“Patience,” he chides, parking at the curb in front of a ten-story brick building.
I will up some of that patience and wait for him to open my door. This guy refuses to let me open doors. It’s like he doesn’t understand that I have hands.
When my flats land on the pavement, Tucker takes my hand and leads me to the entrance of the building. I fight back a million questions, because I know he won’t answer them, and obediently follow him into a small lobby with an even smaller elevator. We take it all the way to the tenth floor, walk down a short hall, and stop in front of apartment 10C.
Tucker pulls a key ring out of his pocket and unlocks the door.
“Who lives here?” I demand.
“I do.”
“What? Since when?”
“Since three days ago,” he admits. “Well, technically I don’t move in until the end of the week, but three days ago was when we reached an agreement.”
“We?”
“Me and Brody Hollis, a teammate’s brother.”
“Oh.” I’m so confused, because this entire week he didn’t once mention moving to Boston. “What about your house in Hastings?”
“The lease is up in June. I would’ve had to move out anyway.” He shrugs. “It made more sense to find a place here in Boston. That way I can be close to you and the baby.” He holds out a hand. “Do you want the grand tour?”
“Um. Sure.” I’m still a bit stunned.
Tucker laces his fingers through mine and leads me through the apartment. While the exterior of the building is kind of crappy, the interior is surprisingly nice. The apartment has great outdoor light, pine floors, and an open layout. Down the hall are three doors that lead to the bathroom and two bedrooms.
“I haven’t brought any of my shit over yet,” he says.
We walk into a large, empty bedroom with a huge window that lets in so much sunlight I wish I had my sunglasses with me.
“No, really?” I tease, wandering around the bare room. I approach the window and peer out. “Oh nice. Your room’s got the fire escape.”
“And even nicer—it leads right up to a roof patio. Only the tenth floor apartments have access to it. There’s a barbecue up there, and lots of patio furniture.”
“Oooh, that’s awesome.”
We head back to the kitchen, where Tucker opens the fridge to survey the contents. “You want something to drink? There’s OJ, milk, and water. And a shit ton of beer, but you don’t get to drink that.”
“I’ll take a water.” As he pulls a pitcher out and pours me a glass, I run a hand over the spotless countertops. “It’s super clean in here.”
“Yup. One of Brody’s redeeming qualities is that he likes things clean. You know, because chicks are turned off by clothes on the floor.”
“He’s not wrong.”
“That dude’s entire decision tree consists of ‘will this get me laid?’”
I grin. “Predictability can be nice.”
“Mind if I have a beer?”
“Knock yourself out. Where is he, anyway? At work?”
“Yup. He works nine-to-five at Morgan Stanley. He’s in financial planning, which, from all I can figure out, is basically selling annuities to old people.”
I sip on my water while Tucker cracks open a beer for himself. On the counter near the microwave are a bunch of colorful brochures stacked on top of inch-thick binders.
“What are these?” I trace my fingers over the top one that says ‘Fitness. Your Time. Her Time. Any Time.’
“More prospectuses. Or is it prospectii? I picked this stuff up the other day during a business research expedition.” He paws through the stack, flicking one toward me. “This is for a women’s waxing and laser treatment business. Hollis said that it’s like being a gyno without having to go through med school. Pussy for days.”
My lips twitch. “He knows that just because he’s waxing a girl’s private parts doesn’t mean he gets to touch them again, right?”
“No, I’m pretty sure he thinks it gives him a free pass to fuck them.”
“Lovely.”
I leaf through a couple of glossy pictures of long hairless legs set next to bold type that declares this particular laser is the next best thing. Hmmm. If Tucker buys a laser hair-removal salon, maybe he’d offer me the services for free. Already, my growing belly is starting to make simple tasks difficult. I have to sit down to shave because I’m afraid of tipping over doing my one-legged, flamingo grooming dance in the shower.
Tucker flips over another brochure. “This one is to sell shovels. Door to door.”
I grimace. “That sounds terrible. There’s money in that?”
“According to the franchise documents, yep, but I have my doubts.”
“What else do you have?”
“Sex toys, laundromat, fitness clubs, a bazillion food options. Fast casual is all the rage.”
“You sound enthused by a whole big zero of them.”
“I know.” He scoops the pamphlets into a pile and tosses them into a recycling bin. “Maybe a franchise isn’t for me.”