Della snatched the phone back at his okay, which sounded a little too judgy for her liking. “What business is it of yours if I want to hook up with every man in the continental United States?” She clicked on the Mona Lisa picture, and it uploaded. “I have needs, too, Tucker.”

His whiskey eyes searched hers for a long, drawn-out moment. He looked like he wanted to clap his hands over his ears and chant la-la-la-not-listening. Damn it. She hadn’t meant to be so…forthright, but she did have needs.

“Of course.” The way he swallowed betrayed the calm in his voice. “But you know there won’t be anybody around here on Tinder, right? Folks in these parts believe in old-fashioned courting. Dinner and a movie. Opening car doors. Holding hands. Chaste good-night kisses on the cheek. Not hookup apps and one-night stands.”

Della didn’t think for a moment she’d find anyone from Credence on the app, but Denver was a different story, and she was just about to tell Tucker exactly that when the registration process completed and the first potential Tinder match appeared on her screen.

She blinked at it incredulously. Tucker freaking Daniels.

He was a few years younger, and his hair was the full Botticelli angel, but it was definitely him. Her heart did its silly speeding-up thing just looking at the image. The location down at the bottom told her he was less than one mile away.

No shit, Sherlock.

“Apparently not all folks,” Della said, showing him his image.

Tucker’s face contorted into a series of double takes. He reached for the phone, then abandoned the idea, grabbing his instead. “I thought I’d paused it,” he muttered as he swiped at his screen.

Della read out his very brief bio. “I aim to please.” God…the ambiguity of that was delicious. With the devil riding her, she hit the little green heart on the screen to confirm a match.

Tucker scowled at her as she picked up the daiquiri glass, the condensation cool and wet against the pads of her fingers, and took a sip.

“I used it a year ago, when I was in New York,” he said. Like he owed her some kind of explanation. “There.” He threw his phone down on the bar. “Paused.”

“And did you hold many hands?” Della kept her voice sweet, even though she was beset with images of confident city women enamored with all his yes ma’am, no ma’am country-boy charm.

“I went on a couple of dates.”

A hot spike of something not very pleasant ripped through her middle. “So, you get to hook up, but I don’t?”

He shoved his hands on his hips. “No. Of course not.”

The action drew attention to just how well his jeans fit in that area. But Della refused to be distracted. “You know I’m right about this.”