Tacker (Arizona Vengeance #5)(44)

Hopefully, I manage to say this while keeping the disappointment out of my voice. I’d actually been looking forward to hanging with Tacker and the team as my social life has pretty much sucked the last few years after I’d started the ranch. Owning my own business is nothing but eighty-hour workweeks, which tends to destroy friendships over time because I never seem to have time to do stuff. Tacker’s invitation just hit me in the right spot, particularly after I met so many of the team and their families when they came to help out on the ranch. Raul had said I was becoming part of a new community, and I genuinely liked the feeling that produced.

“You cannot pass on going out with us,” Tacker’s deep voice drawls from behind me. I whirl to see him dressed in a dark blue suit that fits him impeccably. Dumbfounded, I can’t seem to recall what I’d just been thinking about.

“I’m way too old and tired to hang with you young bucks,” Raul responds, but then he suggests, “But if you wanted to give Nora a lift, there’s no reason she can’t go out and have a good time with all of you.”

God bless Raul’s heart. He knows I want to go out with them, and he’s pushing me to do so.

“I don’t need someone to give me a lift,” I tell the group quickly. “I can get an Uber or something to drive me out.”

“Nonsense,” Tacker replies breezily. “I’ll give you a ride.”

I’m not sure anyone else catches it, but I do—the slight smirk on Raul’s face. I can tell he was angling for that all along. Had been hoping Tacker would be the one to take me home tonight.

Not that it means anything to me.

Because it doesn’t.

It’s just a friendly offer. That’s all.





CHAPTER 19




Nora


The waitress comes to our table, her tray stacked with beers. While the food is really good at The Sneaky Saguaro, most people come for the hundred and twenty-seven varieties of beer on tap.

I’m just a good old-fashioned Bud Light girl, so when first asked what I wanted to drink, that’s what I said. Erik felt this was just poor form all around, so he proceeded to educate me on the different types of beers, urging me to try a wheat hefeweizen. It was delish, so I stuck with that.

And… I may have had one too many. I enjoy a cold beer or two at the end of the day on occasion, but I’ve had four tonight and I’m pretty buzzed. Still, I’m having a great time, without a doubt confirming what I’d expected.

The people on the Arizona Vengeance are just fucking awesome.

Everyone has made me feel like I’m part of the team. We all hit The Sneaky Saguaro to a raucous cheer from the patrons when the team walked in en masse. People swarmed some of the players for pictures and autographs while I noticed many seemed utterly surprised Tacker is there. Even more shocking was the time he took with the fans. I enjoyed watching him interact with them. Granted, he wasn’t the most at ease and he didn’t engage in a lot of conversation, but he did put on a genuine smile each time a camera came out.

I call that amazing progress.

The owner of the restaurant has taken to setting up a private area for the team on the second floor. There’s a huge, two-story cement saguaro that extends up from the first floor and through the middle section of the restaurant to the second. The second floor is a large rectangular section built around the statue, and one whole side was roped off for the Vengeance.

The waitress hands me another beer, which I had not ordered. Tacker must see the expression on my face because he leans in, “You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to.”

“I’m in a dilemma,” I say honestly.

He cocks his head, placing an elbow on the table. We’ve been at a tall table, the stools having been pushed aside a while ago along with a lot of the regular tables. Once the kitchen closes at eleven, apparently the country music gets cranked, the tables get shoved to the wall, and dancing commences. Tacker has stayed by my side the entire night, but various members of the team and their guests have moved in and out to join our conversation. My throat is actually a little sore from talking and my head equally so from laughing so much.

“What’s the dilemma?” he asks.

“Well, I am enjoying this beer,” I say solemnly. “But I’m also worried about the hangover effect tomorrow. I feel like I’m at the point now that if I were to decline this and drink water, I’d be able to clean the stalls out tomorrow without a terrible headache or much gagging.”

Tacker’s head tips back as he laughs. “I’d probably advise you not to drink it then.”

“I hate to be wasteful, but I think you’re right,” I say, putting the pint glass filled with the amber-orange liquid on the table and pushing it aside. I reach into my purse, nab my wallet, and pull out a ten-dollar bill, which I attempt to hand to Tacker.

“What’s that for?” he asks, brows furrowed.

“For the beer you just bought and I’m not going to drink,” I say. When we ordered the first round, despite Tacker sticking to water, he’d started a tab and told the waitress to put my drinks on it. I tried to argue with him about it, but he politely told me to zip it.

“Are you deliberately trying to piss me off?” he asks. His tone is stern, but I can see amusement sparkling in his eyes. “I mean… perhaps this is some type of therapy whereby you put me in a stressful situation, to see how I handle it?”