Page 41 of Dump Tackle My Heart
When she comes back a few seconds later, she’s smiling.
“Everything sent, Sweetheart?”
“Yeah. It looks great,” she says and shows me the phone, which is logged onto one of the Rovers’ many social media platforms.
“Sweet as,” I murmur, but I’m not really paying attention.
When she sits back down, she cuts into her slice of pumpkin pie, and my whole chest aches when I see it—a dollop of whipped cream clinging to the dimple by her mouth.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I lean across the table and kiss it off.
She gasps softly as I pull back, eyes wide and stunned.
“Do you like the pie?” she asks, trying to recover with a small joke.
But of course, my mind is in the gutter, and I reach over and brush her hand with mine.
“I likeyourpie, Sweetheart,” I say, voice low and thick with everything I’m feeling.
“Hell, I like everything about you, Daniella McNally.”
She stares at me like I’ve just knocked her over without laying a hand on her.
Good.
Because I mean it.
Every word.
And I hope to God she knows it.
CHAPTER 13-DANIELA
I amin so much trouble—and not because I ate like a quarter of a turkey and seconds of everything we cooked today.
It was all delicious, and yeah, I ate too much.
But the real trouble has more to do with a six foot and change warrior-like rugby player who’s threatening everything I know to be true every time he opens his mouth.
His dark eyes glitter as he looks me over from head to toe, and I swear to God, I can feel his gaze like hands across my body.
The whipped cream can rolls across the floor with a hollow thunk, and I let out a breathless laugh that gets swallowed whole the second Tank looks up at me.
"Fuck," he whispers, eyes dark and reverent. "You look so perfect, Sweetheart."
His voice is low and hoarse, and I feel it like a shiver across my skin.
His big hands are at my hips, thumbs brushing just beneath the hem of my official Thanksgiving outfit—a simple wrap dress with tiny fall leaves printed across the soft, stretchy material—and we’re both sprawled on the floor in a mess of pie tins, napkins, and flannel.
Somewhere between filming our makeshift holiday feast and asking him if he liked the pie, we ended up here.
Tangled.
Breathless.
Tipping over the edge of something dangerous and delicious.
He kisses the corner of my mouth, the dimple where a spot of whipped cream lingers.
