Page 18 of Dump Tackle My Heart
“Don’t worry about what we say, I’m going to edit that all out,” I tell him as I continue to instruct him on the correct way to place the turkey into the brining bag, which we have inside of a large pot, before we start adding the ingredients for the actual brine.
I have a stand with a video camera taking some actual footage while I snap candids with my phone.
At one point, our hands bump, we’re both reaching for the same bottle of apple cider, and my whole body short-circuits.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“All good,” he says, but his voice is thicker now.
Rougher.
I feel his eyes on me as I pour the liquid into the pot.
My fingers tremble, and a little bit splashes onto the counter.
“Shit.”
“I’ll get it,” he murmurs, leaning in close with a towel.
My breath catches.
His hand grazes mine.
Just for a second.
Just enough to make me lightheaded.
He smells like pine and smoke and something I want to bury my face in for the rest of the damn year.
I am not okay.
“You alright?” he asks, catching my eye.
“Yes,” I lie. “No. I mean—sure, this is fine. Totally normal. Two coworkers brining poultry. In a remote cabin. In the mountains. Alone.”
I definitely sound normal.
Tank grins.
“Is this where we set rules for the one bed situation?”
“I—what?”
He lifts one brow.
“You looked panicked earlier.”
“I wasn’t panicked.”
“You were definitely panicked.”
I huff and cross my arms.
“Fine. Okay. Rules. Yes. Um, we’re adults. We can share a bed and not have to think anything else is gonna happen. Cause it’s not. So?—”
“Of course not. So?” Tank raises one eyebrow, and I want to hit him, he’s so damn cute.
“Pillows! We’ll put pillows between us?”
