of Bam Bam and Dancer back in Coeur d’Alene—with the air of people who’d been together for a long time. I wondered what that’d be like. I’d never been with the same woman longer than a year, and never particularly regretted it. Either I wasn’t the kind of man who needed an old lady or I’d never met the right one.
Across from Darren sat Tinker’s dad, Tom. He was a good guy, although it’d taken only a couple days to figure out he wasn’t firing on all cylinders. One of the tenants—Mary Webbly, who was probably about ten years older than Tom—had told me that he’d gone downhill in a big way since his wife had died earlier in the year. Up to that point, Tinker had lived in Seattle.
Interesting family dynamics there.
I sat down across from Darren, who was obviously still scoping me out, trying to decide if I was a threat to his girls or not. He smelled something off about the situation, I’d bet a thousand bucks on it. Fair enough. Tinker sat down next to me, and then she was handing out paper plates and what looked like surprisingly fancy, real silverware.
“So, when do you plan to start driving your truck again?” Darren asked me, reaching for his beer. “You changing careers, or just taking a breather?”
“Short break, that’s all,” I told him, scooping out a generous serving of rice. “Like I said, just need to figure shit out with my ex. Don’t want her screwing me on the divorce paperwork while I’m out of town.”
Darren nodded. “Always good to get that finalized as quickly as possible.”
Tinker coughed, shifting in her seat. I glanced at her, surprised to see her cheeks had flushed.
“You know, not every conversation needs to be about finalizing divorces,” she said, draining her wineglass. Carrie reached for the bottle, deftly refilling it, and I had to bite back a grin. The girls had been packing it away—there were going to be headaches in the morning, no question.
“You know what? You should divorce that husband of yours,” her dad declared, smiling at her. “I’ve never liked him.”
She had a husband? First I’d heard of it. Fuck. I didn’t like the thought of her married, not one little bit. And where the hell was the asshole, anyway? Only a moron would leave a woman like Tinker alone.
I’d never met the man, but I wanted to kick his ass already.
“I am getting a divorce, Dad,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “Remember? It’s just taking a while because of the property and all Brandon’s family stuff. The situation is complicated.”
“Lawyers,” Tom muttered. “Can’t trust ’em. None of ’em. Never liked that boy.”
Carrie coughed, her eyes dancing. “I think we all know how you feel about lawyers, Tom.”
Tinker snorted. “Oh God. Do you remember the first time Dad learned that Brandon was a deputy prosecutor? I thought he’d have a heart attack.”
“I’m healthier than a horse,” Tom declared, but my mind was stuck on the news that Tinker’s husband—Christ, that word left a sour taste in my mouth—was a prosecutor. I fucking hated prosecutors. At least she was ending it.
“I know, Dad,” she said, reaching past me to catch his hand, giving it a squeeze. It forced her to lean close, and I caught a whiff of her hair. Peaches. She smelled like peaches, and I’d bet my bike that round ass of her would look just like one.
Shoot me in the fucking head already and put me out of my misery.
Tinker’s hand brushed my chest again as she pulled it back, and she and her girl were laughing about something else. I looked up to find Darren watching me, his eyes speculative. Catching his gaze, I nodded at him and he nodded back.
Yeah, I’d have to watch out for that one. He saw me for what I was—a predator. He’d be a problem, no question. Still, I was glad that Tinker had someone like that in her life.
“Darren, you look like a hippie with that beard,” Tom said suddenly. “All the young guys look like hippies these days. Like the town ran out of razors or something.”
“Dad! You can’t say things like that!”
“Sure I can,” he replied, eyes twinkling. “I just did. And I didn’t say that being a hippie was a bad thing. Your mom was a hippie, did you know that?”
Tinker put down her glass.
“Seriously?”
“Yup. The summer I met Tricia, she ran around wearing long skirts the whole time, and that hair of hers