Page 14 of Dump Tackle My Heart
Still, I take it all in.
The vaulted ceiling. Stone fireplace. Big couch. One open-concept kitchen and—oh. One bed.
Fuck me.
It’s huge.
King-size.
Covered in a flannel comforter and pillows like a Pinterest wet dream.
“Only one bed?” Dani says from directly behind me, voice flat.
“I’ll take the floor,” I tell her, wanting to kick my own ass even as I say it.
“No way. You’ll freeze.”
“I’ve slept in worse places.”
I have.
Concrete locker rooms.
A team bus with busted heat.
My old Civic when I first got scouted and couldn’t afford rent and protein powder.
But I don’t say that.
I just drop the luggage, clear my throat, and head outside for more bags.
Once I’m done with those, I head toward the kitchen.
Distraction. I need a distraction.
I unload the groceries while she walks around with her phone, probably filming B-roll for this fucking Thanksgiving promo.
There’s turkey, stuffing mix, cans of that weird cranberry goop, and three store-bought pie crusts with a mix mash of fixings for whatever it is we’ll be making.
It’s menial labor, but it’s good. Gives me something to do with my hands.
Thank God.
I pretend not to watch her as she moves through the space, but I see everything.
The way her hair swings when she spins to get a wide shot.
The way her jeans hug her hips when she reaches up to get a high angle.
Her laugh when she catches me looking and raises a perfectly arched brow.
Focus, idiot.
I try to recite Euler’s Identity in my head:e to the i pi plus one equals zero.
Beautiful. Clean. Safe.
Except Daniela smells like vanilla and sin, and the moment she bends over to put something in the fridge, it’s all over.
