Della glanced down at her attire as she sat. She was wearing the nice outfit again because, despite Tucker’s lukewarm response to it—which had continued tonight—she hadn’t seen the point in splurging on new clothes when Bailey hadn’t seen these. She had savings, but now that she was buying a car, she couldn’t fritter them away on a new outfit every time she went on a date.

And she liked the dress, so Tucker and his nice could go jump in the lake.

“What’s good here?” Bailey asked as he, too, sat and reached for a menu.

The night was a success. Bailey was a great conversationalist and an interesting human being. He spoke lovingly of his sisters and shared some funny anecdotes from being on the road as a paramedic. And when the prescribed two hours was up—something Tucker had suggested she put in place with Bailey prior to meeting him to signify that, for tonight, she was interested in a date only—and Della announced she was leaving, he didn’t try to detain her. He thanked her for a lovely evening and asked if they could go out to dinner again the next time she was in Denver.

Della had said yes because he ticked all the right boxes. Okay, there was zero spark when she looked at him. No thrilling little tug. But falling recklessly in love had been the ruin of her last time, so maybe there was something to be said for a slow burn?

A soccer game being played somewhere in Europe was on the wall-mounted televisions as Della entered the bar across the street. The low murmur of conversation and the smell of beer and curly fries greeted her as she headed toward Tucker, who was in the same spot as last time. He glanced at her and smiled, and the tug she felt was like a thousand vacuum cleaners sucking her in his direction.

Those big-ass industrial ones.

“Hey,” Tucker said as he pulled out the chair next to him.

Della shed her coat and bag, slinging them over the back of the chair. “Hey.”

The lighting near the window was subdued, falling softly over Tucker’s features, hugging the breadth of his shoulders and the width of his chest to perfection. The lights reflecting in from the street gave his whiskey eyes a mellow kind of glow. He was in his regulation clothes—Levi’s, T-shirt, and boots. The kind of gear she saw him in every single day, but he wore casual better than any man she’d ever met.

It was like God had made denim and cotton for Tucker Daniels alone.

“Two hours,” he murmured. “I’m assuming you don’t want any food this time?”

Della gave a half smile. “No.”

“You want a drink?”

“No.”