Page 12 of Illegal Contact

I tapped Tucker’s name and typed out my message, then sent it before I could overthink it.

Me:Why do I have your number in my phone?

That was innocuous enough. Didn’t mention our hookup, didn’t tell him how much I’d thought about it, didn’t ask him the same.

I frowned at the quick reply.

Tucker:Who dis? Plenty of people have my number.

Because I was an egotistical bastard, it aggravated me to no end that Tucker didn’t know immediately who was texting him.

Me:I’m sure they do.

Tucker:Laura?

Me:No.

Tucker:Shit. Melinda?

Me:No.

Tucker:Sarah.

Me:No.

I drank another swallow of beer. This was entertaining. I wondered how many names he could get through before one or both of us got bored of the game.

Tucker:Jake.

What the hell? Who the fuck was Jake?

Fuck this game. The entertainment had been short-lived and quickly replaced by the feral ache of frustration mingled with desire. I tossed my phone aside only to pick it up again when it chimed twice in quick succession.

Tucker:What’s up, Whitt?

Tucker:Think I can’t use google to reverse lookup a number, you dumbass?

Shit. I hadn’t thought of that. Definitely drunk.

Me:My number isn’t public in any way. My agent made sure of that.

Tucker:No shit, which makes it easy to figure out it’s you.

Me:You didn’t answer my first question.

Tucker:No clue. Are you in Florida?

Me:Yeah.

Tucker:With your family?

Me:Nah. They’re not getting in until tomorrow. It’s just me, a fire, some whiskey, and a stupid tall Christmas tree that I switched to the rainbow lights. I hate white lights.

Tucker:Are you drunk?

Me:No, I’m just sharing my light preference. The colorful ones are more festive.

Tucker:You’re drunk.