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I tapped Tucker’s name and typed out my message, then sent it before I could overthink it.
Me:Why do I have your number in my phone?
That was innocuous enough. Didn’t mention our hookup, didn’t tell him how much I’d thought about it, didn’t ask him the same.
I frowned at the quick reply.
Tucker:Who dis? Plenty of people have my number.
Because I was an egotistical bastard, it aggravated me to no end that Tucker didn’t know immediately who was texting him.
Me:I’m sure they do.
Tucker:Laura?
Me:No.
Tucker:Shit. Melinda?
Me:No.
Tucker:Sarah.
Me:No.
I drank another swallow of beer. This was entertaining. I wondered how many names he could get through before one or both of us got bored of the game.
Tucker:Jake.
What the hell? Who the fuck was Jake?
Fuck this game. The entertainment had been short-lived and quickly replaced by the feral ache of frustration mingled with desire. I tossed my phone aside only to pick it up again when it chimed twice in quick succession.
Tucker:What’s up, Whitt?
Tucker:Think I can’t use google to reverse lookup a number, you dumbass?
Shit. I hadn’t thought of that. Definitely drunk.
Me:My number isn’t public in any way. My agent made sure of that.
Tucker:No shit, which makes it easy to figure out it’s you.
Me:You didn’t answer my first question.
Tucker:No clue. Are you in Florida?
Me:Yeah.
Tucker:With your family?
Me:Nah. They’re not getting in until tomorrow. It’s just me, a fire, some whiskey, and a stupid tall Christmas tree that I switched to the rainbow lights. I hate white lights.
Tucker:Are you drunk?
Me:No, I’m just sharing my light preference. The colorful ones are more festive.
Tucker:You’re drunk.
