Chapter 11 Jessie
Jessie
Tank’s truck idles behind me as I stand at the ranch gate, gravel sharp under my bare feet.
I should probably put on pants. Or shoes. Or something other than Tank’s flannel and my underwear.
But Albert Evans is standing six feet away in a cashmere coat that costs more than my car, and I’m done waiting for the right moment to feel ready.
The right moment is now. The right outfit is whatever I’m wearing when I finally say what I should have said years ago.
Behind me, Tank’s boots crunch on gravel. He stays behind me, probably with his arms crossed, acting as a solid wall of backup I know is there without having to look.
“Jessie.” Albert straightens, his expression shifting from annoyance to something more calculated. If you didn’t know him, you could mistake it for concern. “Thank God. I’ve been worried sick since you stopped answering my calls. I was starting to think you'd actually lost your mind.”
“How did you find me?”
“I have my ways.” He waves a hand dismissively, then catches himself, softening his tone. “Some waitress at a diner was very helpful once I described you. Charming place. Very... rustic.” His eyes flick over my shoulder to Tank, then back to me. “Is this him? The man from the auction?”
“His name is Tank.”
“Interesting.” Albert’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Look, I understand. I do. Sometimes, we all need to... blow off steam. Have an adventure. But the show is in just over two weeks, and I’ve been fielding calls for days.
The gallery is panicking, and you're up here playing Little House on the Prairie with some—”
“Go ahead,” I cut him off. “Finish that sentence. I’d love to hear what clever little insult you’ve got loaded up.”
He blinks, thrown by the interruption. I’ve never cut him off before. Never pushed back when he was in full management mode.
“I want to help you.” He steps closer, spreading his hands in a gesture of openness that feels rehearsed. “I know things have been... stressful. The pressure of the show and the expectations can be overwhelming. I should’ve seen that you needed a break. That’s on me.”
Another step. His voice drops, becoming intimate and concerned. “But running away isn’t the answer. And getting... involved with someone you barely know?” He shakes his head sadly. “That’s not you, Jessie. That’s panic. That’s fear.”
Something cold crawls up my spine.
He’s good. He’s always been good at this—making me doubt myself, making his version of reality sound so reasonable that I can’t remember what I actually wanted.
“No, you’re trying to manipulate me into coming back because you're terrified of losing your fifteen percent.”
Albert is close enough that I can smell his cologne. It makes my stomach turn. “That’s called a career, Jessie. That’s called being a professional.”
“No. That’s called being a product.”
Something flickers in Albert’s expression—a crack in the concerned mentor facade. “You’re being dramatic.”
“Am I? You told me to make my sunsets ‘more blue.’ To soften my edges. To paint what collectors expect instead of what I actually see.” My voice is rising, but I don’t care.
Behind me, Tank shifts.
I feel his presence like a held breath.
Don’t, I think. Let me handle this.
I don’t know if Tank can read minds, but he doesn’t move forward.
I pin Albert with my gaze and continue. “You taught me that my instincts were wrong, that my vision needed ‘refinement,’ that success meant becoming whatever the highest bidder wanted me to be.”
“I taught you how to build a sustainable career—”
“You taught me how to disappear.” I take a step toward him.
Surprise flickers across his face. The first hint that he’s losing control of this conversation.
“Every time I had an original idea, you talked me out of it. Every time I wanted to take a risk, you told me it wouldn’t sell. And I believed you, Albert. For five years, I believed you. That’s on me.”
“Jessie—”
“You’re fired.”
The words hang in the air between us.
His mouth opens. Closes. For a long moment, he stares at me like I’ve spoken a foreign language.
“Excuse me?”
“Fired. Done. I’m not your client anymore.” The words come out steady, even though my heart is hammering. “I’m not your project. I’m not your meal ticket. And I’m definitely not your charity case who needs to be rescued from her own decisions.”
“You’re making a huge mistake.” The concern mask is slipping now, revealing something uglier underneath. “You think you can do this without me? You think galleries will take your calls? Collectors will remember your name? I made you, Jessie—”
“You didn’t make anything.” I’m shaking, but my voice is stronger than it’s ever been. “You found someone with talent and figured out how to profit from it. That’s not making. That’s mining.”
“This is insane.” He’s stepping backward now, retreating toward his rental car. “You’ll regret this. When this little... fling falls apart, when reality sets in, you’ll come crawling back. And I might not be there to help you stand.”
He opens his mouth, probably to deliver some parting shot, some final manipulation—
And Tank clears his throat.
