Chapter 8
Maria
“Okay, now that I won, let me think about what I want.” I tap my chin like I’m seriously weighing my options, even though the only thing I can think about is the way his sweater stretched across his shoulders every time he leaned over the table.
Grinning, he walks toward me, and plucks the cue from my hand. His fingers brush mine—barely—but it’s enough. He sets the cue back on the rack with meticulous care.
“It better not be anything crazy,” he says, turning back to me. “Like me stripping and running up and down the street.”
I mock shiver, backing away, hands forward, as if warding off the horror of it.
But my mind betrays me instantly. The image flashes—Tuck completely bare, all that muscle and heat and strength I’ve already memorized in the dark.
My body warms despite myself, a slow liquid heat pooling low in my belly as I imagine tracing every hard line with my hands.
Taking my time. Learning him all over again.
“Tuck, I would never subject the neighbourhood to something so… so…”
“Ugly,” he supplies dryly.
I laugh, because it’s easier than admitting the truth. “Your words, not mine.”
He steps closer.
Too close.
The air shifts between us. The man cave suddenly feels smaller, the low ceiling pressing down, the faint smell of leather and laundry detergent and him wrapping around me. His chest is inches from mine. I can feel the warmth coming off his body.
My pulse kicks up. If I tilt my head up just a little—
I glance at my watch instead.
“Maybe you should show me to my room,” I say lightly, forcing my voice into something normal. “I’m sure the boys will be here any minute. Starved, no doubt.”
He doesn’t move right away.
Then he takes a small step back, and scrubs that scruff on his face. “Right.”
I follow him to the stairs, acutely aware of the heat between us. When we reach the main level, he grabs my bag. His arm brushes mine again as we start up the curved staircase, and my breath goes embarrassingly shallow.
“I think I need to get back on the treadmill,” I mutter, more to fill the silence than anything else.
He glances over his shoulder at me, one brow lifting. “Where would you find the time?”
His tone is teasing, but there’s something else under it. Something warmer.
“That’s true,” I admit. “I guess it’s a good thing I do a lot of walking at the café. But if I had to do these stairs every day.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, and the sound rolls through me. “You’d get used to it.”
“Thankfully I don’t have to.”
“Right.”
I catch something is his voice. Something I don’t recognize. Something that makes me think he’s not happy that I don’t have to get used to it.
Oh, girl, don’t make nothing into something. You two had a hook-up. Simple as that.
The upstairs is just as bare as the rest of the house. Clean walls, no art, no personality. It feels temporary. Like he hasn’t decided to fully live here yet.
He stops outside one door. “This is my room.”
My gaze flicks to the handle before I can stop myself. I picture his bed. His sheets. The way his body would look stretched out across it.
He keeps walking.
“This one has a queen bed and a dresser. You might want to take it.” He gestures across the hall. “Those two have double beds.”
I take my bag from him, careful not to let my fingers linger this time. “Thanks, Tuck. I’ll get settled and be right down to cook.”
I step into the room and move to the window. His backyard stretches wide and open behind the house, a blanket of grass waiting for winter. I can already see it with snow—a homemade skating rink like the one Tanner builds for Stella and the rest of the neighbourhood kids.
What my boys wouldn’t give for something like this? Someday though. Someday, I’ll have a house of my own. I turn back around and nearly jump.
Tuck is still standing in the doorway. He hasn’t moved. One hand braced against the frame, the other rubbing along his jaw like he’s working something out in his head.
His gaze is steady. Searching.
And I get it.
I do.
One minute we’re joking about another hook-up. The next, I’m shutting it down before it can happen. We both know how good it would be. But I can’t be selfish. I just can’t.
I swallow. “Everything okay?”
He hesitates, then nods once. “Yeah.”
“I’ll be right down,” I say.
He lingers another second. “Anything I can do to help in the kitchen?”
The kitchen.
Oh boy.
“Just unpack the food,” I answer quickly. “That will help.”
“I’m on it.”
His shoes pound down the stairs, and the sound fades into the open space below. I release a breath and unzip my bag, kneeling to tuck my things into the top drawer of the dresser.
That’s when I notice it. A photo, half-hidden against the back corner. I tug it free carefully. It’s a little boy, maybe two years old. Big dark eyes. Thick lashes. A crooked, mischievous smile that looks familiar.
Tuck.
It has to be.
My lips curve.
