Page 17 of Never Say Never

“Daisy.”

He has a way of saying those two syllables like a love note.

He’s wearing a short-sleeved Outlaws polo, and his team baseball hat is pulled low on his forehead. I let my eyes roam over the tattoos on both of his arms, the ones I can see so clearly when I close my eyes.

Tucker joins the line behind me, the scent of leather and soap filling my nostrils. It’s masculine, strong. Uniquely him.

Stop it, Daisy. I remind myself that I’m still mad at him after the stunt he pulled at the dock party. And I’ve officially started my detox.

“Tuck.” I scowl before turning my back to him, taking another step forward in line.

“I know you’re mad at me. Let me buy you a coffee. Think of it as a peace offering.”

I cross my arms over my chest, giving him a view of my back. My annoyance deepens. “I’m absolutely mad at you. And I don’t need you to buy me anything.”

“If this is about the dock party, I’m not going to apologize for worrying about you.”

I clench my jaw and ignore him, praying the person in front of me would hurry along with their order.

“Fine. I’m sorry,” he says.

“Sorry for what?” I ask, wanting to hear him say it.

“Really, Dais? ‘I’m sorry’ isn’t enough?”

“No.”

“Okay, fine,” he grumbles, taking a step forward so that he’s standing right next to me, forcing me to look up at him. “I’m sorry for acting like you can’t take care of yourself.”

“And?” My voice softens just a little.

Tucker arches an eyebrow. “And I’m sorry for interfering with your love life.”

“Great. Don’t do it again.”

He gives me a small nod, and for once, Tuck actually looks remorseful. I can’t help feeling victorious; maybe I finally did get through to him this time.

“I’ll still buy you that coffee to make it up to you. What’ll it be? Your usual Americano?” he asks, throwing an arm around my shoulders and hauling me into his side. It takes an effort to peel his muscular arm from my body, but enjoying the heat of Tucker’s skin is definitely not part of my detox.

“Tall, please.” With my body now a safe distance from his, I relax a little.

“Have time to drink it here?” He waves a hand toward an empty table near the window.

“I need to get back to the clinic.”

“Come on. What would 10 minutes matter?”

“A lot.”

He gives me a disappointed look before turning his attention to the guy at the counter. After he gives him our order, we walk over to the counter to wait for our drinks.

Tucker seems noticeably stressed. He anxiously checks his phone, then scrubs a hand though his thick hair and over the back of his neck. My gaze lands again on the ink on his arms. I shouldn’t like his tattoos as much as I do. I remember sitting at family dinners, my eyes searching his forearms for his latest tat, wanting to ask him about each one.

I force myself to look away, mentally shaking the thought from my mind. I will not look at Tucker that way again. Ever.

“Busy day at the clinic?”

“Very.” In all the years I have worked there, I have never felt this overwhelmed. At one point this morning I had two phones going, a lineup of three patients waiting to be checked in and a5-year-old who had vomited on the waiting room carpet. Hazel, of course, was nowhere to be found. I’m assuming she was wherever Scott was.

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