Chapter 5-Daniela
“You always this good at starting fires?”
“Nah. Only when you’re around.”
Holy. Hotness.
Of course, Tank knows exactly what to say to get a girl’s panties in a twist.
And what’s my genius reply, did you ask?
“Oh, um.”
My mouth’s dry.
My brain’s worse.
I don’t know how to react to his voice, all low and gravelly and way too loaded for a man crouched in front of a fire like he was born to set the whole damn world ablaze.
So, I take the coward’s way out.
I stand up and step away from the fire, and the source of the only heat in this cabin that is actually getting to me—him.
“Okay, so the turkey is pretty small,” I say, pivoting toward the counter like it’s the holy land of professionalism.
“Only fourteen pounds, but it’ll be enough for us for a few days.
There’s other food, too, of course. I mean, we’ve got a pizza to throw in the oven tonight, and some things for breakfast, sandwich fixings, and I’m assuming plenty of leftovers before we head back down the mountain tomorrow or Saturday. ”
“Okay,” Tank murmurs, but his gaze says he knows exactly why I’m running my mouth a mile per second.
“Anyway, um, my grandma always said you should brine the turkey overnight before the big day.”
I walk to the kitchen and busy myself with unpacking the ingredients, willing the heat in my cheeks to cool down.
“Brine it?” he asks, still crouched by the fire. “Like with salt water?”
“Sort of.”
I grab the bag of herbs and a jug of apple cider.
“McNally family secret reveal,” I start, and he raises an eyebrow.
“I’m honored.”
“You should be, and just so you know you are sworn to secrecy, sir.”
“I promise to never divulge what I learn here, Sweetheart,” he whispers, hand over heart.
Total swoon-worthy moment.
“Anyway, we use a mix of cider, water, pink salt, garlic, rosemary, sage, and honey. You let it soak overnight, and it gets super juicy. If I set everything up on the counter and show you what to do, would you maybe put it together in the brining bag? It’ll make for some great pre-Thanksgiving footage. ”
I try to make it sound casual.
Breezy.
Like I’m not screaming internally at the thought of getting that close to him again.
Like my camera isn’t trembling in my hand.
Tank just looks at me.
His dark eyes glitter like coals in the firelight.
He licks his bottom lip—slow and unhurried—like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
The jerk.
My knees wobble.
Predictably.
And God help me, I feel like I might faint like a Victorian heroine in a corset.
Then he nods. Just a little.
“Yeah. Sure. I can do that, Sweetheart.”
Relief floods through me. For about two seconds.
Because then he walks into the kitchen, grabs the apron from the hook near the stove, and—pulls his shirt off.
I blink.
Twice.
“What are you—?”
“Don’t wanna get raw poultry all over my kit,” he says, like that explains everything.
He slides the apron over his bare chest—well, bare is relative, Tank is decked out in muscles and tattoos, because of fucking course he is—and he ties it casually behind his back.
Then, he turns to face me.
The apron says Let’s Get Basted.
I might die.
He’s massive.
All muscle and ink and heat.
His abs look like something airbrushed onto a Marvel movie poster, and his biceps flex just from opening the damn drawer for a spoon.
And I’m supposed to just function normally?
I’m supposed to film this like I don’t know how every inch of him feels pressed against me?
“Right,” I manage, snapping my eyes back to the ingredients like they personally betrayed me.
“Okay. So we’re going to start by making the brine.”
I know I’m repeating myself, but can you blame me?
I rattle off the measurements, trying not to squeak every time he brushes past me in the small kitchen.
“Don’t worry about what we say, I’m going to edit that all out,” I tell him as I continue to instruct him on the correct way to place the turkey into the brining bag, which we have inside of a large pot, before we start adding the ingredients for the actual brine.
I have a stand with a video camera taking some actual footage while I snap candids with my phone.
At one point, our hands bump, we’re both reaching for the same bottle of apple cider, and my whole body short-circuits.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“All good,” he says, but his voice is thicker now.
Rougher.
I feel his eyes on me as I pour the liquid into the pot.
My fingers tremble, and a little bit splashes onto the counter.
“Shit.”
“I’ll get it,” he murmurs, leaning in close with a towel.
My breath catches.
His hand grazes mine.
Just for a second.
Just enough to make me lightheaded.
He smells like pine and smoke and something I want to bury my face in for the rest of the damn year.
I am not okay.
“You alright?” he asks, catching my eye.
“Yes,” I lie. “No. I mean—sure, this is fine. Totally normal. Two coworkers brining poultry. In a remote cabin. In the mountains. Alone.”
I definitely sound normal.
Tank grins.
“Is this where we set rules for the one bed situation?”
“I—what?”
He lifts one brow.
“You looked panicked earlier.”
“I wasn’t panicked.”
“You were definitely panicked.”
I huff and cross my arms.
“Fine. Okay. Rules. Yes. Um, we’re adults. We can share a bed and not have to think anything else is gonna happen. Cause it’s not. So—”
“Of course not. So?” Tank raises one eyebrow, and I want to hit him, he’s so damn cute.
“Pillows! We’ll put pillows between us?”
Why does that sound like a question?
His smile widens, all slow and wicked.
“Pillows. Got it.”
“I’m serious!”
“So am I.”
He drops the rest of the brining ingredients onto the turkey and into the bag and seals it like it’s no big deal.
Like he’s not half-naked and destroying my brain one flex at a time.
Then he grabs a sharpie, and writes on the bag in block letters: MY TURKEY–DO NOT TOUCH.
“That for me or the bird?” I mutter.
He doesn’t answer.
Just gives me one of those lazy, smug looks that makes me want to kiss him or kill him—or both.
“Alright then,” I say, clearing my throat. “That’s done. Brining begins. Now put the whole thing back in the refrigerator.”
“You got it, Sweetheart. Guess I’m learning all sorts of things this week.”
I force a smile and grab the video camera and phone, pretending to look over the footage as he goes back to the sink to wash his hands one last time.
This is fine. I can do this.
One bed.
One giant man.
One half-naked turkey brining session later.
Who am I kidding?
This weekend’s gonna kill me.