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“What’s a cuzzie?” Katie pipes in.
“Something you’re never, ever allowed in,” Tuck replies. “Speaking of Jacuzzis, let’s not eat in public, all right, Dad? Like on the deck or, uh, whatever. Last thing I need is for one of y’all to be arrested for indecency.”
Lady sucks in her teeth. “There goes that idea.”
“Don’t worry, I got others,” Joe replies.
“I love y’all,” I say.
Lady waves her fingers at me. “Hope the two of you get toindulge in some public indecency of your own. Don’t rush home!”
Fifteen minutes later, I stare at the stunning boat that bobs in a slip by the marina’s main entrance.
The thirty-foot boat is a classic, her wooden hull gleaming in the fire-hued light of the setting sun. The front cabin is covered by a cream-colored roof, but the back of the boat is open to the crisp autumn air. An American flag flaps on her stern, where the wordsKathryn Dearare written in elegant block letters. Underneath that is the year1948.
I can’t take the cuteness. Not only does Tuck own what might be the most elegant, beautifully restored boat in the entire Harbour Village Marina, he also named that boat after his daughter.
Tuck is already onboard, setting the cooler he brought on the wood floor beside the bench that lines one side of the back deck. Then he moves to open the windows on either side of the front cabin.
“Tuck, I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s gorgeous.”
He turns his head and smiles at me, one eye screwed up against the dying sun. “Riley’s always had a thing for restoring antique boats. Rubbed off on me, I guess. GotKathryn Dearas soon as the real Kathryn Dear learned how to swim.” He straightens and holds out a hand. “Welcome aboard.”
I’m staring again, only this time I’m staring at my boyfriend. Dressed in a green sweater and khaki shorts, the breeze lifting his dirty blond hair off his forehead, Tuck looks so hot—so handsome—so handsomehotI can’t breathe. He’s barefoot. He’s pushed the sleeves of his sweater up to his elbows, the sight of his huge, muscled forearms alone a verypotent kind of foreplay. The light catches on the furry hair that covers them.
And the boat he’s on—the one where we’re about to have our first date—it looks like something George and Amal would use to canoodle around Lake Como.
Is this real life?
I can’t shake the idea that I don’t deserve a date like this with a man likethat. I don’t deserve to be here, period. I did what my high school teachers warned me never to do: I got pregnant, no career to speak of, no ring on my finger. I still don’t know how I’m going to tell my parents.
I feel like I should be punished. Instead, I’m being treated to an incredible evening by an even more incredible man.
This is not how I was taught life works. I made a bad choice, so bad things should happen. Only...
What if sleeping with Tuck wasn’t a bad choice? What if it leads to something incredible? Yes, that decision is going to change my life forever. But maybe it’ll change it for the better.
Maybe this is where I’m meant to be.
Considering how lost I’ve felt over the past few months, that’s a refreshing change of perspective.
I take Tuck’s hand, electricity zipping up my arm from the place where skin meets skin. His hand moves to the back of my neck, and he stays close as he guides me to the bench in front of the steering wheel, our legs brushing. He arcs his thumb over the tattoo on my nape. For a split second I close my eyes and revel in the sensation of his touch. There’s a new ease to it. A casualness, a comfort, like we’ve been at this for years instead of days.
“What would you like to drink?” he asks. “I got ginger ale, Coke, sparkling water...”
My heart swoons at his thoughtfulness. It’s not exactly sexy, drinking ginger ale on a first date. But you wouldn’t know it by the way Tuck looks at me from underneath his eyebrows. His eyes are hot. Playful. Eager.
“Ginger ale would be great.” I slip off my shoes and place them beside his on the floor.
A beat later, Tuck is dropping two cans of ginger ale intoDixon Carts & Morecoozies and handing one to me.
“You can drink, you know. Actual alcohol.” I take the can. “Don’t let me stop you.”
Sipping, Tuck shakes his head. “I ain’t letting you drink ginger ale alone. Plus, I’m driving. Speaking of, we should get going if we want to catch the best views. You ready, Tiny?”
The nickname. The eyes. The ginger ale and the boat and the forearms?—
Yeah, I’m hit by a craving that’s far too big to be contained inside my body. It presses against my sides, my stomach, the back of my throat, searching for somewhere, anywhere, to go.
