Page 12 of Dump Tackle My Heart
“Sounds nice.”
“It is,” I say quietly, surprised by how much I mean it. “Even when it’s not.”
Another beat of silence.
The road curves up, winding deeper into pine-covered slopes.
And when he speaks again, his voice is rough around the edges.
“Thanks for doing this, you know? Um, for bringing me.”
I blink, surprised.
“You mean for the promo shoot?”
“No.” He glances at me again, then back at the road. “I mean, for the holiday. You gave up being with your family to do this thing for the team, for me, and well—I dunno. Just thanks, I guess.”
Oh.
Okay.
Yeah, I’mdefinitelyin trouble.
I check the clock. The cabin’s another twenty minutes up this narrow mountain road.
We’ll be there soon enough, and then maybe I can take some time for myself.
If we don’t crash.
If I don’t spontaneously combust from the tension.
If he doesn’t say something stupid and ruin whatever this almost-flirty mood is.
Dammit. Why do I even go there?
Technically, I knew what I was doing when I fell into bed with Tank. I’m not that young or naïve.
Tank’s a professional athlete.
So when he said I was “one of the best” he ever had, I’m sure he didn’t mean it comparatively.
Or if he did, well, so what?
He’s like every other jerk out there, ruled by his cock, unaware of the trail of broken hearts he leaves carelessly in his wake.
I’m not in his league.
I know I’m not.
Really, I should just chalk up what happened as a mistake. A blip. An accident. More of awhateverthan anything important—because really—that’s all it meant to him.
Pretty words or not, I just have to remind myself I’m here for work.
I can be professional for a weekend.
You betcha,I tell myself as I stare out the window and repeat the same phrase over and over again.
I’m not tempted by Tank Jackson.
