Page 9 of How I Love You

But all of my inner musings about his eyes and the warring emotions I found there were rudely interrupted when he snaked out an arm and looped it around my waist. In one swift move, he’d spun around, using his hulking form to shield me—and Hope, whose arm he’d grabbed as he spun—from the street.

And then, as a crack of laughter sounded from somewhere off in the distance, he seemed to realize what he’d just done.

“Really?” A male voice called from behind me. “An old truck backfired, my friend. You need me to call Doc Williams?”

Tucker winced, letting go of Hope, who eagerly stepped back.

The whole thing went down faster than a knife fight in a phone booth, but my brain sure was taking its time putting the pieces of the last few seconds together.

Maybe it was because a massive arm was still wrapped around my torso, holding me against the brick building Tucker tried to disguise with a cozy fall jacket.

Or maybe it had something to do with how he was looking at me. Once again, there was visible conflict in those autumn night eyes, but this time, amusement had nothing to do with it. There was fear—actual fear, like something only felt by people who truly had experience with the scariest things in this world.

There was relief, too, which made sense on account of the danger he’d feared was only caused by the backfiring of a truck.

But, probably most unsettling of all, there was shame. What did he have to be ashamed of? The man was shot less than twenty-four hours ago. If that were me, I would’ve been jumpy too. Especially because, in hindsight, I supposed that bang really could’ve passed for a gunshot. Both Paisley and Hope had plenty of stories about calls into the dispatch center about shots fired, only to find out it’d been a car backfiring.

Just as I opened my mouth to say something—anything to put him at ease—he released me without warning.

I stumbled back, almost falling, but then his hand shot out and steadied me by grabbing a fistful of my jacket. He released me again—gently this time—as soon as I had my feet under me.

“Thanks,” I said, brushing my hair back from my face.

“For what? A massive overreaction?”

“For puttin’ your own butt in the line of fire, savin’ mine. It’s much too cute for a bullet wound.”

His lip twitched. “There was no line of fire.”

“You didn’t know that.”

“You’ll have to forgive my jumpy friend, ladies,” the guy from before said as he strolled over, a football tucked under his arm and a grin plastered on his face. Tucker shot him a look that could’ve melted steel, but Colton just chuckled, tossing the football from one hand to the other like he didn’t have a care inthe world. “Don’t worry, I know a guy who can help him talk it out.”

Tucker shot his friend a look. “You don’t need to call Doc. I’m fine.”

“Hey, no shame in being proactive with your mental health. We gotta normalize getting help, right?”

“Cut it out, or you’re the one who’s gonna need help.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at their dry banter. But then, I noticed a much shorter version of Tucker Black ambling our way from the other side of the field. Younger, too, and that smile? I’d seen it before. This had to be that same little boy from the wallet photo, ten or so years older. I felt it in my bones.

As soon as the kid was in range, Tucker gave him a short nod—silent, but clear. A "go away" that only brothers could communicate without words.

I turned my focus back to the friend. “It’s okay. I know about his injury. I treated him at the hospital yesterday.”

Tucker cleared his throat, then scratched his beard as he peered down at me. “Did you, though?”

I laughed, rolling my eyes. “Okay, fine. I was around while he was bein’ treated. And I called it in. Which brings me to Hope.”

She gave an awkward wave from beside me.

“It was her house Mr. Bullet in the Booty was standin’ in front of when he earned his new nickname?—”

“Please don’t call me that,” Tucker grumbled.

“I think it has a nice ring,” his buddy mused.

“Were you there, too?” I asked.

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