Chapter 3
Jessie
I wake to the smell of coffee, the rhythmic thunk of an ax, and the distant crack of wood splitting.
For a disorienting moment, I don’t know where I am. The ceiling’s wrong. Raw timber instead of the water-stained popcorn texture of the motel. The bed’s wrong too—warm and soft and smelling like pine and something earthier underneath.
Tank.
Memory floods back. The auction. The bid. The one-bed standoff I lost spectacularly when exhaustion hit me like a freight train somewhere around midnight.
I sit up, confused by the flannel shirt wrapped around me that I definitely wasn’t wearing when I fell asleep.
It’s Tank’s. The red and black shirt he tossed over the chair before claiming the couch. I’m swimming in it. The hem hits mid-thigh, and the sleeves flop past my fingertips.
I must have grabbed it in the night, half-asleep, not thinking, when the temperature dropped.
Shit.
I should take it off before he comes back inside.
But it’s soft and worn in all the right places.
And it smells like him—cedar and wood smoke and something warmer underneath that makes my stomach do an inconvenient flip and my brain supply unhelpful images of exactly how this flannel got so soft.
Years of being worn against his skin. Years of absorbing his warmth.
I’m still debating when the ax sounds stop.
Double shit.
I scramble out of bed, but my feet tangle in the sheets, and by the time I’ve extracted myself, the front door is already swinging open.
Tank steps inside, and the cabin shrinks.
He’s shed his jacket somewhere. His thermal stretches across his shoulders, damp with sweat despite the cold outside, and sawdust is caught in his dark hair. He looks like a lumberjack fantasy come to life, which is annoying because I don’t have lumberjack fantasies.
Or I didn’t.
His gaze lands on me, and something shifts in his expression. His eyes drop for a second, taking in the flannel swallowing my frame, my bare legs beneath the hem, my sleep-mussed hair.
His jaw tightens.
Heat flashes through me, sudden and inconvenient.
“Morning.” He clears his throat. “Coffee’s hot.”
“Thanks.” I tug at the flannel’s hem like that’ll somehow make this less awkward. “I, um... I got cold.”
“I noticed.”
He doesn’t ask me to take it off or offer to grab me something else. Just stands there, looking at me like I’ve disrupted the fundamental order of the universe.
I should return it and apologize. Reestablish the polite distance between “cohabitation arrangement” and “woman parading around in your clothes.”
Instead, I lift my chin. “Problem?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Nope.”
“Good.” I move toward the kitchen like I own the place, hyperaware of his gaze tracking me across the room.
I busy myself with coffee, grateful for something to do with my hands. His kitchen is small but efficient—a two-burner stove, a fridge humming quietly, a French press on the counter next to a fancy bag of beans that doesn’t match the man or the mountain.
“Mugs?” I ask.
“Cabinet. Left side.”
I open it and stop. The mugs are arranged by size, from smallest to largest, with all the handles aligned.
I glance at the dish towel hanging from the oven handle. It’s folded in thirds with crisp creases.
And the firewood beside the stove? Each log is stacked with the bark facing out, like it matters.
“You’re a chaos-averse mountain hermit,” I announce.
“What?”
“Your mugs are arranged by size. Your dish towel is precision-folded. I bet your underwear drawer has a filing system.”
“It’s not—” He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “I like things in their place.”
“Uh-huh.” I select the smallest mug just to be chaotic, then make a show of turning it so the handle faces backward before pouring my coffee. “Organized chaos,” I say. “My specialty.”
His eye twitches. It’s the first real emotion I’ve seen from him since that jaw-clench when he saw me in his flannel.
“You’re doing that on purpose. Being difficult.”
I sip my coffee. It’s rich and dark and perfect, leaving me no room for complaint. Damn him.
“I’m not being difficult. I’m being myself.” I lean against the counter, cradling the mug. “Difficult is just what men call women who don’t arrange their lives for male convenience.”
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe. Or appreciation. “That’s what you think I want? Convenience?”
“I think you want your dish towel folded in thirds and your mugs arranged by height, and you’re quietly losing your mind that I disrupt your space at all.”
His gaze holds mine, steady and unreadable. “You’re not wrong about the dish towel.”
“And the mugs?”
“I’ll survive.”
