Page 51 of Dump Tackle My Heart
I cross the room slowly, cautiously, trying not to read too much into this.
But when he turns around and catches me looking, I swear I see it—just for a second—that heat in his eyes again.
That simmering, banked fire.
But he doesn’t say anything.
Just passes me a bowl like this is all perfectly normal.
I accept it, fingers brushing his.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
We eat in silence.
It’s not uncomfortable.
But it’s not easy either.
There’s a tension now—a slow, humming ache I can’t name.
Like a wound I’m trying not to pick at.
I watch him across the table, bare-chested beneath his unbuttoned flannel shirt, hair damp from melting snow, eyes on his food like he’s trying not to look at me.
Like he’s trying to be good.
And maybe that’s what scares me the most.
Because if Tank Jackson is capable of restraint?
I’m in real trouble.
CHAPTER 17-TANK
The snow’scoming down so hard I can barely see past the porch.
It’s a total whiteout.
I’ve done everything I can—hauled in enough firewood to last a couple more days, triple-checked the locks, even turned the faucets to drip to keep the pipes from freezing.
But the generator’s been coughing like a dying mule all afternoon.
And right now?
It’s silent.
Dead.
Which means—yep, there it goes.
The lights flicker once.
Then twice.
Then everything goes black, leaving only the soft crackle of the fire and the howling wind pressing against the windows.
