Nope…Bo Forbes seemed like a really good guy.

And Tucker really, really hated him.

But it didn’t matter how Tucker felt. Nor did it matter that he loved her. He’d been in love with Della for a long time, and it hadn’t killed him yet. There were a lot of things he’d wanted in life that he couldn’t have—that Tony Hawk skateboard being one—and that was just the way it worked.

And sometimes, love meant sacrifice. It meant putting someone else’s interests, their happiness, their future, ahead of your own.

He hadn’t realized how hard it was going to be to stay away from her, though. How entrenched visiting her every night had become. How much he enjoyed skulking down the streets from Jack’s to her place. How he counted down the hours and minutes, even looking forward to his nightly visits to Mrs. Doyle’s house to drop off her hush money—or hush pie, as was often the case.

And how antsy he became if anything delayed his departure from Jack’s. Because putting his hands on Della again after a day apart was the best feeling in the world.

And it wasn’t about sex. Sure, the sex was amazing—even more so since he’d taken his foot off the brakes and handed over the wheel to her—but his visits were about more than that.

They were about a deeper connection.

About the way her face lit up when he came through the door. The way they talked—in and out of bed—about the simple, everyday things in life, like the bees in her garden and his pickup needing new tires. The way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t watching. Her joy in her house and the way she loved Jolene and adored Betty.

Put simply, seeing her every night was like refilling his well. Della filled his well.

Which meant he’d been a prize idiot to not realize he was in love with her a long time ago, because the truth was, she’d been refilling his well for a long time. Since those early days, sitting at his bar. He’d looked forward to her coming every night, to the fragile connection they’d forged through brief, stilted conversations and piña coladas.

And now here they were. Ex-lovers.

When he’d pictured how this would end—and there’d never been any doubt in his mind it would—he’d seen a kind of mutual agreement. A happy parting of ways where they both acknowledged it was time to move on and slipped back into their friendship. Maybe they’d shake hands. Or make love one last time.

Yes. Make love, damn it.