Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 104288 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104288 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Abel runs a hand over his scruff. “Who?”
“Don’t play dumb with me.”
“Quit, y’all,” Tuck says, that warning tone in his voice again. “Maren, let’s go. We’ll do the flowers or whatever.”
I follow Tuck into the kitchen. There are even more people in here, most of them gathered around an island covered in coffee-cups and boxes of donuts. I watch, pulse thrumming, as Tuck greets each and every person, stopping to ask about Brad’s mom, Mrs. Underwood’s daughters, and the status of Janet’s multiple sclerosis diagnosis. He gets hugs in return. It’s obvious he’s a well-respected member of the community here.
It’s also obvious everyone has a crush on him. Men and women. Even the eight-year-old girl he waves to blushes.
“Hi, Tuck,” she says shyly.
He smiles. “Hi, Ana. I heard you’re doing great with your new puppy.”
“He’s cute, yeah. We named him Pete.”
“Be sure to help your mama out and walk Pete every day, okay?”
“Okay.”
Seriously, could he get any cuter?
Could Tuck be any sweeter or more thoughtful or more unlike the grumpy robot who met me at the door that first day at his house?
Everyone asks about Katie, which Tuck uses as a pivot to introduce me.
“This turnout is incredible,” I say, feeling warm and fuzzy from the excess of friendliness in the room. Tuck’s included. “Is the whole town here, or—”
“The whole town, yes.” A pretty older woman with shoulder-length blonde hair smiles at me. “Harbour Village is a special place. I’m Marianne, by the way, Coop and Goldie’s wedding planner.”
“Oh! Great. We’re supposed to find you and help with flowers.”
She drops an enormous jumble of shimmery material in Tuck’s arms. “Do y’all actually mind helping to hang this? I was thinking it could go in the living room, where the ceremony will be. There’s a ladder right over there if you need it, and my guys have already installed some hooks in the walls and ceiling.”
I look at Tuck. Tuck looks back.
“We’re on it,” I say.
Tuck looks skeptical. “We are?”
“I’m not afraid of heights. Are you?”
His lips twitch. “I’m not, no.”
“Marianne, consider it done.”
We head for the living room, which is a huge, soaring space just off the kitchen. Two stories of windows overlook the Cape Fear River, which is currently a grey expanse of restless waves whipped into a frenzy by the wind.
I climb two rungs up on the ladder, looking for those hooks Marianne was talking about.
“Stop.” Tuck shakes his head. “I climb. You direct.”
I give him a look. “I’m an acrobat. Literally. I’ll be fine.”
That muscle in his jaw tics. “On the ground, Maren. Now.”
Because I can’t resist busting his chops, I climb one rung higher and nod at the material he’s holding. “Hand it over.”
“Don’t think I won’t come up there and get you. Down. Now. Or I’m sending you back home. If you fall—”
“I won’t.”
Next thing I know he’s shoving the material underneath one arm and reaching for me with the other. He grabs my calf. I’m not high enough off the ground to fall, so I try to pull away from him, laughter fizzing inside my chest.
He just firms his grip on my bare leg. Electricity streaks through me at the contact.
“Stop,” he says, but he’s laughing too.
Our eyes meet and there it is again—that exchange of high-voltage energy. We’re exactly on the same wavelength, our bodies saying exactly the same thing.
More.
But I feel the people around us watching. Last thing I want to do is create a scene. Plus, we really do need to get some work done. I feel bad for the couple-to-be. Tuck and his friends are going to have to pull off a legitimate miracle to make this place look decent, much less spectacular.
“Fine.” I jump down, landing easily on my feet.
Tuck gives me a dark look, but his eyes are dancing. “Try that again and see what happens.” He holds out the material. “Hold this.”
An hour later, we’ve actually made some progress. I direct and Tuck hangs, creating long, elegant swags of fabric that crisscross the room.
“That one is still way too tight.” I stand at the bottom of the ladder and point to the swag Tuck is working on. He curses, wiping his forehead on his sleeve. “Seriously, Tuck, let me do it.”
“No fuckin’ way you’re getting on a twenty-foot ladder. I got it.” But when he glances down at me, his grip on the organza slips, and it slumps to the floor.
I grab it. “You know, if you’d let me—”
“No.” He tugs on the other end, looping it on a nearby hook. “Tell me how it looks now.”
“Like shit.”
“Jesus Christ, Maren, could you give me some guidance that’s helpful for once?”
I feel laughter bubbling up inside me again. Putting my hands on my hips, I tilt my head. “I am trying to help, but you won’t let me.”