Page 11 of Dump Tackle My Heart
I nod solemnly. “Pumpkin. Pecan. And my grandma’s apple. If there’s not whipped cream from a can, I riot.”
“Sweet as. But wait, doIhave to cook all of it?” he asks, deadpan.
“Well, you’re supposed to look like you did,” I say, shooting him a sideways smirk. “It’s all about the illusion. But don’t worry, I’ll help.”
He grunts, but there’s a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Never cooked before. Guess I can fake it.”
My stomach flips.
Again. Dammit.
That voice. That low, rumbly accent that turns basic conversation into borderline foreplay.
I grip my travel mug tighter and try to play it cool.
“You’re gonna be surrounded by so much food you’ll forget what fake even tastes like.”
“Hmm.” He sounds skeptical, but maybe also curious?
The heat’s blasting now, filling the SUV with that toasty dry air that always makes me feel sleepy.
The windows are fogging up, softening the harsh winter light, and making the world outside feel far away.
Cozy. Like we’re in our own little snow globe.
Just the two of us.
I shift in my seat, clearing my throat.
“Thanksgiving’s my favorite, actually. Always has been.”
Tank glances at me.
“Yeah? Why?”
“Why? Well, I mean, it’s loud. And messy. And my cousins always end up in some kind of fight over Monopoly or who’s cheating at Uno. But it’s still my favorite.”
He’s really looking at me now.
Like—reallylooking.
I push on, nervous energy bubbling up.
“My mom makes everything from scratch. My aunts bring wine and drama. The guys watch football and argue about fantasy leagues. Kids run wild. Every year, it’s chaos. But it’sourchaos. I don’t know. It just, it feels like home, you know?”
Tank doesn’t say anything at first.
But something in his face softens.
Like I’ve peeled back a layer he wasn’t expecting.
Or maybehewasn’t expecting towantto listen.
I can’t tell.
He clears his throat and shifts his massive frame in the driver’s seat.