There’s something vulnerable about the photo. The child in it doesn’t know how the world will shape him yet. Doesn’t know about heartbreak or responsibility or the careful walls grown men build around themselves.
I hesitate.
Then, because I’m weak and curious and maybe a little too invested already, I slide open the next drawer.
More photos. Not framed. Not displayed. Just…
kept in a safe place. These must be the ones his sister sent.
Tuck is older. Awkward limbs. A hockey jersey too big for his small frame.
A girl stands beside him in several shots—bright smile, same eyes.
His sister, I assume. There’s a family photo too. Parents. Christmas morning, maybe.
They’re scattered, not organized. Which isn’t really like him, at all.
But they’re not forgotten. Just tucked away for another day.
Maybe keeping them out, displaying them on the walls where he’d see them every day pains him.
Maybe being away from family and everything he grew up with reminds him of what he’s missing.
Maybe he should think about starting new memories…a new family, here in Boston.
But maybe—probably—none of this is my damn business.
The doorbell rings downstairs, loud in the quiet house. I quickly return everything to exactly where I found it, closing the drawer gently. These are his memories. His stories. His life.
Not mine to unfold.
Voices boom as soon as the door swings open, and I pause at the bedroom door, just listening.
“Tuck, your house is so big,” Josh’s excitement carries easily up the staircase. “Marbles is going to love it here.” I realize he’s never been inside but he’s no doubt driven by it numerous times when visiting his half-sister Zoe, who lives just down the street.
Lucas’s voice follows. “Ari loves Marbles. She didn’t want me to leave. That’s what took us so long to get here.”
“It’s all good. You’re not late for anything, and Ari can visit Marbles here,” Tuck says easily.
My heart tightens. For a guy who doesn’t want kids, he’s awfully good to mine. Sure, I see him not wanting to get close, not wanting them to think he’s any kind of father figure, but when push comes to shove, he took in the kitten.
“Really? That’s awesome, dude.”
Dude.
I don’t know why but that makes me laugh.
I step into the hall and move toward the top of the stairs, peering down.
Tuck stands near the entryway, and my boys hover around him, practically vibrating.
God, they truly adore him which it makes me question this whole set-up.
But I guess it’s too late to change things now.
“His things are all here in the bag,” Tuck says.
“I wasn’t sure where you wanted to set up the scratching post or his bowls and bed.
Why don’t you two have a look around and figure it out?
” He glances around the open space. “Ash is bringing Zoe and little Grant over later, and Tanner is coming with Stella. Word’s gotten out that I adopted a cat for you two, and I think the guys all want to stop by to see it with their own eyes before they believe it. ”
As if sensing me watching, he looks up. Our eyes meet. He smiles. Something in my chest flips.
I start down the stairs. “Okay, boys. I’m going to start dinner. After you get Marbles settled, we’ll show you to your rooms. And then we go over the rules.”
But I’m pretty sure my voice is just bouncing off the bare walls because they’re already gone—laughing, calling to each other, the sound of paws skittering across hardwood as Marbles darts down the hall after them.
I step into the kitchen and find the groceries unpacked and neatly arranged across the counter. Vegetables lined up. Meat set near the sink. Pasta boxes stacked. His organization skills make me smile. I glance toward the hall.
My boys race past in a blur, arguing about where the scratching post should go. Tuck turns slightly, watching them. He doesn’t say anything. Just leans toward the sound, arms folding loosely across his chest.
And then I see it. The way he listens. The way he lets their laughter wash over him. The tiniest smile tilts his mouth, almost like he doesn’t realize it’s there. It’s unguarded. And it’s shocking. Because this is the same man who clearly doesn’t want kids. Such a contradiction.
Strong but careful. Detached but gentle. Guarded but right now…here. Present.
He looks at me, catching me watching. He blinks, shaking off whatever was going through his brain, and walks toward me.
“Okay, I can’t just stand here and watch you,” he says, rolling his shoulders. “Tell me what to do.”
I smile at that. Most men I’ve known would happily sit and let me handle it. “I need a big pan and a wooden spoon.”
“Easy.” He heads straight for the cupboards with far too much confidence for a man who clearly has no idea what he’s doing, judging by the way the doors open and close. Drawers slide. One slams shut.
I laugh. “You don’t even know where the pans are.”
He glances over his shoulder with a sheepish grin, completely unapologetic. “Fine. I eat at The Nook more than I should. But the chef there is pretty damn good.”