But Tucker would give anything to be able to exorcise that information from his brain, because it made him ill to his bones and so fucking furious. He’d certainly lost zero sleep when her ex had fallen down a staircase and died in a Kentucky jail where he’d been serving a sentence for the attempted murder of a Colorado state police officer—AKA Arlo—and multiple sentences for sexual violence.

Which was why Tucker was worried about the whole Tinder thing. He would support her—of course he would—because it was what she wanted, even if he had to watch her hook up with every guy in the continental United States.

That had been a revelation. Both that she was only after casual and that she never wanted to settle down again. He understood why she wanted to get herself out there. Marrying young meant she had missed out on a lot, and, yeah, she had as much right as the next woman to make up for lost time. She’d been adamant, and he totally got that. But he wondered if there were deeper reasons for her not wanting anything beyond casual. Something inside that her ex had broken that could never really be healed.

Maybe she didn’t believe herself worthy of a second chance at true love and thought that hookups were her only option.

The thought grabbed around his gut and squeezed hard. He hoped not, he really hoped not, because Tinder could be such a cesspool, full of bottom-feeders. Guys who frequently lied about their situations, deliberately embellished their bios, and had no qualms about dumping a woman who didn’t put out on the first date.

Not to mention how many douchebags sent unsolicited dick pics.

Tucker shuddered at the thought as he sliced viciously through the lemon. Which was nothing compared to how Arlo was going to react. Arlo was going to be pissed about Tinder.

“Hey man.”

Tucker turned to find Drew, one of his oldest friends, sitting at the bar, grinning at him. He raised an eyebrow when he saw the gigantic pile of cut lemons at Tucker’s elbow. “You opening a lemonade stand I don’t know about?”

Glancing at the mound, Tucker grimaced. He wasn’t going to need to cut any more until next week. “Hey.” Throwing the knife down, he wiped his hands on the short black apron tied low on his hips. “You done for the day?”

“Yep.”

“How goes it at the funeral home?”

Drew frowned. “I’m thinking of changing the name to life celebration home.”

Tucker laughed. For the last little while, Drew had been trying to modernize the terminology surrounding what he did for a living. Poor guy found it hard enough to get laid when every woman he ever met friendzoned him. Add in the burden of his occupation and, well…

Undertaker just wasn’t sexy.

“Bob Downey won’t be happy,” Tucker said.