Page 41 of Tango
Tucker presses a button then turns to face me. “I jumped out of a plane at the wrong time.”
“I’m sorry—you what?”
He grins, and my stomach does that ridiculous little flip it does whenever I see his dimples. “We were training, and I was supposed to be dropping into Salzburg. The coordinates were off, though, so I missed the jump and ended up in Munich.”
“I cannot even begin to understand one’s desire to jump out of a perfectly working plane.”
He chuckles. “It’s a skillset I hope to never have to use again. How about you? Aside from speaking German—anything random you like to do?”
“I’m an excellent yarnist.”
“Yarnist?”
I laugh. “Crochet. I love to crochet.”
“Crochet? As in a hook and yarn?” He snaps his fingers. “I get it now, yarnist. Cute.”
“It was something my mom taught me when I had trouble sleeping. The movements soothed my nerves. After that, it just kind of became habit. While I was waiting for a program to run or watching a video, I’d crochet. There was one year I made an obscene number of beanies.”
Tucker laughs, and my own smile spreads. “That’s amazing.”
“Maybe when all of this is done, I’ll make you a beanie as a thank you for clearing my good name.”
“Maybe.” His smile falls just a bit, as though he didn’t want to be reminded that we’re only together because of a false murder charge. The coffeepot beeps, so he retrieves two mugs and sets them down on the counter before filling them up. “Do you take anything in yours?”
“Milk and honey if you have it.”
“Honey?”
“Don’t come at me, mayonnaise and ketchup.”
“Hey, you said it was delicious.” He hands me a glass jar with amber honey.
“Doesn’t mean it’s not weird.” I lift the wooden lid, which has a honey stick attached, then drizzle it into my coffee before mixing it up. “This looks delicious. And incredibly fancy. Mine typically comes in a plastic bear.”
He chuckles. “It’s from our bees.”
I offer him the jar. “Your bees?”
He nods. “We have twenty-two hives here on the property.”
“You are living the dream, Tucker, do you know that?” After putting some milk into my coffee, I offer him back the gallon. “Is that from your cows too?”
Tucker snorts. “No. It’s from the dairy farm on the other side of town. We do grow our own vegetables, and all the meat we eat is raised here on the ranch.”
I continue staring at him. Not because I doubt what he’s saying but because I have apparently stumbled into my dream life. My parents and I always talked about how badly I wanted to leave the city and homestead. They, unfortunately, don’t share the same fascination with country living as I do, but that never stopped them from sending me the occasional real estate listing for land in California.
Land that was way out of my price range, of course.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing. It’s just like I said; you’re living the dream.” I take a sip of my coffee, savoring the honey-and-milk-flavored caffeine jolt as it dances on my tongue. “This is delicious.”
He eyes my mug and the container of honey on the counter. “Okay. Fine. You tried mine, I’ll try yours.” He sets his mug down, adds some honey to it, then retrieves the milk from the refrigerator. As he adds it to his mug and stirs, I slip the gallon back into the fridge, then stand there, waiting for him to try it.
He eyes it in what is probably the same way I eyed the mixture at the café earlier. Then he takes a drink. A few seconds pass with his expression unreadable. “That is really sweet.”
I laugh. “You can add less honey next time. But it’s good, isn’t it?”
