Chapter 11-Daniela
Stay professional.
That’s what I keep telling myself as I crouch behind the tripod, adjusting the phone’s angle so it captures the whole kitchen.
Which currently looks like it lost a bet with a cooking show hosted by frat boys.
The turkey is cooking peacefully in the oven—the brine looks like it did its job, and the bird looked perfect this morning, thank God—but everything else?
A disaster.
Flour everywhere.
Like, snowstorm in July levels of flour.
There’s a weird scorch mark on the countertop, one of my socks is stuck to the cabinet door, and somehow—somehow—there’s stuffing mix on the ceiling.
And Tank?
Tank is shirtless again.
Wearing that stupidly adorable “Let’s Get Basted” apron.
And—God help me—he has “gobble gobble” printed on the waistband of his boxer briefs that are peeking out of the tops of his rugby shorts.
“Hudson, what are you doing?” I ask, struggling not to laugh as I hit record.
I don’t know why I can’t make myself call him Tank like everyone else. To me, he’s Hudson, and I kind of like it that way.
So, until he says otherwise, that’s what I’m gonna call him.
He looks up, holding a whole onion in one hand and a potato peeler in the other like he’s just discovered fire.
“I’m peeling it,” he says.
“That’s not a potato.”
He frowns at the onion.
“Then why’s it shaped like one?”
“It’s an onion, Tank.”
He frowns.
“I like it when you call me Hudson, Dani. As for this, well, it smells mean,” he mutters, dropping it like it bit him.
“Because it’s an onion,” I deadpan, still filming.
And okay, I’m preening because he told me to call him Hudson.
Swoon. Swoon. Swoon.
“Alright, are you ready to give the folks at home that holiday greeting I drew up for you?”
He nods, then turns toward the camera and flashes a wide, and way too sexy for this ungodly hour, grin.
“Happy Thanksgiving to all our loyal Rovers fans out there. This is your boy Tank, and today, I will be making, uh, hang on—” He leans in, stage whispering, “What am I making again?”
I snort.
“Turkey. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Green beans. And stuffing, but we call it dressing when it’s not in the bird.”
“Riiiight,” he nods. “Okay, folks, so I’m making all the carbs, and one bird. To honor your fine American tradition of thanking each other with saturated fat and all matter of deliciousness.”
“Exactly,” I say, biting back a grin. “And to be clear, you’re cooking. I’m filming. Hands off. Now, get mashing.”
“Sure, sure,” he says, turning back to the bowl of peeled potatoes with the concentration of a bomb technician.
He grabs the masher like he’s about to drop the hammer of Thor and—wham!—potato goes flying across the room.
Thunk.
Straight into the ceiling.
We both stare up as it sticks there for half a second before plopping down onto the floor.
I blink.
He shrugs.
“Good thing I made extra,” he says, totally unfazed.
“Oh, you made them?” I snort.
“They were already boiled.”
“They’re mashed, aren’t they?” Tank grins, scooping the potato back up and tossing it into the sink.
I choke on my laugh.
“You’re a menace.”
“And you’re adorable when you’re trying not to laugh, Sweetheart.”
Oh, hell.
There goes my professionalism.
I duck behind the camera, pretending to check the focus so he can’t see my smile.
But he knows.
Tank always knows.
And honestly?
I’m not sure I mind.
Not today.
Not in this little snowy bubble of a holiday with a human golden retriever who worships my body like it’s his job and makes me smile without even trying.
“Ready for the next clip, Sweetheart?”
God help me, I nod.
But I’m not sure that I am ready.
Not really.
I adjust the angle of the video camera and grab my smartphone, then I just take him in.
Hudson—Tank—is standing there in that ridiculous apron with all his ridiculous muscles and tattoos, and that bad boy grin of his inside of Mitchell Knight’s million dollar cabin—and he looks perfect.
It should be absurd.
It is absurd.
I mean nothing should look that good on a man who spent the morning trying to figure out the difference between sweet potatoes and white potatoes while sneakily touching my lower back every time he passed behind me.
Still, we have a timeline to keep.
Thanksgiving dinner is already half-plated, and I need to grab these last clips before we lose the golden hour lighting coming through the cabin windows.
Plus, I need to see if we can open the side door to get outside for a few shots of him tossing a rugby ball in the air.
Then, once I’ve taken and edited the photos and videos, and added the proper background music and voiceovers, I can load them to all the Rovers social media platforms.
#HolidayWithTheRovers
#ThankfulForTank
#PRGoals
The reel I posted last night with Tank brining the turkey—shirtless, smiling, flexing in that infuriatingly innocent way—already has over a million views.
Finley texted me at four AM to scream in all caps.
I rolled over in bed and stared at the message through half-lidded eyes before collapsing back onto my pillow, aka Hudson’s massive chest.
Because I was wrecked.
Exhausted from everything we did last night.
And not just the traveling, unpacking, and prepping.
I told Hudson—Tank—that I don’t want promises.
That once we go back to Consequence, it’s back to business.
Back to real life.
No expectations, no strings.
But the truth?
I already know it’s going to hurt like hell when we pack up the car and head back down this mountain.
Because something changed.
Not just between us, but in me.
He’s not just the guy who basically told me I ranked high on his notched bedpost scoring card.
Who compared me to a goddamn dog treat the first time we banged.
Not just the man who wrecked me in bed, then said something so heartbreakingly careless, I ghosted.
He’s not just the forward who stirs up trouble on the field and retreats into silence off it.
Somehow in the last twenty-four hours, Tank’s shown me he’s more.
And I hate how much I’m letting myself see it.
Feel it.
I adjust the lens, press record, and coach my voice into a smile.
“Okay,” I say, stepping back to get the perfect angle of him, “tell us what’s next on the Thanksgiving prep schedule.”
He grins like he’s having the time of his life.
“Next up? Pie. But I need supervision, which is why the Rovers' own PR assistant Daniela McNally is here to lend me a hand,” he reaches forward, and he pulls me into the shot!
He didn’t.
Oh my God!
He totally just did.
“Tank!” I hiss, but his hold on me is unbreakable.
“What? I’m not that bad a cook, honest, but I’ve been told my crust technique is highly questionable.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve already seen what you did to the potatoes,” I quip, and he gifts me with a smile.
“So, you’ll help?”
I nod.
“Excellent! Let’s give a real Rovers RUFF for my gal Dani, and we’ll be back in a few to show you what we’ve got cookin’!”
I roll my eyes, and we both laugh, the sound echoing through the small, pine-scented cabin like a memory being made in real-time.
As I press stop on the clip, he doesn’t move away.
He just looks at me.
And for a second, I forget the camera.
The timeline.
The millions of strangers scrolling past our weekend on their phones.
It’s just us.
“Thanksgiving with you,” he says, voice quiet, “is the best damn holiday I’ve ever had.”
I force a smile.
“Well, you’ve only had two.”
His grin softens.
“Still. I’ll remember this one.”
And that’s when it hits me.
We’re going home tomorrow.
Back to Consequence, North Carolina.
A town named like a cosmic joke.
Because how can I not feel consequences after this?
How do I go back to life as usual after I’ve seen this side of him?
And worse, how do I go back knowing he might never let me see it again?