Every Single Thing About You: A “Tuck Yes” Love Story - Book 3 by Hopkins, Faleena (best fiction novels of all time .TXT) 📕

I set the glass in my sink. With a long exhale, I decide there’s no putting this off any longer, walk over, and kneel down.

Slowly, oh-so-slowly, I slide my hands under Tempest, wrap her in my arms, and stand up, my gaze transfixed by her innocent-looking face as she curls into me and whispers, “Did I fall asleep on the couch again, Daddy?”

Closing my eyes against the cuteness, I hold my breath until she goes lax again. Down the hall, past framed photos of my wife, I carry Ms. Tuck to the bed I’ve only ever shared with one woman.

Laying her down on her side — since that’s how she seems to like sleeping — I adjust my pillow under her head, ease these heels off, and set them beside my bed so she’ll see them in the morning.

I whisper, “Here’s your goose-down,” and pull it over her clothed body, quietly walking out.

A few minutes later I’m setting a fresh glass of water on my nightstand. If I remember correctly, women like to have lip balm nearby. And tissues.

Retrieving Tempest’s bag from my arm chair, I stop in the bathroom and snatch a handful of Kleenex, strolling in with the plan that I’ll set them next to her water and get the hell out of there, but as I walk into my bedroom my body lights up.

She’s flat on her back, one arm splayed out, the other bent, index finger resting between parted lips like she’s started sucking it but fell asleep in the process. Her nails were lavender last time I saw her — I remember that clearly — but now they’re light pink, like the tip of her tongue just visible enough to make my cock twitch against my will.

She is vulnerable.

Sexy.

Absolutely beautiful.

I back away.

Shut the door.

Try to breathe.

What was it she taught us?

In through the nose.

Out through the mouth.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Chapter 7

Water! I need water.

Slapping my nightstand, dehydrated eyes closed, I find a glass, gulping its contents dry. Gasping for air, I look around wondering what the Tuck time it is.

Wait.

This isn’t my room.

This isn’t my glass!

That’s not my nightstand!

That’s not my dresser.

Those aren’t my curtains.

Those aren’t my men’s clothes in not-my-closet!

I whisper, “Oh no. What did I dooooooo?!” and yank back a cozy goose-down comforter to discover I am somehow fully clothed. Worried, I pull up my dress to feel my panties. Nothing unusual there. Did I meet the last chivalrous man in Manhattan?!!

Can I tiptoe out of here, past wherever he is and without his knowledge, to sneak away?

Do I want to?

Maybe he’s a good guy.

He must be, right?

Listening hard, I hear nada.

Zero.

Zip.

Nothing to gift me one single clue.

If there’s a couch — and I’m assuming he has one since this bedroom set is nice, so he probably has a sofa, too — the guy might be sleeping on it.

However, if I’m all but silent it could be possible to escape before an awkward conversation takes place where he gets a whiff of this dragon-breath I’ve got going on.

Tucking margaritas are my downfall!

Snatching my clutch bag up from his nightstand, I dig around until I find a crumpled receipt but no pen.

My gaze drifts to his nightstand.

Is it bad if I open his drawer?

I’d say it’s practical.

Hmm… looks normal to me. Matches. Scraps of paper I won’t look closer at. Chapstick. Loose change. Gum! I could use two of these. Peppermint, too, my preference. Oh yes! Much better.

I whisper, “Ibuprofen — is this guy my savior or what?”

I glance to his closet, wondering what he looks like. Let’s get real, if Christina and Zia let me go home with some guy, he’s gotta be hot. This is extremely exciting. Did I meet an amazing man last night? I haven’t thought about dating in such a long time. Been in a rut like none other. And there hasn’t been anyone I’ve been drawn to except… My smile flickers as Josh flashes into my head.

A pen, oh good!

Scribbling my name and number down, I pause, then write, “Thank you,” one shoulder shrugging because truth be told, no matter how cool he may be, I’m grateful he didn’t take advantage of me in that state.

Setting my repurposed receipt on his nightstand I shake the glass upside down over my open mouth hoping to squeeze every last drop I can. Standing up, feeling a little queasy, I spot my high heels beside his bed as if on display at a store. He was careful about it. That’s interesting. Who is this guy?

Buckling their delicate straps, I scan for more clues about my mystery man. The matching bedroom set — dark wood, clean lines, soft linens — is very nice. Not dusty either. This isn’t the bachelor pad of a child. He’s even got chic decorative pieces on his dresser and far nightstand.

The art doesn’t tell me much, just abstract prints on canvas. Evan wouldn’t be overly impressed but Evan has his nose so far up the art world’s ass I’m not sure he could grasp how comforting it is to have art simply because it warms a room.

I’ll tip toe out of here then let fate do the rest.

If Mr. Chivalrous phones me up, great. If not, well, there’s nothing I can do about that. This could have been so much worse, and I’ll just call it a wash.

Sure would be nice, though, to have someone to distract me from thinking about Josh.

Carefully twisting the doorknob, I peek into his unfamiliar hallway and spot across from me another door halfway open to an office, sunlight streaming onto a neatly organized desk and a comfortable-looking leather desk chair. More pens! Those could have come in handy. Not that I’d known they were there. I can’t make out what that framed certificate on his wall says, but now is not the time to investigate.

Pausing to listen I hear no sounds. I also can’t see anything from here, so if this guy is awake scrolling through his