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“Hmm,” I say. And suddenly there is a ruckus outside of the elevator, some voices, some banging, and then a jolt that scares me at first. I think about those horror movies where people plunge to their death in elevators, but as we start to slowly slide upward again, I sigh in relief.

Tuck shoves himself to his feet again and then holds out a hand to help me. I take it and the doors open.

“Thanks for the company,” I tell him.

“It’s the least I could do, seeing as how it was probably my fault,” he says, and I laugh with another blush, only because I feel bad about it. “Hey and Natalie?” he calls, and I look back. He’s holding the door open again, this time by pressing down on the button and not the doors themselves.

“Go easy on him,” he says. “Ash might seem like a hard, tough guy, but that’s just the outer layer. If he lets you in enough to see the layers below that, well. It’s rare. Don’t fuck with his heart, okay?”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I just give him a soft smile and watch the elevator doors shut.

Ash’s best friend seems to think he is interested in me, and I don’t know how I feel about that. But I do know one thing: it makes everything much more complicated.

Chapter 18

Marcus

“Remind me why we are doing this again,” I say as Tuck and I get out of his truck. It’s Saturday, which in my opinion is a perfectly good workday, but Tuck insisted I go with him to this waterfront festival at Miami Bayside along the Marketplace Strip.

It’s crowded, it’s humid, the air smells like fried food and spun sugar, and live music is blaring somewhere in the distance. I hate it.

“Because you need a break,” he says, sauntering towards the festivities with a casual, contented look on his face. Meanwhile, I feel like a cat being held over a bathtub full of water.

“That’s subjective at best,” I say. “We have three new event accounts that landed on my desk just this morning.”

“Don’t you mean Natalie’s desk?” he asks as we step out of the way of a horde of teenagers rushing past us.

“Natalie doesn’t work weekends,” I say flatly. “She’s got a kid, remember.”

“Oh, I remember,” he says, grinning as he raises his shades to check out a couple of women passing by. Every one of them gives him the once-over, some more than once.

“There’s also a new contract with Skagerrak,” I tell him.

“That’s the Swedish yacht company, right?” he asks.

“Norwegian,” I correct him.

“Same thing. But listen, boss, all of that can wait. It’s not like they want to work with anyone else. They aren’t going anywhere. And you know as well as I do that Little Miss Prudent is probably all over it. She’s probably sitting at the kitchen table right now with notebooks and tablets splayed out all over the place while her kid noshes on Froot Loops and watches cartoons,” he says. “She’s on it. Norway’s not going anywhere and you, my man, need some sun.”

“Again, debatable,” I tell him as we approach the thick of it all. There're all kinds of vendors, from crafts to art to handmade soaps and cutting boards and jewelry and clothes. All stuff I don’t need. All a waste of time.

“Wanna get a drink?” he asks, and I look at my watch. It’s one. Definitely an acceptable drinking time, especially for a Saturday.

“Where?” I ask, looking for the nearest acceptable bar or pub, but Tuck keeps walking, leading us straight towards a brewery on the corner.

I hate breweries.

Don’t get me wrong. I love beer. A good craft brew is a work of art when done right, but I am not a fan of the brewery scene. It’s mostly people from thirty-ish to forty-ish. A lot of them have children. They are all hanging out in there wearing business casual or cargo shorts and flip-flops. It’s moms and playdate friends and kids who think turning twenty-one and ordering the “Dankest IPA” is acceptable drinking behavior.

They’re loud, crowded, and overpriced. Plus, the barstools are always, always uncomfortable.

But Tuck loves going to them, but he loves most things. How we ever became best friends was a bit of a mystery to me. I’m sure our friendship had something to do with our upbringing. We were neighbors, but in our upper class neighborhood, that didn’t mean we were close in distance. We went to the same school and had the same friend group. But he was a football player, and I was on the wrestling team. His grades were mediocre, while mine were high enough to guarantee a scholarship I didn’t even need. My dad had the money and status to send me to any school I wanted. But part of me needed to know that I could do it independently. My parents were so flighty with their relationship and spent their money like water, so there was always a part of me that wanted to play it safe. To this day, I manage my inheritance and my own earnings better than he ever did.

All that said, Tuck and I were close. I think he understood my home life better than anyone else. He kind of had a front-row seat to the nightly shit show of my parents screaming at each other and throwing things. He has always known what was below the surface of our perfect family photograph.

I liked him because he was real. He wasn’t an asshole. He has zero ego, which is rare. And he can handle me, which, despite a good amount of teen therapy and internal battling, is saying a lot.

And for those reasons, I take a deep breath and follow him into the brewery.