Chapter 2-Tank
I’m walking toward the SUV they assigned me for this whole Thanksgiving in the Mountains promo, and I swear to God, it feels like every pair of eyes in the damn facility is burning holes in my back.
Maybe they are.
Finley’s got her clipboard out like it’s a holy relic, standing next to my little brother Koa—who’s smirking like he knows something I don’t—and there, standing between them like a fucking vision, is her.
Daniela.
Fuck.
My Dani.
She’s got her hair twisted up in one of those messy buns that still looks sexy as hell.
There’s a pen tucked behind her ear, and a little green notebook clutched in one hand while she points at something on Finley’s list.
Her lips are moving. She’s talking shop.
Professional. Focused.
Not looking at me.
Not even a glance.
Not even after everything we did together that unforgettable fucking night we spent together.
And yeah, maybe I deserve that.
I’ve got my own duffel slung over my shoulder and my favorite rugby ball in one hand—the one me and Koa used to toss around as kids back on the Big Island.
It’s scuffed to hell, but I like it that way.
Reminds me of where I came from.
Reminds me of who I am beneath all the bruises and highlight reels.
Still. Right now?
I feel like a fucking idiot.
Because despite what the media says, despite what the locker room thinks, I’m not just the team’s wrecking ball.
I’m not just the big, broody bastard who plays like a demon and speaks like a caveman.
On paper? I’m a genius.
IQ in the stratosphere.
Mensa card in my wallet.
I can build a PC from scrap metal and write code that’d make hackers weep.
Hell, I taught myself Japanese because I was bored.
But when it comes to her?
I’m dumb as a post.
Don’t even know what I did to make her run.
Don’t know why she ghosted me like I meant less than nothing after the best damn night of my life.
But this weekend? I intend to find out, to do better.
And maybe—if the universe is on my side for once—I’ll get to do more than apologize.
Hell, I’ll grovel.
Drop to my knees.
Beg her to let me make it right.
So long as I can get up close and personal with her again.
Taste her sweet, honey-dripping slit—fuck.
Now I’ve got a full-blown hard-on in the middle of the car park, and my brother is looking at me like I just sprouted a second fucking head.
“Oi,” Koa barks. “What the fuck you standing there for, bruh? You meditating, or you glitching out?”
I exhale through my nose and clench my jaw.
Don’t kill him.
I’m about to be off on a holiday promo.
There are cameras somewhere.
Always are.
I catch Daniela’s gaze for half a second.
Emerald eyes. Sharp. Cool.
She looks right through me like I’m a fucking ghost.
Then—cue the eye roll.
A perfect flick of annoyance as she turns back to Finley and her damn checklist.
It shouldn’t gut me.
But it does.
I hustle to the SUV, pop the trunk, and toss in my bag.
Close it with more force than necessary.
Grip the keys in my hand for a beat just so I don’t stare at the woman of my dreams like a fucking creeper.
Too late.
“Dude,” Koa mutters, sidling up beside me. “You look like a lunatic.”
“What?”
“Stop creeping on her, mate. You look like a cartoon wolf about to blow steam out your ears.”
I push off the trunk and walk to the driver’s side and get in.
Koa slaps the door shut and leans in on my side of the car.
“You got the addy plugged in?”
“Yeah. Yeah, bruh. I’m not a moron.”
“Didn’t say you were. Just, y’know.” He shrugs. “Don’t fuck it up this time.”
I scowl. “I don’t even know what I did.”
“That’s the problem,” he mutters, then claps me on the shoulder and steps back. “Happy first Thanksgiving in Consequence, brother. Try not to get in over your head without at least talking to the girl this time.”
Like he should fucking talk. Finley had him running in circles before she gave him the time of day. Now, of course, they’re inseparable, and Koa’s doling out relationship advice like he’s some fucking expert. Lucky bastard.
I grunt and plug in my phone, checking my mirrors and adjusting the seat to accommodate my height.
Hands on the wheel.
Heart thumping at ninety kilos per hour.
Thighs tight with need.
Mind a fucking mess of regret and hope and filthy memory.
I’m gonna fix this.
Even if it takes the whole damn weekend.