He moves to the counter, reaching past me for the French press. His arm brushes my shoulder, and his scent hits me—sweat and sawdust and something warmer underneath.
I don’t step away. Neither does he.
“Hungry?” he asks, voice low.
Yes, I think, but not for food.
“Starving,” I say instead. “And I’m cooking.”
He tries to argue. I ignore him.
“You gave me a place to stay,” I say, already rummaging through his surprisingly well-stocked fridge. “The least I can do is make breakfast.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to.” I emerge with eggs, butter, and a nearly full carton of milk. “I want to. There’s a difference.”
He watches me navigate his kitchen like he’s not sure whether to be annoyed or charmed. I take up too much space—opening cabinets, shifting things around, leaving a trail of deliberate disorder in my wake.
“Flour?” I ask.
“Pantry. Top shelf.”
I stand on my toes, reaching for a cabinet I can barely touch. The flannel rides up. His gaze lands on my bare legs—heavy, unmistakable.
Before I can embarrass myself further, he’s behind me, close enough that heat radiates off his chest. His arm extends past my shoulder, easily grabbing the flour I was reaching for.
I stop breathing.
His chest is inches from my back. If I leaned backward a half inch, I’d be pressed against him.
“Got it,” he says roughly.
He steps back before I can do something stupid and sets the flour on the counter with careful precision.
I don’t turn around immediately. I need a second to convince my heart rate to return to normal.
“Thanks.” It comes out steadier than I feel.
“You reached for the shelf,” he says. “Didn’t want you to pull a muscle.”
“My hero.”
“That’s me.” His tone is dry, but when I finally turn, there’s something heated in his expression that he shutters quickly. “Mountain man at your service.”
I focus on pancakes. Pancakes are safe. Pancakes don’t make my stomach flip or my skin tingle or my brain short-circuit.
Tank retreats to the small table by the window, giving me space. But his gaze tracks me as I work—measuring, mixing, heating the pan. My hands know these motions. Pancakes were one of the first things I taught myself to make when I left home at eighteen—proof I could survive on my own.
The batter sizzles when it hits the butter. I flip the first pancake with a satisfying flick of my wrist.
“Show-off,” Tank mutters.
“Jealousy doesn’t become you.”
“Not jealous. Just observing that you flip pancakes like you’ve got something to prove.”
I still, the spatula hovering. He’s more perceptive than I gave him credit for.
“Maybe I do,” I say finally. “Maybe I spent my whole childhood being told I’d never amount to anything without someone to take care of me. I learned to cook and clean and survive on my own just to prove the bastards wrong.”
The words slip out. Too much truth, too fast.
Silence stretches. I keep my eyes on the pan, suddenly desperate for him not to see whatever’s on my face.
“Sounds like the bastards were idiots,” Tank says quietly. “Anyone who looked at you and saw someone who needed taking care of wasn’t paying attention.”
My throat tightens. I flip another pancake with more force than necessary.
“Anyway.” I clear my throat. “I make excellent pancakes. That’s all you need to know.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I plate the first stack and slide it across the table to him. Golden brown, perfectly round, steam rising in delicate curls.
He takes a bite.
His expression does something complicated. It softens in a way that makes him look younger and less guarded. Almost vulnerable.
“These are...” He stops. Clears his throat. Tries again. “My mom used to make pancakes on Sundays. Before.”
Before. The word hangs in the air, heavy with things unsaid.
I don’t ask. Don't push. I slide into the chair across from him and take a bite of my pancake, giving him space to share or not.
“She died when I was twelve,” he says, still not looking at me. “Dad couldn’t cook worth a damn. After that, Sunday breakfast was cold cereal and silence.”
My heart clenches. “Tank...”
“Haven’t had pancakes that tasted like anything since.” He finally meets my eyes, and his contain a rawness that makes my breath catch. “Until now.”
The moment stretches, fragile and unexpected. A door cracks open between us that neither of us planned.
I don’t know what to say. Words feel inadequate for the weight of what he’s just trusted me with.
So I reach across the table and touch his hand. Just briefly. Just enough.
“I’ll make them whenever you want,” I say softly. “No charge.”
Under my hand, his fingers move slightly. For a second, I think he might turn his hand over, lace our fingers together.
