Chapter 1 #2
I stop a few feet away, arms crossed to match his earlier posture. “A thousand dollars.”
“Yep.”
“For a cohabitation placement.”
“That’s what it said on the program.”
“You know there are cheaper ways to shut down a rich suit, right? A stern look. A well-placed elbow. A cattle prod.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Cattle prod would’ve caused paperwork.”
“And a thousand-dollar bid doesn't?”
“Different kind of paperwork.” He turns back to the forms, signing his name with efficient strokes. “The program needed funding. Mr. Rolex was looking for a new plaything, not a woman with her own mind.” He shrugs, shoulders rolling like this is the most obvious logic in the world. “Win-win.”
Something in my chest loosens. He’s not making this weird or acting like I owe him anything.
“I’m Jessie,” I say, because we haven’t been formally introduced, and it feels weird to keep calling him the mountain man in my head. “But you knew that.”
“Hard to miss the name when they announce it to a hundred people.” He extends his hand, and his warm, calloused palm engulfs mine. “Sawyer Granger, but people call me Tank.”
A little shock of electricity shoots up my arm at the contact. I pull my hand back too quickly.
Get a grip, Jessie.
“Tank,” I repeat. “Is that short for something?”
“It’s short for don’t ask.”
A genuine laugh escapes before I can stop it, surprised and rusty from lack of use. Tank’s expression shifts, and something warm flickers behind the granite.
He slides the completed forms toward a volunteer, who looks like she might spontaneously combust from proximity to him. “All set?”
“Yes!” She nods enthusiastically before passing the forms to me. “Just need you to sign here, here, and... here.” She points to three different spots on the form.
I was expecting Gwen, Marlie’s representative, tonight, but I guess she’s busy dealing with the other bidders.
I skim the paperwork—cohabitation agreement, mutual responsibility clauses, protection provisions, contact exchange—nothing alarming.
Standard Marlie’s Angels forms, from what I understand.
The legalese is so dense that it made my eyes cross when I studied it yesterday.
I sign on autopilot, hyper-aware of Tank beside me.
The way his flannel stretches across his shoulders when he shifts.
Oh, this is going to be a problem.
“You two are going to have the best time,” the volunteer gushes. “The artist and the most eligible hermit in three counties. So romantic!”
“Romantic.” Tank's voice is dust-dry. “Nothing says romance like outbidding a guy who peaked during high school.”
I snort. God, when did I last laugh this easily?
I glance up, realizing how tall he is—at least six-three, maybe more. I’m tall at five-ten, but next to him, I feel delicate. Small.
Protected.
The thought sends alarm bells clanging through my head.
“For the record,” he says, his voice low enough for only me to hear, “I paid a thousand dollars for the program. You don’t owe me anything.”
“Right.”
His steady gaze holds mine, heat simmering underneath. “But I meant what I did back there. And if anyone else tries—”
“You’ll outbid them too?”
“Something like that.”
The side door bangs open. Mr. Rolex strides out with two other men dressed in designer suits. One of them spots me and nudges Mr. Rolex, who’s gaze finds mine.
Tank shifts, taking a half-step to position himself between me and the door. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to. The look he levels at the three men could strip paint off a barn.
One corner of Mr. Rolex’s mouth tips up in a half-smile. He inclines his head, as if acknowledging his loss and Tank’s gain. Then he turns and leaves.
My heart is racing. Not from fear, but from the realization that I can’t remember the last time someone moved instinctively to shield me without being asked. Without expecting something in return.
It makes me uneasy. I don’t trust safety. It’s always had a price tag.
But standing here in the shadow of this mountain of a man, I realize I trust him. And I have no idea what to do with that.
Tank pushes the door open, and snowy night air rushes in. “Where are you staying?”
“What?”
“In town. Where are you staying?”
I shouldn’t give him any more information than he already has. But those dark eyes hold mine, patient and steady, and the truth slips out.
“The Roadside Motel. Out on Highway 12.”
He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “That place is a shithole. You can’t stay there.”
“I’ve stayed in worse.”
“That’s not the reassurance you think it is.”
He studies me for a moment, a thoughtful look in his eyes. Then, as if reaching a decision, he says, “I have a cabin not far from here. That’s where you'll be staying. It’s part of the agreement.”
Right. The cohabitation placement. For a second, I’d almost forgotten what this actually was.
“I wasn’t expecting to start tonight,” I say carefully.
“The agreement says I provide you a safe place to stay.” His tone is firm but not unkind. “The cabin qualifies. The Roadside doesn’t.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Never said you couldn’t.” He crosses his arms in what I’m already coming to recognize as his immovable object stance. “But that’s not the point. You signed up for this program because you needed a fresh start. I’m offering a safe place to sleep that doesn’t smell like mildew.”
I want to argue, to tell him to take his cabin and his protective instincts and his thousand-dollar bid and shove them where the sun doesn’t shine.
But the truth is, the motel is terrible. The lock on my door sticks, so I’m never really certain if it’s locked or not. The heater rattles and dies at random intervals. And last night, I woke up to shouting from the room next door that made me grab my keys and sit in my car until dawn.
“I want to be clear about something,” I say. “I can leave whenever I want. The contract says—”
“You can leave anytime. No questions asked. That’s how Marlie’s Angels works.” His expression doesn’t flicker. “I’m not trying to trap you. I’m trying to give you options.”
Oh, sure, Jessie. Run from stability for years, and now you’re accepting a cabin from Grizzly Adams in Carhartt. Genius move.
“Fine. Temporarily.” My sharp words are a default defense. “I’ve got a mural commission I’m waiting to hear back on. Could be a week, could be a month. Either way, I’m not staying forever.”
“Didn’t ask you to.” His expression doesn't flicker. “Just asked you to stop sleeping in a building that should’ve been condemned in 1987.”
I nod. “Okay, then.”
His smile breaks free, a real one this time, transforming his face from intimidating to devastating. My stomach does a traitorous little flip.
“Good. I’ll help you move your stuff tomorrow.”
“I can—”
“I know you can. But you don’t have to.”
“Tank, I—”
“Where are you parked?” He’s already reaching for my bag, sliding the strap off my shoulder before I can protest. His fingers brush mine in a whisper of contact, his calloused skin against my knuckles, and my whole arm tingles like I touched a live wire.
Get it together. He’s being helpful, not seductive.
But my body didn’t get that memo.
“I left my car at the Roadside. I didn’t want to drive this far out, what with the snow and all, so I got a cab here.”
Tank nods as if he approves of that decision. “My truck’s out front. We’ll collect your car tomorrow too.”
I should argue. Should insist on independence, on taking care of myself.
Instead, I nod and follow him into the cold Montana night.