Della was nervous as she sat at the table, waiting for her date to arrive. He was now officially late. The topics of conversation she’d discussed with Selena circled one another in her head, and she fiddled with the button that fastened at the dip of her cleavage. The neckline had seemed perfectly modest when she’d bought the dress on a whim from T.J. Maxx today —just the merest hint of boob shadow showing—but then Tucker had frowned at her when she’d come out of the bedroom she always used when she stayed at the Denver apartment and she wasn’t so sure anymore.

“It’s all wrong, isn’t it?” she’d asked, and he’d shaken his head and told her she looked nice.

Nice.

Such a bland freaking word. Okay, she hadn’t been going for vixen, but she’d taken some time with her appearance. She’d left her hair loose instead of pulled back into a braid, and she’d even put on mascara and some shiny pink lip gloss—also T.J. Maxx purchases. She’d been shooting for attractive—lovely, maybe? She’d known beautiful was out of the ballpark. Her father had always called her a plain child because her features were too square to be cute or pretty, but surely lovely wasn’t that much of a stretch?

Laughter nearby snagged her attention, and Della turned toward the sound. There were four women at the bar, drinking cocktails. They were about her age and all wearing strappy short dresses that clung to and flattered their amazing bodies.

Like it wasn’t thirty-nine degrees outside.

She glanced down at her dress. It was the snuggest thing she’d ever worn, but with a three-quarter sleeve and a hem that sat just below her knee, she felt positively dowdy.

Cody would probably take one look at her and one look at them and head straight for the bar.

Checking the time on her phone, she noted he was now five minutes late. Maybe he’d already spotted her and decided not to bother at all? That would be particularly humiliating…

Della glanced through the window and across the road at the bar where she knew Tucker was waiting. He’d offered to stick close when she’d announced she wasn’t sure anymore and maybe she should cancel—about ten seconds after he’d told her she looked nice.

“You should go,” he’d insisted and then outlined a plan for him to wait for her somewhere nearby, which she’d agreed to readily. When they’d parted company twenty minutes ago, he’d said, “Remember, if it doesn’t work, if you’re getting a bad vibe off him, or if he’s a jerk or makes you feel uncomfortable, then just get up and walk across the road.”

And right now, she was seriously considering his offer.

“Della?”