Page 15 of Dump Tackle My Heart
Shakespeare! Shakespeare’s safe.
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?—”
Shit. Nope. Abort.
That one ends with “eternal lines to time thou grow’st,” and if I think about her growing inside me—filling up every part of my brain—I’m gonna have a problem I can’t hide behind the counter.
I slam a cabinet shut and grip the countertop.
“You okay?” she asks, glancing over.
No, I’m not fucking okay.
I want you so much it hurts.
“Yeah,” I lie.
She opens a bottom cabinet. Frowns.
“Where’s the wood for the fire?”
I point toward the back door.
“Shed out there. I’ll grab it.”
It’s easier to brave the snow again than stay inside with her and this tension.
But when I come back with an armload of logs and she’s kneeling by the fireplace trying to light it with one of those long lighters and zero success, something primitive snaps in me.
“I got it,” I say.
“Fine.”
She huffs and scoots aside.
I kneel, stack the logs, crumple some paper, and get a flame going with one strike.
The fire catches fast, warm and flickering.
She’s close. Too close.
I can feel her behind me.
Her breath. Her presence.
My heart hammers like I’m on the fucking pitch and not in a cozy log cabin beside the only woman I’ve ever wanted this badly.
Her voice comes quiet.
Soft. Dangerous.
“You always this good at starting fires?”
I turn.
And for the first time in my life, I’ve got no equation, no sonnet, no game plan.
Just her. And this heat.
