Tucker snorted—subtlety? Is that what Bailey had been doing? The snort died on his lips as Della held up the screen to show him the dick pic she’d been sent. Fuck. Revulsion and rage warred within his chest. A throbbing vessel at his temple threatened to pop. What was wrong with some guys? Tucker loved his penis very much, but he wasn’t so blinded by its awesomeness that he was fooled into thinking it was photogenic.

“Jesus Christ, Della. That’s horrifying. Delete. Delete and then block his ass.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know the drill. It’s not the first picture of a guy’s genitals I’ve received since I started this little adventure.”

“It’s not?” She hadn’t mentioned that before.

She shrugged. “I’ve had a few.”

“God. I’m so sorry. I feel the need to apologize on behalf of my entire sex.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not your fault that some guys can’t keep it in their pants.”

Their eyes met and locked, and Tucker searched hers in earnest, grateful for the pale luminescence of hers making them easy to read in the dark of the cab. “Della…are you sure you’re…up for this?”

He smiled at her gently to soften the question. Tucker didn’t want to keep raising Della’s past, but it stood to reason things like this could be confronting.

“Yes. I am.”

Her hand slid onto his forearm, giving it a squeeze. Warmth streaked up Tucker’s arm and skittered a delicious kind of tension across his belly. It heated the air in his lungs and settled like a feather in a nest deep inside his chest.

“What about you, wingman?” She leaned in, giving his arm a playful shove with her shoulder. “Think you can take it, or are you going to need a fainting couch?”

Tucker chuckled, forcing himself to relax. If she wasn’t freaked out, he wasn’t going to carry on like a maiden aunt. “Brain bleach, maybe.”

She laughed. There was a curve to her sweet mouth that Tucker wanted to nip, to lick, to explore. It took all his willpower not to stare at it. “I’m sure I’ll survive. I just wish guys didn’t feel the need to expose their junk on the internet.”

“Me, too, but…” She shrugged. “You’re the one who told me I had to kiss a lot of frogs.”

“Guys like Bailey are not frogs. They’re toads. Floating around in a pond that’s been contaminated with nuclear waste.”

“How many frogs have you kissed?” she asked.

Tucker blinked. How in the name of holy fuck had they ended up back here? Talking about kissing? He shifted uncomfortably. “An average amount, I guess.” Although it had been a long time since he had kissed a woman.

“And what is average these days?”

He shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“Have you kissed more than five?”

“Yes.”