“Where are we?” I ask when I’m done. We’re both sitting up now, Tucker leaning back against the cab trying to process it all. I can’t tell if he’s mad about the Christian aspect of the whole thing or relieved that my obsession with Christian Prescott was for a good reason. He hasn’t said anything for an entire ten minutes.
“What are you thinking?” I ask when I can’t stand it anymore.
“I think it’s amazing.”
That word again.
“It’s like a sacred duty you have to do.”
“Right.”
Of course the version I told Tucker doesn’t include those pesky little details about the hand-holding and the cheek touching, the way we both, Christian and I, were totally into each other in all kinds of ways at that moment. I don’t know what to think about that stuff myself.
“So where are we?” I ask again.
“We’re good, I think. Don’t you?”
“No, I mean, where are we? Literally?”
“Oh. We’re out on Fox Creek Road.”
Fox Creek Road. Such a simple, unassuming name for this place where destiny’s going to go down. Now I know the where. And the who, and the what.
All I have to figure out is the when.
And the why.
Chapter 18
My Purpose-Drive Life
I’m sitting in a boat with Tucker, smack in the middle of Jackson Lake, when Angela finally calls me back.
“Okay, what’s up?” she asks. I hear bells ringing in the background. “Has the fire happened yet?”
“No.”
“Did you finally get some action with Christian?”
“No!” I stammer, completely flustered. “He’s — I’m not — He’s not in town.” I glance at Tucker. He raises his eyebrows and mouths, “Who’s that?” I shake my head slightly.
“So what’s the big emergency?” she asks impatiently.
“I sent that email weeks ago. You only now got it?”
“I haven’t had an internet connection for a while,” she says a bit defensively. “I’ve been kind of off the beaten path. So everything’s okay now? Crisis averted?”
“Yes,” I say, still looking at Tucker. He smiles. “Everything’s fine.”
“So what happened?”
“Do you want me to take us in?” Tucker asks. I shake my head again and smile to show him that everything is, like I said, completely fine.
“Can I call you back later?” I ask Angela.
“No, you can’t call me back later! Who was that?”
“Tucker,” I answer with forced lightness. He moves across the boat and slides into the seat next to me, grinning wickedly the whole time in a way that makes my breath catch and my heart accelerate.
“Tucker Avery,” she says.
“Yes.”
“And Wendy’s there, too?”
“No, Wendy’s still in Montana.”
Tucker lifts my free hand in his and starts to kiss my knuckles one by one. I shiver and try to pull my hand away, but he doesn’t let go.
“So just Tucker,” Angela says.
“Right.” I stifle a laugh as Tucker nips one of my fingers.
“What are you doing with Tucker Avery?”
“Fishing.” We’ve spent the afternoon turning in slow circles on the lake, kissing, splashing each other, eating grapes and pretzels and turkey sandwiches, kissing some more, snuggling, tickling, laughing, oh yeah, some kissing, but in there somewhere was definitely fishing. I distinctly remember a fishing pole in my hands at some point during the day.
“No,” says Angela in a low voice.
“What?”
“What are you doing with Tucker Avery?” she asks again, pointedly.
