Page 25 of Dump Tackle My Heart
Suffocating.
And when I finally close my eyes and almost convince myself I’ve won this ridiculous game of flirty chicken, I feel it.
Heat.
A hand.
His hand.
Not on me, but near me. So close it hums.
“If we’re both so comfy,” he murmurs, voice thick, “why’s your heart beating like that, Dani?”
I exhale.
Because I am not comfy.
I am combusting.
And I think I might be done torturing myself after all.
CHAPTER 8-TANK
It’s a risk.
A big one.
But I’m taking it.
Because if I don’t, if I keep pretending I’m fine lying next to the woman who wrecked me with one night and months of silence, I’m going to lose my damn mind.
The truth is, I’d bare my soul for her.
I’d put my heart on a platter, kneel at her feet, offer her everything I’ve got and beg her to take it.
But not if she doesn’t want it.
Not if I’m the only one standing in this fire.
I need to know.
Need to see it in her eyes, feel it in the way she breathes when I get close.
So, I do the only thing I can.
I reach for the rest of the pillow wall.
The flimsy, stupid barrier she built between us when we agreed to this whole "professional" co-sleeping arrangement.
There’s only three pillows now, all tilted and sagging from the tossing and turning we’ve both been doing.
I grab one.
And knock it onto the floor.
“What are you—” she starts, but I cut her off, turning onto my side, facing her fully.
“You know what I’m doing, Dani.”
