Chapter 6
Tank
She’s sketching again.
I watch her from the kitchen, coffeepot in hand, as her pencil moves across the page in quick, confident strokes. She’s curled up in the corner of my couch—our couch now, I guess—wearing my flannel like she was born in it, hair piled in a messy knot on top of her head.
She looks like she belongs here.
The thought hits me somewhere beneath my ribs, settling in like it plans to stay. It’s been five days since we discovered we were accidentally married. And already I can’t imagine this cabin without her in it.
You’ve got it bad, Granger.
The scary part? I don’t want to imagine it without her. The marriage that’s supposed to be a clerical error feels more like fate getting its paperwork right for once.
I pour two cups of coffee, black for me, a splash of milk for her. I’m halfway across the room when her phone buzzes on the arm of the couch.
She glances at the screen and goes still. The phone keeps ringing.
“You going to answer that?”
She’s already unfolding herself, moving toward the door with a tension in her shoulders that wasn’t there thirty seconds ago. “Sorry, it’s my—it’s work.”
The door clicks shut behind her.
I set her coffee on the side table, not bothering to pretend I’m not watching. She’s on the porch, phone pressed to her ear, her free arm wrapped around herself, bracing.
“Albert, I understand, but—” She stops. Listens. Her jaw tightens. “I’m not hiding; I’m working on the commission. I’ve done more sketches in the past week than I did in the last two months in the city.”
Silence. She’s pacing now, with short, angry steps that eat up the length of the porch.
“Albert, it’s a sunset mural. The whole point is the warm tones, the—” She breaks off, listening. “More blue?” Her voice pitches up with disbelief. “To match their rug? Please tell me you’re joking.”
She’s not laughing. Neither is he, apparently.
“I’m the artist. I decide what colors—” Another pause. Her free hand clenches into a fist at her side. “Fine. I’ll look at it. But I’m not promising anything.”
I watch her swallow whatever she really wants to say. Watch her fold herself smaller to fit someone else’s expectations. It makes me want to put my fist through the window.
“That’s not fair. You can’t just give it to another artist; I’ve already—” She presses her hand against her forehead.
“I never said I wasn’t coming; I just—” Another pause.
“The real world? What does that even—no, you know what, forget it. I’ll send you the sketches by Friday.
Yes. Friday. I said I would, and I will. ”
She hangs up without saying goodbye.
For a long moment, she stands there, staring out at the mountains. Her shoulders are rigid, her breathing visible in the cold morning air.
I grab her coffee and push through the door.
She doesn’t turn when she hears me, but some of the tension bleeds out of her posture. It’s almost as though my being there is enough to take the edge off.
I stop beside her and hold out the mug. Say nothing.
She takes it and wraps both hands around the warmth but still doesn’t look at me.
“That was my agent. He thinks I’ve lost my mind.”
“Have you?”
That startles a laugh out of her.
“Maybe. Probably.” She turns, and something bruised crosses her expression that makes me want to find this asshole and explain things with my fists. “He says my ‘mental health break’ is over. Time to rejoin the real world.”
I look out at the mountains. The endless sky. The kind of quiet you can’t buy in a city. “This feels pretty real to me.”
“That’s what I told him.” She takes a sip of coffee, and some of the tension eases from her shoulders.
I want to know exactly what this guy said to put that look on her face. But pushing Jessie is like pushing a cat—she’ll come to you when she’s ready, and not a second before.
So instead, I drain my coffee and set the mug on the porch railing.
“Town run,” I say, shifting gears before she can spiral. “We need supplies. You coming?”
She studies me for a long moment.
“Could use the company.” I keep my voice casual. “But if you’d rather stay—”
“No.” Too fast. She catches herself, tucking red hair behind her ear. “Fresh air sounds good. Give me ten minutes.”
She’s ready in five.
The drive into town takes twenty minutes on a good day.
The road’s clear this morning, sun cutting through the pines and glittering off the snowdrifts.
Jessie’s got her window cracked, red hair catching the wind.
My flannel is folded on the seat between us.
She grabbed it on the way out, then set it down like she couldn’t decide whether keeping it would mean something.
Everything means something now.
I’m hyperaware of her in ways I wasn’t before the kiss. Before the marriage. The way her thigh is six inches from mine. The way she keeps tucking her hair behind her ear, exposing the curve of her neck. The way her body angles toward me, even when she’s looking out the window.
She’s doing it again. Leaning in without realizing.
