Chapter 3-Daniela
I stall as long as I possibly can before Finley practically pushes me at the SUV where he’s waiting.
I close my eyes and take a breath, metaphorically pulling up my big-girl panties, then I get in the truck.
“Seatbelt?” he says in his obnoxiously sexy accent.
“Yep. Um, do you know how to drive this thing?” I ask because I have legitimate concerns.
I mean, the weather in Consequence isn’t the same as it is up in Montclair, New Jersey—my hometown—but it’s been nothing but wet weather all week, and as we head to the cabin, I’m sure we’ll encounter some ice and snow.
I squint at him across the console as we head down the highway to a private road that leads to the cabin.
My anxiety climbs as I wait for him to answer while the SUV rumbles up the base of the mountain.
The tires crunch over a mix of gravel and snow, and the guardrails out here are a joke.
One sharp swerve and we’d be airborne like the freakin’ Dukes of Hazzard.
“Seriously, have you driven something like this before?”
Tank—Hudson, keep it formal, I remind myself, not that it helps—grunts like I’ve insulted his manhood.
“It’s a Chevy Tahoe,” he mutters, eyes fixed on the road. “Not a bloody spaceship.”
Okay, he has a point. But really, this SUV might as well be a rocket.
The thing’s freaking huge. Plus, the road’s barely plowed, and like I predicted, once we hit the mountain roads, there’s ice everywhere.
Ice.
Everywhere.
“Right. Sorry. It’s just, you know, we’re on an actual mountain and it’s icy, possibly snowing up there, and I’m just wondering out loud how qualified you are to not kill us both.”
He smirks—barely—but it’s there.
That little twitch at the corner of his mouth that used to drive me crazy.
Still does, apparently.
“Does it even snow in New Zealand?” I ask mostly under my breath.
Or at least I think it’s under my breath.
Because next thing I know, he’s launching into an unexpected geography lesson.
“Depends on where you are,” he says. “North Island gets a bit. South Island gets proper snow. We’ve got ski fields, you know. Mountains. Alpine lakes. All that.”
“Oh,” I blink, genuinely surprised. “Guess I didn’t think about that.”
He shrugs, eyes still on the road, one big hand wrapped around the wheel like he was born with it there.
“People always think it’s all sheep and surfing.”
“Isn’t it? Oh, and rugby, of course.”
This earns me a full side-eye. And—damn him—a dimple.
“Rude.”
I grin, despite myself.
“Sorry. I just, you don’t really scream snow bunny, you know?”
He barks a laugh.
“You don’t really scream wilderness guide, but here we are.”
Oof. Okay. Fair.
I’m not sure if he’s making fun of me for being a city girl, or because my ass is decidedly not in wilderness girl shape—whatever that is. Either way, I was kind of asking for it, so I keep my yap shut.
We ride in silence for a beat.
Just the sound of tires chewing snow and the heater humming low.
My cheeks are too warm, and not because of the vent blowing on me.
“So you’ve really never had Thanksgiving before?” I ask, needing a change of topic.
Preferably one that doesn’t make me picture those thick thighs straddling a snowboard. Or me.
“Nah. American holiday, innit?”
“Yeah, but you’ve lived here for what? Almost two years now?”
“About,” he says. “And yeah, I get the turkey thing. I just don’t really do holidays. Never have.”
There’s something in his tone when he says that.
A closed door.
A lock I didn’t even realize was there.
“Oh.” I chew my lip, glancing out at the snow-dusted trees zipping past the window.
“Well, get ready for a whole lot of holiday this weekend. We’ve got a short list of all the good stuff, including turkey, stuffing, fake cranberry sauce that comes out in the shape of the can—non-negotiable—and like, three separate pies.”
Tank lifts an eyebrow, eyes flicking toward me like I just said something profound.
“Three whole pies?”
I nod solemnly. “Pumpkin. Pecan. And my grandma’s apple. If there’s not whipped cream from a can, I riot.”
“Sweet as. But wait, do I have to cook all of it?” he asks, deadpan.
“Well, you’re supposed to look like you did,” I say, shooting him a sideways smirk. “It’s all about the illusion. But don’t worry, I’ll help.”
He grunts, but there’s a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“Never cooked before. Guess I can fake it.”
My stomach flips.
Again. Dammit.
That voice. That low, rumbly accent that turns basic conversation into borderline foreplay.
I grip my travel mug tighter and try to play it cool.
“You’re gonna be surrounded by so much food you’ll forget what fake even tastes like.”
“Hmm.” He sounds skeptical, but maybe also curious?
The heat’s blasting now, filling the SUV with that toasty dry air that always makes me feel sleepy.
The windows are fogging up, softening the harsh winter light, and making the world outside feel far away.
Cozy. Like we’re in our own little snow globe.
Just the two of us.
I shift in my seat, clearing my throat.
“Thanksgiving’s my favorite, actually. Always has been.”
Tank glances at me.
“Yeah? Why?”
“Why? Well, I mean, it’s loud. And messy. And my cousins always end up in some kind of fight over Monopoly or who’s cheating at Uno. But it’s still my favorite.”
He’s really looking at me now.
Like—really looking.
I push on, nervous energy bubbling up.
“My mom makes everything from scratch. My aunts bring wine and drama. The guys watch football and argue about fantasy leagues. Kids run wild. Every year, it’s chaos. But it’s our chaos. I don’t know. It just, it feels like home, you know?”
Tank doesn’t say anything at first.
But something in his face softens.
Like I’ve peeled back a layer he wasn’t expecting.
Or maybe he wasn’t expecting to want to listen.
I can’t tell.
He clears his throat and shifts his massive frame in the driver’s seat.
“Sounds nice.”
“It is,” I say quietly, surprised by how much I mean it. “Even when it’s not.”
Another beat of silence.
The road curves up, winding deeper into pine-covered slopes.
And when he speaks again, his voice is rough around the edges.
“Thanks for doing this, you know? Um, for bringing me.”
I blink, surprised.
“You mean for the promo shoot?”
“No.” He glances at me again, then back at the road. “I mean, for the holiday. You gave up being with your family to do this thing for the team, for me, and well—I dunno. Just thanks, I guess.”
Oh.
Okay.
Yeah, I’m definitely in trouble.
I check the clock. The cabin’s another twenty minutes up this narrow mountain road.
We’ll be there soon enough, and then maybe I can take some time for myself.
If we don’t crash.
If I don’t spontaneously combust from the tension.
If he doesn’t say something stupid and ruin whatever this almost-flirty mood is.
Dammit. Why do I even go there?
Technically, I knew what I was doing when I fell into bed with Tank. I’m not that young or na?ve.
Tank’s a professional athlete.
So when he said I was “one of the best” he ever had, I’m sure he didn’t mean it comparatively.
Or if he did, well, so what?
He’s like every other jerk out there, ruled by his cock, unaware of the trail of broken hearts he leaves carelessly in his wake.
I’m not in his league.
I know I’m not.
Really, I should just chalk up what happened as a mistake. A blip. An accident. More of a whatever than anything important—because really—that’s all it meant to him.
Pretty words or not, I just have to remind myself I’m here for work.
I can be professional for a weekend.
You betcha, I tell myself as I stare out the window and repeat the same phrase over and over again.
I’m not tempted by Tank Jackson.
Not one little bitty bit.
Of course, it’s at that moment that Tank groans and stretches in his seat, sending a wave of muscles rippling down his demigod body, and I swear, my mouth drops open.
You’re a bad liar, Daniela McNally.
And it is gonna be one very long weekend.