She swiped, and a new face appeared on the screen. “Niall,” Della continued. “Twenty-six. He’s a dental nurse and lives in Dodge City.”

The guy on the screen had chosen a blurry black-and-white image that could have been lifted from America’s most-wanted list. Fucking hell. “Why on earth would he choose that picture?” Tucker asked. “He looks like a serial killer. Swipe left. Quickly.”

She laughed. “Hey, come on now. He says he likes computer games and loves his mom.”

“Which means he still lives at home. Probably in the basement.”

“Oh, but look.” She scrolled to the rest of his bio. “He’s also into dinosaurs and stamp collecting and—”

“And?” Tucker prompted.

“Taxidermy.”

Tucker hooted out a laugh. “Why does that not surprise me?”

Della swiped left again. “Ooh, Joel. Now, he looks nice.”

He did. Tall and blond and all-American, laughing at the camera in his football gear, his helmet shoved under his arm, his hair all messy from his helmet. Tucker hated him on sight. “Isn’t he a bit too…pretty?”

“He’s an improvement on Niall.”

“An extra from The Walking Dead would be an improvement on Niall.”

“He’s twenty-five, lives in Denver, works in a bank, likes to read, and he did a gap year before college, building houses in Africa for Habitat for Humanity.”

Of course he did. Give the man a halo. “I bet you there are bathroom selfies.”

She swiped through the five images. Joel with his dog. Joel with a woman who was old enough and similar enough to be his nana. Joel with his shirt off in Africa somewhere, (presumably) showing a skinny little kid with no shoes and a big smile how to belt in a nail with a hammer. Joel hiking in the wilderness somewhere.

“Not one.”

Forget the halo, give him a cross. Joel was a fucking saint. “He sounds perfect.”

“Yeah.”

She swiped right, and Tucker forced himself to smile. If this Joel dude was for real and he and Della hit it off, they could become a thing. She’d said she wasn’t after a relationship, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t happen. Then she might move to Denver. That was a good thing. Although Antarctica would be better.

Out of sight—waaay out of sight—out of mind.

He could shove her back in that Arlo’s sister compartment in his brain where he’d kept her for three years and from which she’d apparently escaped.

A notification flashed up, its mere presence twisting like a tornado through Tucker’s gut. “That was quick.” He fixed his gaze to the pelt of raindrops falling against the foggy glass. “He must be eager.”

“No.” Her arm brushed his as she busily navigated to the notification. “It’s not from him. It’s from Bailey.”

Ugh. Great. “Let me guess. A banana? A corn dog? Some bratwurst?”

“Umm, no… I think he’s dropped the subtlety.”