Page 50 of Dump Tackle My Heart
Just like I wanted.
But did I? Or is that just what I told myself I did?
Because the truth?
The truth is those last two nights meant more to me than they should have.
More than they were supposed to.
And if I’m going to survive the rest of this weekend—and return to Consequence with my career, my pride, and my heart intact—I have to put up some walls.
Reinforce the boundary between personal and professional.
Even if it kills me.
So I keep my eyes on the screen in front of me, editing videos and pretending not to notice every time the cabin door creaks open and closes again.
Pretending not to feel his presence, warm and steady, like a gravity field I can’t escape.
He doesn’t touch me.
Doesn’t flirt.
Doesn’t hover.
Instead, he gives me what I said I needed.
Space.
And it’s so fucking awful.
By noon, the cabin smells like turkey and something savory, and my stomach growls like a traitor.
I didn’t even realize how hungry I was until just now.
I shut my laptop and stretch, glancing toward the kitchen—then freeze.
Hudson’s there.
He’s got two mugs of soup steaming on the counter, a plate of grilled turkey and cheese sandwiches beside them.
The man made lunch.
From leftovers. With zero fanfare.
“Did you cook?” I start, voice barely above a whisper.
“Soup’s on,” he says, back still to me as he stirs a pot with a wooden spoon like he’s done this a hundred times.
“You did all this?”
He shrugs one shoulder.
“It’s just soup and sandwiches. Figured you might be hungry.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
Because yes, I’m hungry—but not just for food.