She’s beautiful. Not just pretty—beautiful in a way that makes me want to build things. Shelves for her art supplies. A studio with south-facing windows. A life sturdy enough to hold whatever she needs.
Careful. You’ll scare her off.
“It’s beautiful here,” she says softly, eyes on the mountains.
“Gets old.”
“Liar.” She cuts me a look, mouth curving. “You love it. I’ve seen the way you watch those ridgelines when you think no one’s paying attention.”
“You watching me, Smudge?”
“Hard not to.” Easy, like it costs her nothing. “You take up a lot of space.”
My hands tighten on the wheel. Too much space. Always too much.
I grunt, not trusting my voice.
Her laugh is bright and sharp, making my whole body tighten. “Very articulate, Tank. Truly a poet.”
“Didn’t bring you along for conversation.”
“No? What’d you bring me for?”
Because I couldn’t stand leaving you behind. Because I feel empty without you. Because I’m in too deep to see daylight.
“Heavy lifting,” I say instead. “Need someone to carry the shopping bags.”
Her laugh rings out again, and I let myself smile where she can’t see it.
Main Street in Clover Canyon is three blocks of practical storefronts: a general store, a feed supply, the diner, a hardware shop run by the same family since 1952. Nothing fancy. Just a small town that minds its business until something interesting happens.
I pull into a parking spot and kill the engine.
“So what’s the protocol?” Jessie asks.
“For?”
“This.” She gestures vaguely at the street, the storefronts, the curious faces already clocking my truck through windows. “Are we telling people? About the… situation?”
The marriage. She means the marriage. The one that’s supposed to be a problem but feels more like a promise every time I think about it.
Part of me wants to walk into that general store with my hand on her back and let Mabel Hutchins draw whatever conclusions she wants. Let the whole damn town know that Jessie Henry is mine, paperwork be damned.
But that’s my want. Not hers.
“Your call,” I say, keeping my voice neutral as if I don’t have a preference that’s clawing at my chest. “We can keep it quiet if that’s what you want.”
“Do you want to keep it quiet?”
I turn to look at her fully. She’s watching me with those sharp green eyes, trying to read me. Good luck, Smudge. I’ve had years of practice keeping my face blank.
“What I want doesn’t matter.” The words come out rougher than I intended. “What matters is that you’re not stuck explaining a clerical error to everyone you meet for the next thirty days. Small towns talk. Once it’s out, you can’t put it back.”
“And when I leave?”
The words hit like a fist to the sternum. When. Not if.
“Then you leave clean.” I hold her gaze. “No gossip following you. No small-town rumors attached to your name. That’s what I want for you.”
“So we just… pretend we’re not married?”
“We don’t announce it. That’s not the same as pretending.” I hold her gaze. “Your privacy matters. I’m not gonna let a bunch of nosy townspeople make this harder for you than it already is.”
She studies me for a long moment, something shifting in her expression. Softening. “You’re protecting me.”
“Trying to.”
“From small-town gossip?”
“From anything I can.” The admission slips out before I can stop it. Too honest. Too much.
“Okay,” she says finally. “We keep it quiet.”
“Okay.” I nod, then before I can think better of it, I say, “Doesn’t change what you are, though.”
Her breath catches. “What’s that?”
I hold her gaze, letting her see everything I’m not saying out loud. “Mine.”
The word lands between us like a live wire. Her lips part. Color rises in her cheeks. And for a second, neither of us moves.
Then I’m out of the truck and rounding to her side before I do something stupid like kiss her in broad daylight where half the town can see.
Mabel Hutchins is already making her way toward us, moving with the determined efficiency of a woman who’s been extracting information from reluctant locals for sixty-odd years. Eighty-two years old, sharp as a tack, hasn’t missed a piece of gossip since the Carter administration.
“Sawyer Granger.” Her eyes sweep over Jessie as she climbs out of the truck, cataloging every detail. “And a… friend.”
Not lady friend. Just friend, but the pause before it carries weight.
“Jessie Henry.” I keep my voice neutral. “She’s staying at my place for a while.”
“That so?”
Jessie extends her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Call me Mabel, sweetheart. Everyone does.” She clasps Jessie’s hand in both of hers, squeezing. “I have to say, I never thought I’d see the day Sawyer brought someone to town. You must be something special.”
“It’s the pancakes,” Jessie says, easy and light. “I make a mean stack.”
“The way to a man’s heart.” Mabel winks at me. “You hold on to this one, Sawyer. She’s got spirit.”