Della’s ex had guarded her like a junkyard dog. Like she was property. She wanted a man who treated her like she was number one on his to-do list.

Which is why she was joining Tinder.

She needed to cast a broader net, and going to Denver every other week for her shrink sessions gave her the perfect opportunity. There were plenty of men in Denver, so Tinder made sense. Because one thing was for sure, she wasn’t going to find anyone here in Credence. Thanks to Arlo—said overprotective brother—who also just so happened to be the local police chief, nobody in this town, where men dramatically outnumbered women, was looking in her direction.

In Credence, Colorado, her hymen, it seemed, was holy.

Arlo brought her to Credence because she’d been lost and hadn’t known where to go, who to turn to, or who to trust. She’d had no money, no family or even friends to speak of. She’d had nothing but the clothes on her back. She’d been scared and alone, and she’d wanted as far away from her old life as possible.

But three years later, things were so much better. She was so much better. Thanks to therapy, she’d come a long way. Was it so wrong to want to lead a normal life?

Pushing open the heavy doors to The Lumberjack—or Jack’s, as it was known around town—Della took a moment to let the warmth seep into her bones. It might be bright sunshine out there, but they were having a bitterly cold February in eastern Colorado.

Shutting her eyes, she let the familiar glow of neon and that wonderfully beery smell she’d come to associate with Jack’s envelop her like a great bit ol’hug. Every bit of her was cold, but this place felt like a hot tub on the ski slopes.

On a satisfied sigh, she opened her eyes, only to meet the whiskey-gold depths of Tucker Daniels’s gaze taking her to another place entirely.

To the jungle. To the equator. To the center of a volcano.

To hometown hero and ex–Bronco quarterback Wade Carter’s wedding a few months ago, when Tucker had been in a dark suit and tie and so damn…she didn’t even know what…everything, and she’d been thinking about Tinder ever since.

He was behind the bar, as usual, and for a few beats suspended in time, their eyes locked. Tucker Daniels was a looker, there was no denying. He was tall and broad and built. Not in a gym-junkie way or in the lean athleticism of a runner. The kind of build that comes with big bones, a large frame, and lugging around kegs of beer. Solid slabs of muscles packed in around arms and thighs and the scaffolding of his torso.

More lumberjack—appropriate, really—than Mr. Universe.