Page 118 of Tangled with the Tight End

Only, he’s not an NFL star right now. And I’m definitely not fangirling. He’s the man I’ve come to know over the weeks since his injury. To the world, he’s a superstar. To me, he’s so much more.

And then again, he’s just Declan, but this mussed and soft around the edges version. Tender in places that are usually harder and strong.

He blocks three-hundred-pound men for a living. But right now, his eyes have an almost boyish quality to them, his eyebrows drawn up just the slightest in the middle. I want to take my pointer finger and gently press that little divot between his brows, massaging it tenderly until he relaxes.

What question is he holding back?

The air crackles like the logs in the fire and I imagine he wants me the way I want him. It’s almost as if he’s staring at me with the same insatiable want bubbling up inside him.

The rain pelts against the windows in a soothing rhythm, cocooning us into our own private world—one where he’s just a guy who grew up in town and I’m the woman he asked to stay for dinner and a game.

I’m always touching Declan—to care for his injury. There shouldn’t be a difference between me touching him and the way it felt when he touched me to swipe leftover food from my cheek. And yet, that touch felt like so much more. I laughed it off, comparing it to a romance novel. I had to make light of it. But his eyes latched on to me and I wondered—like I wonder now. Could he want me?

My heart is racing.

Can he hear it?

I’m right here, I told him.

And I am.

He hasn’t answered me. Just fixed me with his gaze and held me here.

I should look away, but I can’t.

My heart feels like it contains a line of Thunderette cheerleaders, waving pom-poms and screaming Declan! Declan! Declan!

His voice is low and rough when he speaks. “I’m glad you’re here, Winona.”

The way he says my name—carefully, like it’s precious—no one has said my name like that before.

I try to tell myself it’s exhaustion, or the atmosphere, the storm, our connection as nurse and patient.

But then he says, “You always make me feel better.” And his hand brushes mine.

Was that an accident?

My voice catches in my throat when I ask him, “Are you feeling better? In general, I mean? Healing? No more pain spikes?”

Nervous babbling. Great. Way to kill the moment, Winona.

But that’s just it. I’m not having a moment with Declan. We’re friends. He asked me to wait out the storm for my safety—as a friend does. He’s being kind. That’s it.

I’m running through my list of reasons Declan O’Connell doesn’t have feelings for me when he does it again. His finger brushes over my hand and he says, “Yes. Much better.”

My brain scrambles.

Does he know he touched me?

Is it just because we’re lying so close to one another? He bumped me. That’s all.

But then, his pinky loops through mine.

I hold my breath.

He doesn’t unloop our fingers. Instead, there’s a light squeeze.

And I lift my eyes to his—flames dancing in the deep green-brown of his irises.