Page 6 of Fierce Love (Tucker Billionaires)

Chapter Five

Hollyn

Fourteen years ago

T he Drunk Raccoon is packed with tourists, since the cruise ships start arriving in droves at the beginning of May.

It’s the closest bar to where the ships dock—smack-dab in the middle of nowhere.

You’d think the island would have built up some tourist things here, but it’s just us, a scooter rental place, and a tacky tourist shop for shirts, keychains, and other things you probably have five hundred of already.

We’re everyone’s first and last stop, and we just reopened for the season two weeks ago in mid-April.

“You alright?” Franny asks as she slides her round tray beside mine at the edge of the bar and then rattles off her drink order to the bartender when he comes over, sliding some of the drinks I need onto my tray. Two more to fill, and then I’m back out in the weeds.

“They’d better tip well,” I say. “If one more guy grabs my ass, I can’t guarantee he won’t get a drink dumped on his head.

” Though, I’ve always been more talk than action.

Besides, the tips have to supplement my scholarship to art school next year.

The art degree wasn’t my first choice, but I couldn’t turn down the full tuition offer.

“They are a grabby lot,” Franny agrees. “Worst ones we’ve had so far this season.”

The ship docked right now is due to leave in the morning—only the fifth cruise ship departure I’ve worked—and this one seems to have been carrying a boatload of frat boys or maybe even a bachelor party.

A few have tried to talk to me, but it’s so loud I can barely hear them.

Every one of them seems to believe they are irresistible, and they’re looking to lay their pipe in a foreign girl before they go home.

“Did you see who was here, though?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder into the crowd.

“Everyone?” I suggest with a laugh, not even following her gaze. The place is wall-to-wall people.

“Callahan Tucker.” She splays her hand over her chest and leans over a little, like she can’t catch her breath.

“Ugh,” I say with a grimace. “A Tucker? Please.” I roll my eyes. “I avoid anyone with that last name—which is half the island and definitely all the rich people. But any time I have run into one, they’ve been shitty humans.”

“He used to come into the bakery I worked at last summer to grab the stuff they sold at the campground, and he’s not a typical Tucker. His two older brothers fit the mold, but Cal doesn’t.”

“If you say so,” I say. “Anyone can pretend they’re a good person in short bursts.” My parents are excellent short-term actors. Some of the best. I’ve learned to never accept anyone at face value or first meeting.

“Order up,” the bartender says, practically in my ear after I don’t grab the tray immediately when he sets down the last two drinks.

I glare at him and slide the tray onto my palm.

As I wade through the crowd, the tray balanced above my head, hands are all over me, as though I’m an object to be fondled on the way past. The soft touches I can pretend are accidental, but the ones who squeeze hard are asking for the tray to be dumped on their head.

If Franny wasn’t here tonight, I’m not even sure if I’d feel safe.

After I’ve given out the drinks to the booth at the back, I check on my other tables to see if anyone else needs an order. The night continues on like that—orders, waiting, fondling, delivering, repeat.

When the last call is nearing, there’s still a few groups of people huddled around.

Most of them are men, which causes a little frisson of worry to snake down my spine.

Men and alcohol are rarely a good mix, and if the tips at The Drunk Raccoon weren’t legendary, I’d never have vied so hard for this job.

As I circulate, one of the frat boys loops his arm around my waist and draws me in close, his lips close to my ear. “What are you doing after this?”

“I’m going home,” I say, keeping my voice light, and I don’t try to wiggle free, even though his grip is firm and annoying. Sometimes it’s easier to play along.

“Ship doesn’t leave until dawn. Come take a tour.”

“No, thanks,” I say, throwing him a smile. “I’ve got plans.”

“Change them,” he says, a sloppy grin on his face that’s probably meant to be charming but comes across as creepy.

“Can’t. Sorry.” I twist away from him to head behind the bar to ring the bell for the last call. As the clang, clang echoes through the rooms of the bar, most of the people start to leave or come to order one last drink.

Ship guy and his friends are lingering, and I wonder if he told them I was up for what he proposed.

Drunk guys are the worst for understanding when a “no” is firm, as though their brain can’t process the word.

He starts to swagger toward the bar, and I scoot around it to the group Franny has been serving all night—the ones who look like they came from the campground.

I only hesitate for a beat before I press my hand into the lower back of the one closest to me, a touch too intimate when I don’t know him.

He’s tall and lean but broad shouldered with shaggy dark brown hair under a ball cap.

When he turns at my touch, his blue-green eyes are stunning—the kind you can’t stop staring at.

He meets my gaze, and the air around us is charged in a way I’ve never had happen before with a stranger.

Very slowly and deliberately, he leans down, his lips near my ear, the brim of his cap skimming my shoulder.

But unlike the last time, a shiver of pleasure races across my skin.

The difference in my reaction is so stark that I can’t help sucking in a surprised breath.

He smells like fresh air and cedar blanketed by bourbon, and I’ve never smelt anything so good.

What the hell is happening to me?

“You okay?” he asks, his voice rumbly and deep. “Do you need something?”

“The guys over there don’t seem to understand I’m not on the menu,” I say.

“Want me to go talk to them?” He leans back, his gaze traveling over my face. He lifts the arm that’s holding his drink and flexes his impressive bicep, the T-shirt stretching across his skin, tanned from the sun. “I could take them.”