Instead, he pulls back gently and clears his throat. “Careful. Might take you up on that.”
“That’s the idea.”
Sunday pancakes. Our thing. The thought sneaks in before I can stop it.
We finish breakfast in silence, but it’s not awkward. It’s comfortable and full, as if something fundamental has shifted.
The next morning, Tank drives us to Roadside to collect my stuff and my car. We make quick work of it, and I follow him back to the cabin in my Toyota 4Runner.
The rest of Saturday is laid back, which is a pleasant surprise.
Tank works. I sketch.
He disappears outside to split more wood, fix something on the porch, haul water from somewhere I don’t ask about.
Every time he passes the window, I catch myself watching—the efficient economy of his movements, the way his shoulders flex under his thermal, the focused intensity he brings to even the smallest task.
I set up a makeshift workspace at his kitchen table, spreading out my sketchbook and pencils as if I have every right to colonize his space. He doesn’t complain. Doesn’t even comment. Just works around me, adjusting his own patterns to accommodate mine.
It should feel invasive—two people who barely know each other, orbiting the same small cabin. Instead, it feels natural, like we’ve been doing this for years instead of hours.
That thought unsettles me more than I want to admit.
By evening, I’ve filled three pages with thumbnail sketches—none of them for the New York commission. Instead, I’ve captured the angle of his shoulders through the window. The way his hands grip the axe handle. The play of firelight across the cabin walls.
I flip the sketchbook closed before he can see.
Dinner is simple—grilled cheese and tomato soup from a can—but we eat it at the small table like it’s a five-star meal.
Tank asks about my art, and I find myself actually answering honestly.
Not the polished version I give clients, but the real one.
The messy, uncertain, I-have-no-idea-what-I’m-doing-half-the-time version.
He listens like everything I say matters.
That night, the couch argument happens again. I lose again. But this time, when I slip into his bed and pull the quilt up to my chin, I don’t feel like a guest.
I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Dangerous thought, Jessie. Very dangerous.
Sunday arrives soft and slow, the way weekends are supposed to but rarely do when you’re constantly moving.
I make pancakes again. Tank doesn't ask, but I catch the way his eyes light up when he smells the batter, the quiet satisfaction in his expression when I slide a stack across the table.
“You’re spoiling me,” he says.
“Consider it rent.”
“Told you I don’t want rent.”
“And I told you I don’t do charity.” I pour myself coffee, settling into the chair across from him. “So we compromise. I cook, you don't complain, and we both pretend this is a fair exchange.”
His mouth twitches. “Bossy.”
“You have no idea.”
We eat in comfortable silence, and I try not to think about how domestic this feels. How right.
After breakfast, Tank heads outside again, muttering something about the woodpile and winter prep. I stay inside, working through some thumbnail sketches for the New York commission that feels more distant by the hour.
Sometime around midday, I glance up from my sketchbook.
Tank has stripped off his thermal entirely, despite the snow falling outside.
I drop my pencil.
The ax comes down. His back muscles shift under tanned skin, a topography of strength and scars I want to map with my fingers. With my mouth.
Stop it, I tell myself firmly. He’s not a landscape. You’re not painting him.
My artist’s brain kicks into overdrive, already mixing colors. Burnt umber for the tan of his skin. Titanium white for the pale lines of scar tissue. Cadmium red for the flush of exertion spreading across his shoulders.
I imagine how I’d capture his hands—the controlled strength, the calluses, the way they dwarf the axe handle. I imagine how I’d paint the tension in his forearms, the bunch and release of muscle with each swing.
I imagine how those hands would feel on my skin and nearly choke on my own saliva.
But my pencil is already moving, capturing the angle of his shoulders, his spread stance. Quick, hungry strokes that aren't contributing to the commission I should be working on.
He glances toward the window.
I duck so fast I nearly give myself whiplash, grabbing a random pencil and pretending to be deeply focused on my sketchbook.
When I risk a glance back up, he’s returned to his work, but a hint of a smile plays at the corner of his mouth.
Bastard.
He knows I was watching. And he’s enjoying it. I should be annoyed. Instead, heat curls low in my belly, inconvenient and undeniable.
This is becoming a problem.
The bigger problem? I don’t want to stop looking.