Tacker (Arizona Vengeance 5)

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?”

For a moment, I think he’s serious and that hits close to home to think I’d do that. But then his mouth splits into a wide smile, and he shakes his head. “I’m just teasing you, Nora. You and I both know you’re not on counselor duty with me when we’re out like this, right?”

“Out like this?” I can’t help but ask.

“As friends,” he replies easily.

Yes, of course… friends. Just as I thought and had hoped for really.

But I try to ignore that little voice in my head that wonders what it would be like to have more with him. I mean, I can’t. It’s not possible. There’s too much to risk and lose on my part.

But I can’t help the attraction I have to this man. And it’s not just physical, although that part certainly doesn’t hurt. But the physical is such a small part.

The true connection comes from our similar experiences, because when we engage in our counseling sessions, he and I are both giving and taking of each other. Sharing intimate details of grief and pain that are our own little secrets.

It’s made me feel close to him in a way I don’t bond with my other clients. Not a bad thing for my other clients, because I give them good attention, advice, and emotional support. I do my job beyond well.

But with Tacker, it’s just different, and while we’ve engaged in sharing conversations unlike what I do with my other patients, there’s also something else that’s not identifiable to me.

Which is what makes hanging out with Tacker very risky and quite scary. I like him a little too much, definitely in ways that exceed the boundaries of our professional relationship.

“Those look like some heavy thoughts,” Tacker observes, then tacks on a grin. “In fact, I can’t even count how many times you’ve said those same words to me. Looks like I’m the counselor now.”

I give a hard shake of my head in denial because there’s no way I’m ever sharing those inner musings with Tacker. “Nope. No heavy thoughts. Having a great time.”

Just then, something bumps Tacker from behind, causing him to knock into me. Not hard, but enough that his full body makes contact with mine, his hands coming to my shoulders to steady me.

He whips his head around to glare over his shoulder with an irritated growl. It lands on a few of the rookies who are getting a bit loud and rowdy.

“Sorry, Tacker,” one says solicitously, his face awash with fear.

“No worries,” he mutters before turning back to me. “Fucking kids.”

“That’s impressive,” I drawl, giving a slow hand clap as I grin. “Few weeks ago, I do believe you would have punched him.”

“Few weeks ago, I would have thrown him over the railing and hoped that concrete saguaro didn’t break his fall,” he says blandly, and that makes me laugh so hard I double over.

“I’d hold up my beer to tap against yours in a ‘cheers’ type of moment, but I don’t want to get drunk and you can’t drink, so… high-five,” I say, holding my hand up with the palm outward.

His hand comes out and slaps against mine, then curls around my fingers for a soft squeeze. “We should dance.”

I blink, sure I misunderstood him. “Dance?”

“Yeah… dance,” he repeats. “I’ve fucking evolved.”

Tacker Hall just asked me to dance. A man who, up until a few weeks ago, was a taciturn asshole hell-bent on closing himself off from the world. The same man who had been so mired in grief he hadn’t known how to smile anymore.

A man who had given up on life for all intents and purposes.

“Do you know how to dance?” I ask dumbly.

Tacker cocks an eyebrow, tightening his hold on my hand and jerking me into him. My hand goes to his shoulder, his other to my waist. “I lived in Dallas for six years. I think I know how to pull off a basic two-step.”