Page 98 of The One Night Dash
“We talk while we clean up our … situation.”
“Isn’t that breaking girl code? You thinking a man can handle doing two things at once?”
“This just in.” I grin. “Noelle Pembrooke is a rule breaker.”
We set to work, bending, stacking, and propping books back where they belong. Dash makes quick work of the heavier piles while I trail behind, fixing spines and nudging covers straight.
“So,” I say, glancing at him over my shoulder, “schedule lotto, huh? Thanksgiving home, nothing until December fourth. That’s a gift.”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but his eyes cut to me, warm. “Best kind. More time with you.”
I bite my lip, hiding a smile, and slide a stack onto the shelf. “Since you volunteered to help with the playbook …”
“Volunteered, I certainly did,” he repeats, smirking.
“Yes. Since youvolunteered,you should take liberties. Align with mine as little or as much as you want.”
His brows lift. “You may regret that.”
“Something tells me I won’t.”
“You’re gonna set me off task here, and we’re halfway done. So, let’s talk about grabbing something to eat.” He winks at me.
“What’s your favorite thing to eat?”
“You,” he states, and I’m blushing.
“Food, Sterling.”
We’re back on task … for now. Pizza or wings? Both, obviously. Mexican or Italian? He says he eats Italian on cheat days, but not too much. Mexican, he can make work. Donuts or pie?
“In season, no donuts, occasional pie. Strict macros, lean proteins, boring stuff.” He shrugs like it’s just a fact. “But out of season? Donuts at sunrise, pie at night. Non-negotiable.”
My grin spreads slowly. “So, you’re basically two different men depending on the calendar.”
“Guess you’ll have to stick around to meet both.”
By the time we’re done, the books are upright again, and my stomach hurts from laughing.
Dash drops onto the step stool, stretching his arms out wide. “You know,” he says slowly, “it doesn’t feel right, staying at the Puck Palace.”
I tilt my head. “Why not?”
“Because I’m not a single man anymore.” His gaze finds mine, steady and sure. “I want a place of my own. A place where I can walk around naked, and so can you, without worrying about anyone stepping in.”
Heat spikes in my cheeks, but my answer is easy. “My bed’s free anytime you want to stay.”
He grins, wicked and sweet all at once. “You should ask your roommates how they feel about that.”
I blink, then laugh. “You mean Ernest and Hemingway?”
“Yeah.” His voice drops mock-serious. “I don’t want to step on any paws.”
I snort. “They’d probably write poetry about you.”
“Good,” he says with a smirk. “I’ll dedicate the first naked lap around the place to them.”
I’m still laughing when he leans forward, voice dipping low. “Real talk, though … your bed’s cute as fuck, but it’s not gonna survive the next time you tell me not to hold back.”
