Chapter 4-Tank
Finding the cabin took a little maneuvering once we left the mountain road for a smaller, narrower, and darker one, but we managed to get there in one piece.
Of course, certain pieces of mine were more grateful than others to be out of the cramped seat, standing in the fresh, cold air.
Ever driven two hours with a relentless boner?
Well, let me tell you, it’s not bloody fun, mate. Not one fucking bit.
The snow crunches beneath my boots as I haul her bag and mine toward the porch.
She tries to take hers, of course.
I grunt, move faster, and I grab the straps.
“I got it.”
She scowls, all fire and flashing green eyes.
But she relents. Dani lets me carry her bag, and it feels like a victory to me.
I don’t tell her I’d carry a thousand of her damn bags just for one smile.
Or that I memorized her Instagram bio after we hooked up.
Or that I still remember the exact shade of glitter she wore on her eyelids that night we went to bed together.
Nope, I’m just Mr. Cool as I stomp up the stairs, punch in the code, and push the door open to the luxury log cabin owned by Mitchell Knight.
It’s sleek and expensive, with all the amenities, including a giant satellite dish out back.
But that’s not what hits me first.
It’s the heat.
Someone must’ve come up earlier and started the fire—but no, not someone—I gather as I take in my surroundings.
Aha, looks like I’m right.
It’s a thing, not a person that’s set the place up.
I grin as I take in the complicated computer setup and the modern appliances inside the one floor cabin that would’ve made it possible for someone to start the fire, turn on the electricity, and make sure the water was running before we arrived.
Makes sense.
Finley, my new sis-in-law, plans everything down to the minute, and our boss, Mitchell, well, he’s a brainy guy with a huge bank account.
This place must be one of his many projects.
Sure, it looks warm and rustic, but it’s anything but simple.
Still, I take it all in.
The vaulted ceiling. Stone fireplace. Big couch. One open-concept kitchen and—oh. One bed.
Fuck me.
It’s huge.
King-size.
Covered in a flannel comforter and pillows like a Pinterest wet dream.
“Only one bed?” Dani says from directly behind me, voice flat.
“I’ll take the floor,” I tell her, wanting to kick my own ass even as I say it.
“No way. You’ll freeze.”
“I’ve slept in worse places.”
I have.
Concrete locker rooms.
A team bus with busted heat.
My old Civic when I first got scouted and couldn’t afford rent and protein powder.
But I don’t say that.
I just drop the luggage, clear my throat, and head outside for more bags.
Once I’m done with those, I head toward the kitchen.
Distraction. I need a distraction.
I unload the groceries while she walks around with her phone, probably filming B-roll for this fucking Thanksgiving promo.
There’s turkey, stuffing mix, cans of that weird cranberry goop, and three store-bought pie crusts with a mix mash of fixings for whatever it is we’ll be making.
It’s menial labor, but it’s good. Gives me something to do with my hands.
Thank God.
I pretend not to watch her as she moves through the space, but I see everything.
The way her hair swings when she spins to get a wide shot.
The way her jeans hug her hips when she reaches up to get a high angle.
Her laugh when she catches me looking and raises a perfectly arched brow.
Focus, idiot.
I try to recite Euler’s Identity in my head: e to the i pi plus one equals zero.
Beautiful. Clean. Safe.
Except Daniela smells like vanilla and sin, and the moment she bends over to put something in the fridge, it’s all over.
Shakespeare! Shakespeare’s safe.
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day—”
Shit. Nope. Abort.
That one ends with “eternal lines to time thou grow’st,” and if I think about her growing inside me—filling up every part of my brain—I’m gonna have a problem I can’t hide behind the counter.
I slam a cabinet shut and grip the countertop.
“You okay?” she asks, glancing over.
No, I’m not fucking okay.
I want you so much it hurts.
“Yeah,” I lie.
She opens a bottom cabinet. Frowns.
“Where’s the wood for the fire?”
I point toward the back door.
“Shed out there. I’ll grab it.”
It’s easier to brave the snow again than stay inside with her and this tension.
But when I come back with an armload of logs and she’s kneeling by the fireplace trying to light it with one of those long lighters and zero success, something primitive snaps in me.
“I got it,” I say.
“Fine.”
She huffs and scoots aside.
I kneel, stack the logs, crumple some paper, and get a flame going with one strike.
The fire catches fast, warm and flickering.
She’s close. Too close.
I can feel her behind me.
Her breath. Her presence.
My heart hammers like I’m on the fucking pitch and not in a cozy log cabin beside the only woman I’ve ever wanted this badly.
Her voice comes quiet.
Soft. Dangerous.
“You always this good at starting fires?”
I turn.
And for the first time in my life, I’ve got no equation, no sonnet, no game plan.
Just her. And this heat.
I swallow.
“Nah,” I rasp. “Only when you’re around.”