A few days later, Della was sitting at a table in Annie’s diner, staring out the window as she absently stirred her coffee, her slice of banana cream pie untouched. She was reliving Friday night again for, like, the hundredth time. The way Tucker had pinned her against the glass and unleashed. Muscles deep inside her pelvic floor looped the loop just thinking about that unvarnished passion. Her breath hitched. Hell, her toes were literally curling in her boots.

If only she hadn’t ruined it all by putting on the brakes.

There had been plenty of times in Della’s life she’d wished she had a time machine, but right now she’d trade them all in to go back to that moment. To lean into the dizziness and the crazy tilt of the floor and just ride that frantic, speeding train all the way into the station.

She hadn’t wanted to stop, damn it. Just to…pause. To catch her breath.

Hell, if that wasn’t one of the worst decisions she’d ever made—and God knew there’d been plenty of them. Instead of experiencing what she had no doubt would have been the best sexual experience of her life, she was sitting in Annie’s still re-virginating and so damn sexually frustrated she wanted to scream.

The truly tragic part was that Tucker’s defenses had been fortified, and she didn’t see how she was going to get that close to him again. She’d had one shot, and she’d blown it.

The morning after had been awkward with a capital A. He’d apologized again, informed her there would never be a repeat of the incident, and formally withdrawn himself from wingman duties. When she’d tried to discuss it, he’d shut her down.

I think it’s best we just put this behind us and move on, okay?

No. It was not okay by her. Not then, not now. She shouldn’t have pushed him, she knew they were a no-go, and she’d like to talk to him about it, but she knew Tucker well enough to know he needed time to process things. Once he’d had a little distance, he’d be more rational. Once he saw she was absolutely fine, that she hadn’t scuttled back into her shell, he’d be more approachable.

She’d give him some space. And torture herself with reruns of Denver in the interim.

“You’re not planning on hurting my feelings there, are you, doll?”

Della glanced up as the crackly, pack-a-day voice broke into her thoughts. “Hey Annie,” she said, forcing a smile on her face.

“That pie ain’t going to eat itself.”

Della laughed. “Sorry…I was miles away.” In Denver. A bank of windows at her back. A hot, aroused man at her front.

“Uh-huh.” Annie didn’t move as she fixed Della with an expectant gaze.