And just like that, my stomach drops. Dark roads. Rain hammering down. Shit visibility. Goddammit. I should have driven the boys tonight. Lucas is still a new driver, and… The thought cuts off sharply when my phone pings. I snatch it up, heart already hammering in my chest, and the second I see the screen, I’m halfway to the door before I even read the message.
It’s from Lucas.
Emergency.
Everything else—the bar, the beer, the noise—disappears in a heartbeat.
I don’t even think. I move. Fast.
16
Maria
Declan is charming, with his easy smile and warm eyes. He’s the kind of handsome that doesn’t try too hard. As I sit across from him on our double date with Maeve and Tanner, listening to him spin a story about his last writing conference—complete with exaggerated voices and flailing hands—I should be all in.
Heck, I want to be all in.
But instead, there’s this quiet, persistent thought threading through everything he says.
He’s not Tuck.
Stop it, girl. Don’t do that.
I drag in a slow breath, forcing my shoulders to loosen, forcing my attention back to the man in front of me. This—this—is what I said I wanted. Someone steady. Someone grown up. Someone who isn’t going to disappear the second things get complicated.
Someone who doesn’t look at me like I’m just a moment. Someone who sees the kids, the chaos, the responsibility, and stays. Not someone chasing the next hook-up. Even if those hook-ups are…epic.
Nope. Not going there.
I blink hard, like I can physically reset my brain, and lift my wine glass, letting the cool rim press against my lips as Declan throws his arms up dramatically.
“—and then all the books just toppled over,” he says, eyes wide, like he’s reliving the horror in real time.
I laugh with the rest of them. Around us, the restaurant hums, low conversation, clinking cutlery, a burst of laughter from a nearby table. Candlelight flickers between us, catching in the deep red of my wine, in the soft gold of Maeve’s hair.
Declan’s gaze lands on me again. “What do you like to read, Maria?”
“I used to belong to a book club,” I say, turning toward Maeve, grateful that she’s here with me tonight. “But now, with classes…” I huff out a small laugh. “I barely have time to read for pleasure.”
“Book club was tonight, actually,” Maeve adds, and guilt pricks at me. I open my mouth to apologize for dragging her here, for making her choose me over something she loves, but she squeezes my hand before I can get the words out.
“I didn’t even finish the book,” she says easily. “So honestly, I’m happy to be here.”
“What kind of books do you read at book club?” Declan asks, leaning forward slightly, like he’s genuinely curious.
“Romance,” I say, bracing myself. I wait for it, that flicker of amusement, the polite nod, the subtle dismissal. I’ve seen it enough times to recognize the pattern. Romance is fluff. Romance isn’t real writing. Romance is?—
“I just finished a male/male hockey romance,” he says, completely unfazed.
My brain stutters. “What?”
He grins, like he enjoys surprising me. “It was actually really good. The author is from Nova Scotia.”
My jaw drops before I can stop it. “Tuck is from Nova Scotia,” I blurt out.
The second the name leaves my mouth, I want to grab it out of the air and shove it back in. Every head at the table turns toward me. Heat floods my cheeks as I drop my gaze to my napkin, suddenly very interested in the way the fabric folds between my fingers. “I just mean, maybe he knows her,” I add quickly.
God, girl. You are on a date. Do not talk about Tuck.
