Arlo glanced at Drew. “Did he just accuse the chief of po-lice of cheating at poker?” he asked mildly.

Drew, who was sucking on a toothpick, responded just as mildly. “I believe he did.”

Tucker rolled his eyes. “What? You going to throw me in jail for telling the truth?”

“Nah. I’m thinking…” He quirked an eyebrow at Drew. “Shoving his head down the john?”

“It’d sure help him get it out of his ass,” Drew drawled.

Arlo and Drew laughed. Tucker flipped them the bird. “Fuck you both.”

“What bug crawled up your butt tonight?” Arlo asked when he finally stopped laughing.

“I’m fine. Jesus. Can I just have five fucking cards, please?”

The evening didn’t really get any better. Arlo and Drew delighted in Tucker’s losses as they slowly sent him bankrupt. Not that he cared much or that his mind was even on the game. His thoughts kept drifting to Della and Bo’s date. Had she enjoyed it? Was it a success? Was it over yet, or were they going to party on at Jack’s until close? Had she taken him back to her place for some coffee? Would she?

Would he try and kiss her? Hell, why wouldn’t he try and kiss her? And who was he fucking kidding? She’d probably made the first move. He wasn’t messing around when he said she was an A-plus student. Della had gotten bold.

That thought made him burn his finger on the tray of garlic bread he’d just removed from the oven, and he dropped it. The bread landed butter side down—of course. “Shit.” He kicked the nearest cupboard door out of pure frustration and watched in dismay as it fell off, landing on the floor on top of the garlic-bread mess.

God fucking damn it.

Arlo and Drew swaggered unhurriedly into the kitchen with their bottles of Bud. Leaning their asses against the closest countertop, they surveyed the damage. “What’d the door ever do to you?” Arlo inquired.

Tucker didn’t bother to answer. He just picked it up, set it against the nearest cupboard, and scooped the bread off the floor, dumping it on the plate he’d already put out on the counter.

“Thirty-second rule,” he said, shoving it at Drew’s chest.

Next he grabbed the oven tray off the floor, cursing as it burned him again, automatically tossing it in the direction of the sink, where it landed with a metallic clang. “Christ, does everything in your kitchen want to kill me?” Tucker demanded, glaring at Arlo as he shoved his burnt finger in his mouth.

Arlo side-eyed Drew, then took a long pull of his beer. “Okay…” He folded his arms. “How about you tell me what the fuck is going on with you?”

“I said I’m fine, damn it.”

“Mmm.” Arlo nodded. “Clearly.”