Love, Me by Tiffany White Page A

on a thorn Pokey must have carried in on her fur.
    Swearing, he pulled the thorn from his foot, then hopped to the front door and opened it to see what in hell was the cause of all the racket.
    It was not a parade, it was only one car. Chelsea sat in the front seat pressing the horn, looking as pleased as a blue ribbon winner.
    Tucker was sprawled in the back seat with his leg propped up.
    It wasn’t just any car.
    The reason for the smug look plastered on Chelsea’s face was the fact that it was his car—an exact replica of the car she’d totaled.

Chapter 8
8
    F OR SEVERAL SECONDS Dakota simply stared in amazement. “I don’t believe this,” he said finally, as he began limping carefully across the driveway. “Where did you get it?”
    Chelsea grinned and lovingly patted the decrepit hunk of metal. “Tucker tracked it down. He was on your phone for hours until he found one.”
    â€œLong distance,” Tucker called from the back seat.
    When Dakota looked his way, Tucker tipped his baseball cap. “Don’t know if it’s going to work for you, dude. I rode here in the back seat all the way, and I haven’t had any tunes pop into my head. Course, I mighta been a little more inspired if I’d had a woman back here to keep me company.”
    â€œHave you ever had any tunes pop into your head, Tucker?” Chelsea demanded. She was distracted by Dakota’s half-naked body; he was like a golden cougar, all ripply sinew and sleek lines. And he looked like he’d just crawled out of bed. Had they interrupted something? She blushed, hoping Melinda Jackson wasn’t going to come sashaying out of the house at any moment.
    â€œNope, can’t say as I have,” Tucker answered with a wide grin. “I’m a lover, not a writer.”
    â€œWell, what do you think?” Chelsea turned to ask Dakota, trying not to stare at where his jeans were riding low on his hips.
    â€œI think it’s—” he ran his hand through his hair, “—it’s something, all right.”
    â€œBut do you think it will work? Do you think you’ll be able to write again now?”
    Dakota smoothed his hand over the fender, feeling the dents, a thoughtful look on his face. “I’m willing to give it a try, since the two of you have gone to all this effort.” He shrugged. “Who knows? I suppose stranger things have happened.”
    â€œWell, then, someone had better help me haul my butt outta here.” Tucker groaned, trying to maneuver from the back seat.
    Dakota went to give him a hand.
    â€œThanks for helping locate the car,” Dakota said when he’d pulled Tucker out.
    â€œNo thanks needed. I’d do anything at all to get Chelsea the song she wants. And even if I hadn’t wanted to help, she’d have made me. You may have noticed the woman does get her way.”
    â€œI’ve noticed.”
    â€œYou’d better get inside and off that leg,” Chelsea ordered, lifting his arm across her shoulders to help him hobble inside.
    Dakota walked on ahead to get the door.
    â€œYou’re looking a little gimpy there yourself, dude,” Tucker observed.
    â€œI stepped on a thorn.”
    â€œDid you put something on it?” Chelsea asked, as Dakota helped her lower Tucker to the sofa in the library.
    â€œNo, it’s nothing.”
    â€œYou sit down there with Tucker, and I’ll get some antiseptic.”
    â€œI’d sit if I were you,” Tucker said with a laugh. “That is, after you get me a cola, if you’ve got one. We didn’t stop to eat.”
    â€œI’ll get us something to drink and see what the cook left for dinner,” Dakota offered.
    Chelsea returned with a tube of ointment just as Dakota came back, carrying a tray. He put the tray on the coffee table and handed out drinks, then set out soup bowls for each of them.
    â€œWhat is this?” Tucker asked, peering