A gaggle of female laughter from the corner booth formed the soundtrack to Tucker’s endeavors as he cut up way too many lemons, wishing they were Well-Hung’s balls. Seriously, what a douche. If a dude had to state for the record the size of his package and cite his anatomical knowledge, chances were he had nuts the size of raisins and had only just recently found that magic little bundle because some poor woman had finally become exasperated enough to draw him a goddamn map.

With a giant fucking X to mark the spot.

I have needs, too, Tucker.

Fuck…the way Della had said those words had caused a bolt of lightning to his junk. And he would not think about Arlo’s sister in relation to his junk. Arlo’s little sister. She was eleven years younger than him, for fuck’s sake. An entire decade. Which might not seem a big deal to some people, but it was still a mental hurdle for him on top of everything else. And he’d spent the last three years not thinking about her like that because both Arlo and Della had trusted Tucker with her sometimes-quite-fragile state.

She’d needed safety, security, and TLC more than she’d needed anything else.

And he’d provided them all, letting her sit quietly at his bar losing herself in shots of tequila or piña coladas with three maraschino cherries—just the way she liked them. Chatting if she wanted, leaving her be if she didn’t. Giving her space as she found solace in liquor and an aching kind of solitude.

Then, about a year ago, things had started to change. She’d gotten a job at the old folks’ home, and Tucker had watched as she’d slowly come out of her shell. She started to talk more, smile more, laugh more. She drank less and had started to eat with gusto, as if she’d suddenly found flavors again. She put on some weight and added some color to her cheeks. Ruth, one of her work colleagues, had become a true friend.

Yep, watching Della come out of that tunnel she’d mentioned had put a smile on every damn face in town. But Tinder?

He’d just…assumed, given what she’d been through, that Della wouldn’t want a man anywhere near her ever again.

The knife paused on the lemon peel as Tucker shut his eyes, trying not to think about the things Arlo had told him one night not long after he’d brought Della to Credence. He’d been drunk and angry and so guilt ridden about what had happened to his sister it had slipped out unchecked, as if he just had to get it off his chest.

A problem shared was a problem halved and all that crap.