“I’ll give them my recipe before we leave,” he said, taking a sudden interest in his beer, swallowing down half of it in one hit.

The long stretch of his neck covered in a scruffy growth of sandy whiskers was exceedingly distracting. She swallowed. Where were they? Oh yes, that’s right, small talk. One half of her brain frantically cast around for a topic while the other half melted into a puddle of goo.

“What do they farm around Credence?”

“What do they farm?” Tucker gave a small laugh as he set his bottle down. “That the best you got?”

“It’s small talk,” she said waspishly.

Her brain wasn’t exactly operating on all cylinders. Hell, ever since he’d ma’amed her, her body had been hijacked by her hormones. And then he’d looked at her mouth like he wanted to lick daiquiri off it, and her ovaries took complete control.

“And if I was a farmer, that would be relevant. Gotta keep the chitchat pertinent to your date. Keep it personal.”

“Okay then.” She shot him a faux-pleasant smile. “What’s your sign?”

“Ha! Very funny.”

“No?” Fine. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Blue.” He didn’t hesitate, staring intently into her eyes, as intently as he’d stared at her mouth, and that charge flared again. “Light blue. Clear and cool. Too pristine to disturb. The color of polar ice.”

Della dragged in a ragged breath. He was describing her eyes. She was sure of it. But…is that what he thought? That she was cold. And pristine?

“What about you?” he asked.

She didn’t hesitate, either. She knew the exact hue of his eyes and how it shifted and changed depending on the light. “Tawny brown,” she said, her voice raspy. “Like whiskey. When you hold a glass of it up to firelight and it’s all warm and golden and shimmery.”

Long moments passed as they stared at each other. Tucker was the first one to break eye contact, picking up his beer again. “I think you pass the small-talk assessment.”

Della made an effort to distance herself mentally from him, too, taking a big suck of daiquiri through her straw. It was worth the brain freeze to bring her back to her senses. “What, even with the farming thing?”

“It wasn’t your finest moment, but I suppose it was better than asking me if I’m a registered voter.”

She snorted. “Even I know not to bring up politics. Or religion.”

“Okay then, next assessment. Flirting game. Whaddya got?”