Those thoughts drove Tucker out of his pickup. They took precedence over the other thoughts that made him shift and squirm in embarrassment. His behavior had been unforgivable in Denver, but he was just going to have to locate his balls and man up like he’d done the morning after. He’d already apologized and suggested they move on. So maybe he needed to heed his own advice.

Dashing through the steady rain, he made it to the porch. His Henley and jeans, which were already damp from his run across the parking lot, were wetter now. Ignoring the chill against his skin, he knocked on the door. He had a key, but he didn’t want to scare the bejesus out of Della by just appearing in the house. If she was still awake and already frightened, it wouldn’t help.

No response. He tried again, bashing the door this time with the flat of his palm. When there was still no response, Tucker shoved his key in the lock and entered the warm house. It was dark, but there was enough ambient light for him to navigate a house that wasn’t exactly huge and that he knew like the back of his hand.

There was the living room in which he was now standing. To the left was the kitchen/dining area, to the right were two recliner chairs and a futon clustered around a coffee table with a huge television against the wall. Ahead, an archway led to a short hallway, where two bedrooms and a bathroom could be found.

It was obvious Della wasn’t out here, which meant she must be in her bedroom. Tucker hesitated. Was she okay in there or scared out of her brain? Or hell, was she just…asleep? Should he check on her, knock and ask if everything was okay, or just go fold down the futon and crash until Arlo got home?

“Della?” he called.

It wasn’t really loud—hell, his heart was pounding louder—but this way he figured it gave her options. If she heard him and she was frightened, she’d either come out or call out, and they could go from there. But if she was asleep, it probably wasn’t loud enough to disturb her slumber.

He thought he heard a noise coming from the hallway, and his pulse spiked. Was it her? Had she cried out? Called his name? His legs kicked into action before his brain had fully decided on a plan, striding through the archway and down the hall to her bedroom.

His pulse was thudding loudly through his ears as he pulled up short, noting the strip of light at the bottom of the door. Did she have a flashlight in there, or candles? Was she awake?