I walked through the living room and straight out the back door.
Whoever had lived here previous to the Colburns had built a tree house at the very back of the property, completely hidden by the woods. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d never see it. I headed that way, wondering if it was still there.
“What are you doing?” Tucker’s voice came from behind me. He’d shoved his feet into battered athletic shoes. Hadn’t grabbed a shirt.
“Go back to whatever you were doing,” I said.
“I was sleeping.”
The thought of him in his bed, that big body all warm and hard—“Go back to sleep then.”
“And miss the fun?”
A few minutes later, we stood deep in the middle of the woods, where the sunlight barely made it through the canopy. We were cocooned by two-hundred-foot-tall trees and silence. It was like time had folded back on itself. To when it’d been just me and him.
“Seriously,” Tucker said. “What are we doing out here?”
I pointed upward. “I can see the rope ladder we used to use, but it’s caught up too high to reach. Give me a boost.”
“You never even used that rope ladder. You used to shimmy up that tree all by yourself—”
“Yeah, and I used to eat Hot Cheetos for breakfast. People evolve.”
“You still eat Hot Cheetos for breakfast. I’ve seen the family-sized bag in the front seat of your van.”
I turned to face him and caught him checking out my ass.
Unapologetic, he let his gaze peruse and caress its way to my face, taking his sweet time about it too.
That’s when I remembered I was in a thin sleep tee that fell to mid-thigh, boy-cut undies beneath.
No bra. My body reacted predictably. I hated how easy it was to want him. Hated how familiar it felt.
His eyes heated. “You look like a woman who gets what she wants.”
I reached for the branch above and missed by a couple of inches. So I jumped.
He smiled like he couldn’t help it before grabbing my hips, lifting me like I weighed nothing.
And just like that, my body reacted. His hands were steady, warm, and they lingered a half second longer than strictly necessary before I caught a hold of the branch with a secret thrill I refused to acknowledge.
“You’re going to hurt your back,” I said, heart hammering.
He snorted. “Just how old do you think I am?”
“Older than me.” By three months, but still… “Don’t look up my shirt.”
“Why, afraid I’ll see your undies?”
“You assume I’m wearing any,” I said and had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes darken and his Adam’s apple bob. Hiding my grin, I shimmied my way up.
“Fuck, that’s hotter than it should be,” Tucker muttered below me. “And you’re wearing light-blue skintight thin-as-fuck booty shorts.”
“That’s alarmingly specific,” I said.
“God-given talent.”
With a breathless laugh, I bypassed the rope ladder and scrambled onto the platform. The wood creaked beneath my feet in greeting, that familiar mix of pine, dust, and sun-warmed wood hitting me like a ghost of my teenage self.
A self who was currently pretending my body wasn’t still lit up like a Christmas tree from Tucker’s touch.
He was only a few seconds behind me, climbing much more easily than I had, landing beside me with a soft grunt.
The tree house was exactly how I remembered: plywood walls, a makeshift bench against the far wall, a cutout in the plywood above for night viewing—a requirement for a tree house—and last but not least, a metal box we’d found years ago in my dad’s garage and then filled with snacks and various treasures.
Like the roll of wire we’d strung between our houses.
And a flashlight, its batteries long dead and corroded.