Page 24 of Dump Tackle My Heart

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They’re pink.

Of course they’re pink.

And the lace is so fine, they’re practically sheer.

Yep.

My life is a cosmic joke.

Tank swears under his breath.

I toss the hoodie to the floor like a mic drop.

“There,” I say, crawling back atop the covers like I didn’t just detonate a sexual tension bomb. “Isn’t that better?”

He stares at the ceiling like it owes him money.

I try not to look at him.

Really. I try.

But I give in and roll to my side.

Tank is looking at me now.

He’s all muscle and tanned skin and shadows. And he’s so still.

Like he’s meditating.

Or dying inside.

I thought two could play at this game.

But I think it’s more like two could lose.

He shifts onto his side.

The pillow wall shuffles.

I shift onto my back for a second, then I return to my previous spot.

Another pillow topples.

Our knees almost brush.

I roll the other way.

The mattress dips, losing another pillow.

This bed? King sized?

Nah. It feels small. Tiny even.

The air?

Hotter.Tighter.

The tension?

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