The traffic got heavier as they approached the outskirts of Denver, and their chatter fell away as Della gripped the steering wheel a little harder. “Oh boy,” she muttered under her breath as they came to their first traffic light.

“It’s fine.” Tucker shot her a smile. “You’re doing fine. The same road rules apply here as they do everywhere else.”

She nodded, trying to quell the surge of her pulse as it rattled through her temples.

“Relax.” He reached across and gave her arm a squeeze. “Take a breath.”

His hand fell away immediately, but his touch was like a match to a fuse, sparks traveling up her arm and igniting along every nerve cell in her body. Tucker rarely touched her. In fact, it was fair to say that he went out of his way not to touch her. She guessed that was because he didn’t want to do anything that might be a trigger.

But, thanks to familiarity and therapy, his touch wasn’t triggering. It was…electric.

A horn blasting dragged her out of her stupor. “Ignore him,” Tucker instructed. “Go at your own pace. Don’t let some douchebag pressure you into something before you’re ready.” Their gazes locked. “Always go at your own pace.”

Della didn’t think they were talking about driving now, but, with a second indignant horn blast, she eased off the clutch.

High on a great session with Selena and a driving lesson with a professional instructor, which she’d aced, Della was looking forward to her date. The one her wingman had helped her with by whittling down the losers, time wasters, and horndogs.

Tucker’s words.

She was sitting at the same Italian restaurant as last time because she knew it and the menu had looked excellent. Hopefully this time she’d actually find out if the food tasted as good as it smelled. Her date tonight was a guy called Bailey. He was also twenty-five, a trainee paramedic, a conscientious teeth flosser, and had three sisters.

According to Tucker, paramedic and flosser was a winning combo. Add in the sisters, and Bailey was kicking all kinds of goals. Plus, he had normal photos—no bathroom selfies, no boozy shots, no pictures of his car. And he’d been great to chat with the past week. Interesting and easygoing. He loved to cook, and his Instagram feed was full of his culinary creations, of which Tucker had enthusiastically approved, announcing he’d go out with Bailey.

“Della?”

Dragging her attention from the window and the guy sitting across the street, Della turned to find Bailey at the table. He was exactly as his pictures had proclaimed—not shorter—with fresh-faced looks and an open smile. She smiled as she stood to shake his hand. “Hi, Bailey. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“And you,” he said warmly, holding her hand for just the right amount of time. “You look great.”

“Thank you.”