Heading determinedly for the drawers underneath the low cabinet that held the television, she eased the bottom one open and delved inside for the batteries. Grabbing two of the large ones she knew fit the flashlight, she pushed the drawer shut quietly, straightened, and turned, her gaze snagging on Tucker once more.

She couldn’t help herself. Tucker Daniels was hotter than Arlo’s beef chili recipe. So distracted was she, a sudden clap of thunder scared the bejesus out of her, and the batteries slipped from her fingers, landing with a thud on the polished floorboards. In the quiet of the night, they were as loud as gunshots.

Tucker sat bolt upright. “Della?”

Had she not been mortified, Della would have truly appreciated the way his abs hardened.

“Are you okay?” he asked, shoving a hand through his hair.

Man…that hair shove was sexy, long fingers slicing into the shaggy locks. Jesus—she had this baaad.

He looked around as if he’d lost something. “What’s the time?”

“Two thirty,” she said, her throat suddenly parched as his muscles flexed for her enjoyment.

No. Not for her enjoyment. Get a grip, woman.

“Is it the storm? Is the thunder frightening you?”

Della remembered he’d said something earlier about Arlo telling him she was frightened of storms. It wasn’t true, but she suspected, with the power outages, Arlo had told Tucker that to cover for the truth because he knew she was embarrassed about needing a light on to sleep.

“No, it’s fine,” she assured. “I just…” Della sunk to the floor and picked up the batteries near her feet. “My flashlight needs batteries.”

“Oh.” He frowned, sliding his palms behind him and leaning back on his outstretched arms, his elbows locked. “Okay.”

He didn’t look convinced that she was awake at two thirty in the morning purely to scavenge for batteries. Right now, with his abs on full glorious display, she wasn’t, either. Swallowing nervously, she said, “Arlo texted a little while ago. He should be home in half an hour or so.”

“Good.”

She lifted her eyes to his, and even in the night she could feel the warm whiskey pull of them. Feel it in her thighs and her breasts. Feel it in the itch of her blood and the ache in her throat.

“Can you toss me my shirt? It should be dry by now.”

Some part of Della recognized that as a smart move—a move a guy with a keen sense of propriety would make—but mostly she thought it was a tragedy to cover up such perfection. Regardless, she responded automatically to his request, plucking up his Henley. She did not, however, toss it to him. That itch in her blood had her walking it over, stopping only when her legs met the frame of the futon, passing it directly.