The light from the screen illuminated her face, showing off the pink in her cheeks. “I could eat oyster all day.”

Tucker’s jaw clenched. Eating oyster may well be a quality all dudes should have, but that didn’t make Bailey any less of a dirty little fucker. “Probably time to kick him to the curb. What do you think?”

“Definitely.”

“Sorry.”

She shrugged, apparently not too upset at the prospect. “It’s fine. He was nice, but there wasn’t much of a spark, you know?”

Tucker nodded, sparks lighting up his system like switches flicking on as their gazes met and held. Yeah, he knew sparks. “Well—” He forced himself to look away, to glance out his window. It was almost completely fogged up now, but he could still make out the rain bucketing down, and he could certainly hear it beating on the roof of the cab. “Looks like we have something to occupy our time, at least.” Feeling more composed, he returned his attention to Della. “Let’s find you another date.”

She grinned, and those sparks flared into spot fires. “Sounds like a plan.”

Moving from behind the steering wheel, she started to wiggle across. Alarm surged through Tucker’s veins, intensifying the heat load through his system. “What are you doing?”

Stopping mid-wiggle, she frowned. “We could keep passing the phone back and forth, but it would be easier for me to sit closer so we can both see at once.”

Which, of course, made perfect sense, but he didn’t think it’d be easier for him at all. Tucker found the degree of difficulty for even basic human functioning increased exponentially the closer Della was to his person.

In any event, she didn’t wait for him to respond, just wiggled the rest of the way. Tucker averted his gaze as she completed the maneuver. Her top was too tight to allow any interesting jiggling, but the way she was lifting her hips to pull the excess hoodie material from under her butt was not good for his pulse.

“Okay,” she said, finally settling into the middle seat. “Let’s see who’s around tonight, shall we?”

Her thigh and his thigh were a good handspan apart, but her arm brushed his as she navigated to Tinder, and his belly muscles reacted with a quick, sharp pull. Tucker swallowed as the aroma of cupcake tickled his nostrils. Was it her shampoo or perfume?

“Hello there, Lester,” Della said.

Tucker inspected the guy on the screen. He was twenty-nine, worked in IT, and lived in Boulder. His profile picture was him with a snowboard. His bio was short and to the point. “Size fourteen shoes. Just sayin’,” Tucker read out loud. Jesus. Why did twenty-somethings feel the need to brag about their dick size to the entire world? “Swipe left.”