“When I do take you to bed, I won’t rush that either.”
The amusement faded and her breath went short. Maybe they were on the same page after all. “I’m counting on it.”
Chapter 12
She’d dressed to kill him.
As Corinne shifted to cross her legs in the passenger seat beside him, Tucker caught a glimpse of long, toned leg and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He’d thought getting out of the apartment, going on a proper date would help him reset his priorities, let him focus on something other than getting her naked. But he’d absolutely underestimated her.
Corinne had always been beautiful. But since she came back to Wishful, she usually dressed more for function than fashion. Nothing she’d done, short of the costuming for their performances, had been intended to draw any attention to herself. Tucker liked the minimalist look on her. No muss, no fuss, no artifice. Just her.
Tonight, though. God. The dress reminded him of Marilyn Monroe, except instead of the trademark white, this one was fire engine red. The halter neck left bare those shoulders and arms toned from long hours hauling heavy trays. She wasn’t wearing her old pageant queen style makeup, but she’d done something smoky with her eyes that made the blue dark and mysterious, and her lips were glossy, pink, and utterly kissable. This was the Homecoming Queen all grown up. She was all his. And tonight, everybody in town was going to know it.
Tucker wasn’t at all sure she was okay with that. She’d been tense as a bow string when he’d picked her up, which he’d attributed to her mother. No telling what garbage she’d been filling Corinne’s head with in the time it took her to get ready. But he’d charmed them both with flowers and had a quick and impassioned discussion with Kurt about how it really did make more sense for the preacher to say “May the Force be with you” instead of “May the peace be with you” at church on Sundays. He’d expected the tension to lessen once they’d gotten away, but she’d stayed silent on the drive out to Hope Springs, the leg-crossing more a product of fidgeting in discomfort than a deliberate attempt to seduce. Where was her head?
The parking lot of The Spring House was packed, even for a Saturday night.
“Crowded tonight,” she observed. “Are you sure we’ll be able to get in?”
“We’ve got a reservation.”
“The Spring House doesn’t do reservations.”
He flashed her his trademark grin. “They do when the owner owes you a favor.” Before she could say anything else, he’d skirted the hood of the car and was there with a hand as she opened the door.
“Ooo, calling in your chips on my account. I feel special,” she teased.
One long leg extended from the car, drawing his eyes down to the strappy heels that made her almost as tall as him. He couldn’t help but imagine her in nothing but the shoes.
“That’s certainly the goal.”
Because he wanted to and because he wanted to gauge how she was feeling, Tucker drew her up and out of the car, into his arms. He loved how they fit together, loved that he could surround her with his bigger frame. His mouth brushed hers, once, twice. A hum resonated in the back of her throat as she curled her fingers into his shirtfront and drew him in for more. Yeah, they both needed this. Tucker sank deeper, enjoying the lazy stroll of a kiss, until her limbs went fluid as candle wax on a hot July day and he sensed her nerves melting away.
Feeling the shift in her mood, he edged back, gratified by the slightly dazed expression on her face. “Thought we’d start with dessert first.”
Her lips curved in a languid, feline smile that went along with the seduction of her dress. “I’m hoping that’s just the appetizer.”
How long until the main course?
Reminding himself patience was a virtue, even if it did lead to blue balls, Tucker stepped back and escorted her up the steps to the door, subtly adjusting his pants. The vestibule of the converted antebellum house was standing room only. Taking a firm grip on Corinne’s hand, he began shouldering his way toward the hostess station.
“Tucker McGee!”
No. Oh no. Let it be anybody but the Casserole Patrol.
“Oh look, Delia! They’re here together,” Miss Betty cried. “I need to update my vote.”
Tucker closed his eyes and prayed for patience as the trio of devils in granny’s clothes converged on them. “Ladies.”
Miss Betty was furiously tapping at the screen of a smartphone.
Lord preserve us all.
“So is it true?” Miss Delia asked.
“Is what true?” Tucker was no dummy. The only way to even hope to curtail gossip was to admit to nothing.
Miss Maudie Bell took a long look at his hand linked with Corinne’s. “Reckon you won’t be one of those bachelors at the auction now.”