Page 4 of How I Love You

I looked back at this Tucker Black with a wry smile. “Doesn’t count if you have to look at your notes before you answer.”

He grunted.

“Let’s try another one,” I said, making my tone as sweet as the syrup on my momma’s famous pancakes. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“I got shot.”

“You sure did, and in the butt, no less. Tough break.”

He glared at me, and I swallowed a giggle. The man looked ridiculous. He was too big for his hospital gown, too, even though most people basically swam in them. The blood pressure cuff on his arm was the extra large one reserved for the thigh of someone my size, and he was trying so hard to look tough as nails in such a vulnerable situation that I nearly reached out and pinched his cheek.

He should have terrified me. He looked like the kind of guy who, in any other setting, would make most men take a step or two back before he even opened his mouth. Worse, he might have been the one who was shot today, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he were usually the one who did the shooting.

So… why wasn’t I terrified?

Maybe it had something to do with the way he’d been smiling in that photo with the boy. I didn’t know if he was a dad or a doting uncle, but there was no mistaking the fondness in his grin. He could frown at me all day, but Mr. Big Grin was still in there somewhere, wasn’t he?

The door slid open, and I turned to find the newly engaged Officer Adam Wilson slipping into the room with a notepad in hand. Tall and solid, Adam had the kind of presence that commanded attention without trying—broad shoulders, sharp jaw, and that steady cop’s gaze that always made you feellike he was two steps ahead of you, whether you liked it or not. Considering he was the not-so-friendly neighborhood narc growing up, that meant I usually didn’t.

“Tucker Black?” he asked as he slid the door shut behind him. Then he caught sight of me, started to give me a friendly nod—like we weren’t standing over a man who’d been shot—but then did a double take, his eyebrows pulling together in that classic Adam way, like he was already trying to figure out what trouble I’d gotten into this time. The frown that followed was as predictable as it was brotherly. “Kota?”

“Adam.”

His eyes narrowed, and his lips rolled between his teeth like he was holding something in. If I had to guess, it was the kind of admonishment a big brother figure often rained down on his poor, unsuspecting little sister figure. One who was totally minding her business and staying out of trouble, mind you, regardless of what he might be thinking as he stared at me with his “cop face” on.

“Out,” Adam said without preamble, jerking his chin toward the door with that no-nonsense look that could’ve sent half the department running for cover. But he forgot who he was dealing with—I hadn’t listened to him when we were kids, and I sure wasn’t about to now.

I pouted. Yes, actually pouted. Because I may be in my late-twenties, but this guy had been bossing me around since before I was born. The way I heard it, the little boy version of the cop in front of me put his face near my momma’s belly and ordered me not to come out of there on football Sunday.

I didn’t listen to him then, either, in case you were wondering.

But then I snuck a glance at Tucker Black and found him watching me warily… almost as if he was nervous that I would stick around.

Why, though?

Well, why not? Maybe I’d overstayed my welcome. It honestly wouldn’t be the first time. I could be… a little much. Or so I’d been told.

So, instead of telling Adam where to stick his command for me to get out, I let my crossed arms fall from my chest and nodded at him. “See you at supper? Chili night.”

Adam groaned. “Again?”

“Excuse me, but if I’m gonna win this year, I need plenty of test dummies.”

“You do realize most people use family recipes handed down for generations when enterin’ to win chili cook-offs, right? They don’t do a bunch of recipe research and throw spaghetti at the wall until somethin’ sticks.”

I rolled my eyes. “How do you think those traditional recipes were invented in the first place? Besides, I’m gonna throw beans, not spaghetti, and atyou, not a wall, if you talk trash about my chili goals. Got it?”

He tapped my nose in that infuriating big-brother move, and I swatted at his hand before turning back to the patient. It looked like he’d been watching our exchange with a mixture of annoyance, amusement, and confusion. All three of those things were probably caused by the fact that we were having a friendly chit-chat while he was in a hospital bed with a bullet wound.

Real professional.

I gave him my brightest smile, holding up my hands. “Sorry. I’ll leave you in Officer Wilson’s hands so y’all can get to the bottom of this. Um, no pun intended. Feel better.”

I wasn’t sure what I expected him to do or say in response to that. Most of my usuals blessed me with a chuckle when I turned on the goofball nurse routine. But, for this guy, I suspected the slight jerk of his shoulders and lift of his chest that told me he’dhad to physically hold in a laugh was about as close as I would get.

3?/?

tucker

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