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So what if I come down to have breakfast later than usual so I don’t have to interact much with Tucker?

Who the fuck could blame me for needing maybe some time to get over . . . all of this.

I spend the day jumping from one mindset to the other.

On the one hand I know it’s not like it meant anything, to either of us, so I can just go back to the way things were a week ago. To when I didn’t know Tucker tasted and felt like the safest place on the planet.

But then I remember his soft eyes, the way my name sounds on his lips, and the endless patience he seems to have.

I don’t have a clue what I really think, but I do know my instincts have to be screwed still, because when he looks at me with those damn eyes of his and asks me all hopeful and dreamy if I want to head up to the gym to work out and watch game five, I say yes.

And it’s fine.

It’s fine because he doesn’t act like I embarrassed both of us last night, and all day he’s not the one who’s been all jumpy and insane.

It’s the best thing he could do and it’s frustrating, but for once in my fucking life I manage to be strong and we don’t so much as touch the whole evening.

Las Vegas wins, which means they’re now 3–2 in the series and could win in the next game in Chicago if they can get over that home-ice hump.

There are probably other humps they have to go over, but that’s the only one I’m aware of, and I don’t dare ask Tucker what other challenges they’ll face this Friday night.

I wake up Thursday morning feeling like an imbecile.

A ridiculous overthinker.

There is no way Tucker feels anything but attraction and convenience. Me running away was embarrassing, yes, and of course I acted like a weirdo all day yesterday, but thankfully I didn’t let anyone into my thoughts. My appointment with Dr. Natalie is on Saturday, and the only details I’ll go into is that I had a momentary relapse where I got scared by my own thoughts but that I got over all of it after a day.

So I walk down the stairs in time to have a lengthy breakfast with all the Barclay boys, plotting how I’m going to make a first move tonight in the gym without giving Tucker even the slightest chance to talk about my . . . lapse.

“Are you going to work so much because you’re tired of us?”

The small, insecure voice of one of the boys stops me cold on the second to last step—they never sound insecure.

Sad, yes, tired, of fucking course, but never, ever insecure.

These boys have enviable self-esteem without seeming entitled, and trust me, I’ve met entitled three-year-olds and it’s a startling experience.

It breaks my heart, especially when I can hear the same hurt in Tucker’s voice.

“Buddy, I will never, ever be tired of you, either of you, okay? I love that I get to see you every day now. I wish I could hang out with you more, but you know adults gotta work, right?”

“But mother didn’t work.” The stubborn tilt of the little voice tells me it’s probably Maddox, but the use of the word mother—so formal and detached—keeps me frozen on the staircase.

My gut is telling me that Tucker is more than capable of handling this, but I just want to make sure I can step in if necessary.

“I love you two. You’re my best friends in the whole world, my guys, you know?”

“Yeah,” one of them answers, but still sounds unsure.

“Did something happen to make you think this? Or did anyone say anything?”

“You said last night at dinner how tired you were,” one of them points out like it’s damning evidence.

For a three-year-old, I guess it is.

It makes me smile. Their minds are such undiscovered places, full of potential.

“I did,” Tucker admits. “But being tired after working all day is normal, I think. That doesn’t mean I’m tired of you.” I can’t even see him but I just know he’s smiling softly at them. “I mean hell, guys, since Sunny first came over, I feel like I barely get to see you, so there’s no way I could get tired of you.”