Tucker (The Family Simon 1)

Tucker watched Abby return to the main room, aware that most of the male heads turned and followed her progress. And why wouldn’t they? The girl rocked a pair of jeans like nobody’s business.

He had to work to keep the grin off his face. Work to keep the images of Abby out of his head, the ones where those fine jeans were nowhere in sight. Giving his head a shake, he turned back to Mick.

“So are we good?”

Mick scowled. “I don’t think you’re any kind of good for my sister. And I don’t think she’ll come out of whatever the hell it is you guys are doing without getting hurt. Jesus, guys like you think you can have whatever you want.”

Anger snapped Tucker up good. “Wait a minute. What the hell do you mean, guys like me?”

Mick’s eyes were black. “You’re Tucker-fucking-Simon. Women are a dime a dozen to you. When have you not gotten what you’ve wanted?”

“The day my wife’s plane went missing and she didn’t come home.”

Silence followed his words and Tucker shoved a hand through his hair, pissed off, but not real sure what he was pissed off about anymore. The fact that someone like Mick Mathews didn’t think he was good enough for his sister? Or the fact that Mick Mathews just might be right.

“You’re damaged goods, Simon. I know it. And so do you,” Mick said roughly. “That little girl in there means a lot to her family. She means a lot to me. And I know that even if your intentions are good, even though she wants you in her life…you’re no good for her, and you’ll hurt her.”

A muscle worked its way along Tucker’s jaw, but he remained tightlipped.

“When it happens, I will kick your ass.”

Tucker’s eyes narrowed as anger hit him in the gut. “You could try.”

Mick left without another word, and it took a few moments for Tucker to calm down. With a groan, he rubbed the stubble along his jaw and turned back to the bar.

Again, he had to ask.

What the hell had he gotten himself into?

Chapter Eighteen

Funny how a few hockey players could change the energy in the bar. The Black Dog had gone from being boisterous and loud, to being boisterous and really loud with a dose of frenetic energy that touched everyone. Sure, they’d had their fair share of celebrities in the place, but to most of the people in the bar tonight, Dean Kendrick and the rest of his buddies were like gods.

Abby shook her head as she grabbed another bottle of vodka from the stock room, along with two bottles of red wine.

Smiling, she wove through the crowd, winking at Old Joe, a Wednesday night regular who flirted outrageously. The guy was on the wrong end of seventy, short, round, bald and widowed, with no fa

mily close by. But he was the sweetest little old man ever and he liked his extra spicy chicken wings almost as much as he liked his Guinness. Abby had known him for years—back when he still had salt-and-pepper hair—and he’d always been, Old Joe.

She handed the bottle of vodka to her brother without saying a word—still pissed at his attitude—and headed toward the far end of the bar with the wine. Dean Kendrick was sitting next to Tucker, and he’d ordered a bottle of California red.

The star center for the Rangers was something else. His hair was on the long side, his eyebrow was pierced and a tattoo crawled up his neck. His eyes were pale blue and his killer smile told Abby that he could give Old Joe a run for his money when it came to the flirting thing.

He was also funny as hell, and, considering all the hype surrounding him, surprisingly down to earth. She had the feeling he acted like a player, but in reality he was just enjoying the game, so to speak. The women. The attention. The notoriety.

She handed him a fresh glass of wine. He’d meet his match one day. He just wasn’t quite ready for it yet.

“Thanks gorgeous,” Dean said with a smile.

Ignoring him, Abby leaned her hip against the bar and looked at Tucker. God, she wanted to bury her hands in all that thick hair and kiss him silly.

“So how’s it goin’ Cowboy?”

Tucker’s nostrils flared. His eyes flattened and that beautiful mouth of his curved into a smile.

“Cowboy?” Dean asked, sipping his wine and smiling as a lady slid in beside him for a picture.

Tucker ignored him, didn’t take his eyes off of Abby, and she didn’t have to look into the mirror to know that her cheeks were red. Hell, every inch of her was hot and twitchy—which was pretty damn inconvenient considering they were in the middle of The Black Dog.