I grin and shake my head. “No! Don’t do that. Just… can we pretend we’re together?”

“Like I’m your boyfriend?” His expression lights with genuine amusement.

“If you want a label for this role-play…”

“To be in character, I need to understand the assignment. The details matter.”

“What might help you?” I ask, finding I’m enjoying the light flirting.

“Lean into me a little more. Yeah, that’s right. Tuck in there.” He slings his arm around my shoulders, and I wonder briefly whether Elmore, the owner, will be pissed that I’ve paused my last-call hustle.

“What’s your name?” he asks, and he runs his callused palm along my arm and down to my fingers, linking them together.

“Hollyn,” I say. “You?”

“Nate,” he says, and I could close my eyes and listen to the timbre of his voice forever.

There’s something about it that just nestles into me, warm and comforting.

He peers over my head and then spins me around so my back is pressed to the bar, his body shielding me from whatever is behind him.

He’s caged me in, but I’ve never felt safer.

“Not sure they’re buying us. I might need to break out the biceps. ”

“No bar fights. I can’t get fired.” On impulse, I say, “Kiss me.”

A slow smile spreads across his face, but he doesn’t ask if I’m serious or if I’m sure.

Instead, one of his hands leaves the edge of the bar, turns his ball cap around, and his thumb sweeps across my cheekbone.

“You’re really fucking pretty,” he says, and then he slides his hand into my chin-length hair, and he kisses me.

His lips are gentle at first, soft and tentative, as though he didn’t ask for permission with words, but he’s asking with actions.

With a slight slant of my head, I deepen the kiss, and then I can’t help myself.

I slip my hands around the back of his head, fiddling with the silky strands under the brim at the nape of his neck, drawing him closer, tighter.

Even though we’ve just met, our lips move in sync, as though they’ve done this dance before.

I’ve never had a kiss feel so wildly passionate and so precisely practiced at the same time.

He kisses in a way I’d never be able to describe but feels perfectly balanced, just for me.

When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard, and Nate’s forehead is pressed to mine. “Marry me,” he says on an exhale.

I laugh. “What? We just met.”

“In this life, sure. But that wasn’t a first kiss. First kisses are exciting, but they aren’t that . That kiss was… that kiss was born out of lifetimes—hundreds or thousands of them.”

“You have to be drunk. What are you talking about?” I laugh again, but there’s a tingle down my spine, as though some part of me agrees with the nonsense he’s spewing.

“I’ve had a few drinks.” He grins, but he doesn’t seem drunk, at least not on alcohol. “As your official boyfriend for the night, I can give us any backstory I want.”

“So you’re going with past lives?”

“It was either that or we’re a couple that’s been dating for years. Ever since we knew what dating was. We’ve always been serious about each other—right from the first kiss. Now we’re headed off to college, and I’ve decided it’s now or never. And I want all my ‘nows’ with you. Forever.”

He’s so earnest when he says it, so persuasive that I can almost picture his rewritten history. “Except we just met,” I whisper.

“Did we? Convince me.” His tone is teasing, and there’s a playful glint in his eyes. “I like my version of history better.”

“That’s not how the world works, though,” I say, but my heart is pounding because there’s a part of me that wishes history could be rewritten that easily.

Silence hangs between us for a beat, and I realize the bar has mostly cleared out. The lights are on full strength, and the music is off. “I should go. I’m going to get fired.”

Nate backs off, glancing around as though he’s coming out of a trance, just like me. Somehow we ended up in our own bubble, but it’s burst now.

“Nate,” a sandy-blond-haired guy calls from the door. He’s just as tall as Nate but a little more muscled where Nate is leaner. “We gotta go.”

“Go out with me?” Nate asks, stepping away. “Whenever. Wherever. Name the time and place, and I’ll be there.”

“Good night, Nate,” I say with a laugh.

“I’m serious,” he calls out to me as his friend tugs him out the door. “I’ll be back.”

“Oh my god,” Franny says from beside me, watching the two leave together.

“Yeah,” I say, unable to hide my wistful tone.

“You know who that is, right?” She peers at me, surprise clear in her gaze.

“Nate. He must work at the campground? Or a backpacker or something? His hands were callused.” I stare down at my hand, the one he linked with his at some point.

His palm pressed against mine is still fresh in my memory.

Another shiver dances along my spine, sending a rush of goosebumps down my arms.

“I doubt he actually works at the campground. Not in the way you and I work.”

I give her a quizzical look.

“That was Nathaniel Tucker. As in Celia and Jonathan Tucker’s oldest kid. He’s Callahan’s cousin. The two of them are tight—like brothers.”

My eyes widen, and I press my fingers to my lips. “Oh my god. No!”

She lets out a cackle as she starts moving around the bar, tidying bottles and glasses. “Only you would be offended to have made out with a Tucker.”

While she loads her tray with empties and takes it to the bar, I do the same.

“It’s not like he’s a troll,” Franny says. “It’s really unfair how beautiful all the Tuckers are. You shouldn’t be disgustingly rich and disgustingly handsome.”

On top of that, he’s a good kisser. That kiss was the best I’ve ever had, not to be repeated. If there is one thing I know with absolute certainty—the Tucker family is trouble, and I already have enough of that in my life.