Page 36 of Dump Tackle My Heart
I don’t know why I can’t make myself call him Tank like everyone else. To me, he’s Hudson, and I kind of like it that way.
So, until he says otherwise, that’s what I’m gonna call him.
He looks up, holding a whole onion in one hand and a potato peeler in the other like he’s just discovered fire.
“I’m peeling it,” he says.
“That’snota potato.”
He frowns at the onion.
“Then why’s it shaped like one?”
“It’s an onion,Tank.”
He frowns.
“I like it when you call me Hudson, Dani. As for this, well, itsmellsmean,” he mutters, dropping it like it bit him.
“Because it’s an onion,” I deadpan, still filming.
And okay, I’m preening because he told me to call him Hudson.
Swoon. Swoon. Swoon.
“Alright, are you ready to give the folks at home that holiday greeting I drew up for you?”
He nods, then turns toward the camera and flashes a wide,and way too sexy for this ungodly hour, grin.
“Happy Thanksgiving to all our loyal Rovers fans out there. This is your boy Tank, and today, I will be making, uh, hang on—” He leans in, stage whispering, “What am I making again?”
I snort.
“Turkey. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Green beans. And stuffing, but we call it dressing when it’s not in the bird.”
“Riiiight,” he nods. “Okay, folks, so I’m making all the carbs, and one bird. To honor your fine American tradition of thanking each other with saturated fat and all matter of deliciousness.”
“Exactly,” I say, biting back a grin. “And to be clear, you’re cooking. I’m filming. Hands off. Now, get mashing.”
“Sure, sure,” he says, turning back to the bowl of peeled potatoes with the concentration of a bomb technician.
He grabs the masher like he’s about to drop the hammer of Thor and—wham!—potato goes flying across the room.
Thunk.
Straight into the ceiling.
We both stare up as it sticks there for half a second before plopping down onto the floor.
I blink.
He shrugs.
“Good thing I made extra,” he says, totally unfazed.
“Oh,youmade them?” I snort.
“They were already boiled.”
