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My attention is fixed on the tense shoulders of the man wandering around my home. He seems to be sucking all the energy out of the room as he invades.
“No one,” I whisper into the phone. “No one. I’ll call you back, honey.”
I hang up and walk over to Tucker, arms crossed.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I almost growl defensively.
“You’re a soccer fan,” he remarks, ignoring my question. He’s staring at my chest, so I tighten my arms a little more.
“You didn’t come to my house to talk about sports, did you?”
Tucker is now facing me. He eagerly rubs my towel over his face and then tosses it onto my small two-seater sofa. “Why do you think I’m here?” he asks me with a particularly intense gleam in his eye.
His tone is teasing, and I know he’s looking for me to push the boundaries, as if my anger is amusing him. I try to keep a calm tone as I say, “If you’re hoping to get laid, you’re in the wrong place. If you’re hoping to come and tell me about your little psychopathic fraternity, ditto.”
He seems to get the answer he was waiting for. He tilts his head to the side again. I can’t help but notice that his hair is now sticking up on all sides, which makes him almost irresistible. Almost.
“Look, this isn’t a shelter for stray dogs,” I say in exasperation, “so talk or get out.”
My annoyance brings a glint of amusement to his eyes.
God, give me a gun.
How can one be so attractive and so unbearable?
“As enticing as these two ideas of getting laid and talking about the next step are, I’m here for something else…partner.”
And I finally understand. “Wait, you show up at my house to talk about our damn assignment?”
“I’m sure you’re excited to work with me,” he teases.
“I’d rather soak in a bath of bleach.”
He lets out a hearty laugh. I ignore the effect that sound has on my body and turn my back on him. I walk into my small open kitchen, put my phone on the counter, and sit down on one of the two chairs at the bar.
He follows me, and his gaze is lost on my abandoned phone. “Was that your sister?” he asks.
I nod in response.
“She seems to have quite a temper,” he says with a worried look on his face.
By automatism, I ask him in turn, “Do you have a sister too?”
I see his muscles tense up as he leans against my fridge. A dark, murky glint crosses his eyes. I have the impression that he is elsewhere as he runs his hand over his chin, as if by habit. He doesn’t answer me and, I think he’s not going to when he finally says, in a broken voice, “No. No, she’s dead.”
Shit. A heavy silence settles between us, and I don’t know where to put myself anymore. I stare at him without blinking, but he doesn’t look at me. What am I supposed to say or do? I’ve never been good at comforting people. I don’t even know how to do it.
Tucker puts a neutral expression on his face, blocking out any emotion that might try to impose itself on his features. I can’t help but wonder what happened to the poor girl.
As I’m about to offer my condolences, he suddenly turns his attention to the picture hanging on my fridge: me, at age 7, with a baseball bat in my hands.
“Hey, that’s personal!” I exclaim as he laughs softly.
“Do you play baseball?”
Glad to change the subject, I answer him, “No, I…I just played when I was a kid.”
With my father. My throat closes a little. I take a long breath to get out of my memories. I need to talk about something else, right now.