Just that. One sound. But Albert looks past me to the six-foot-five mountain of barely restrained protectiveness, and whatever he was going to say dies in his throat.
“The lady said you’re fired,” Tank says, his voice calm and pleasant in a way that’s somehow more threatening than anger. “Might want to leave before I help you understand what that means.”
“This is—you can’t—” Albert sputters, looking between us. “Jessie, you’re making a huge mistake. You’ll fail without me, and when you do—”
“I’d rather fail on my own terms than succeed on yours.” I hold his gaze until he looks away first. “Goodbye, Albert.”
Albert scrambles into his car. The engine revs. Snow and gravel spray as he peels out, disappearing down the road in a cloud of ice and wounded ego.
I watch until his taillights vanish around the bend.
Then the adrenaline hits.
I’m shaking, full-body tremors that have nothing to do with the snow under my feet. Tank’s there before I fully register moving, his arms wrapping around me from behind, his chest solid against my back.
“You okay?” His voice is low and warm against my ear.
“I will be.”
“That’s my girl.”
The words land somewhere deep in my chest and stay there.
He doesn’t say anything else. Just holds me while the shaking subsides, his chin resting on top of my head, his heartbeat steady against my back. An anchor in a storm I didn’t know I was strong enough to survive.
Back at the cabin, I expect the crash to hit. The doubt. The second-guessing.
But instead, I stand in the middle of the cabin, still buzzing, still shaking, and what I feel isn’t doubt.
It’s relief.
It’s freedom.
“I can’t believe I just did that.” I press my hands to my cheeks. “I fired my agent. In your shirt and my underwear. At a ranch gate.”
Tank sets a mug of coffee in front of me. “Technically, you were wearing my shirt.”
“Oh, well, that makes it professional.”
“Very boardroom chic.” His mouth twitches. “How do you feel?”
“Terrified.” I take a breath. “Exhilarated. Like I just jumped off a cliff, and I’m not sure if there’s water at the bottom.”
“There’s water.” He cups my face in his hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. “And if there isn’t, I’ll build you a goddamn lake.”
My laugh is wet and overwhelmed and so full of something that feels dangerously like hope. “You know what the worst part is? I keep waiting for the doubt to hit. For the voice in my head that sounds like Albert to tell me I just made a huge mistake.”
“And?”
“And it’s... quiet.” I blink, surprised by my own realization. “For the first time in years, it’s actually quiet.”
Tank watches me for a long moment. Then his expression shifts to determination softened by a glint of mischief I’ve never seen before.
“Okay,” he says, standing up. “New plan.”
“What?”
He pulls his shirt over his head.
I blink. “Um. What are you doing?”
“Taking off my clothes.” He kicks off his boots and reaches for his belt.
“I can see that. Why?”
“Because you’re going to draw me.”
His jeans hit the floor. He’s standing in my—our—cabin in nothing but boxer briefs, and my brain short-circuits.
“You said the doubt is quiet. I want to see what you make when there’s no one in your head telling you what it should look like. Draw. Show me.”
“Tank—”
“Show me what you see.” He’s completely serious, even as he hooks his thumbs in his waistband.
“Because I think you see things other people miss. I think that’s your superpower.
And I think you’ve spent so long letting other people tell you what your art should be that you’ve forgotten what it actually is. ”
He shoves down the briefs.
Naked. He’s fully naked. In the middle of the cabin. While I’m still vibrating from firing my agent.
“Oh, my god.” I laugh—I can't help it. “What are you doing?”
“Modeling.” He strikes a pose, one arm flexed, chin lifted, like a ridiculous Greek statue. “Is this good? I’ve never done this before. Do I need to smolder?”
“You look insane.”
“Insanely handsome, you mean.” He shifts to another pose, this one even more absurd—hands on hips, chest puffed out. “How about this? Very commanding. Very masculine.”
I’m laughing so hard I can barely breathe.
“Stop, stop!” I wave my hands. “You look like a lumberjack calendar reject.”
“Harsh.” But he’s grinning. “Okay, what about—” He turns around, looks over his shoulder, and actually flexes his ass. “Tasteful. Artistic. Very Burt Reynolds.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re smiling.” He turns back to face me, and his expression softens. “There she is. There’s my girl.”
The laughter fades to something warmer. He’s standing there, completely naked, completely vulnerable, looking at me like I’m the only thing he sees.
“You’re really going to let me draw you?”
“I’m going to let you do whatever you want with me.” He holds my gaze. “Always.”
Something shifts in the air between us.
I stand. Cross the room. Stop inches from him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.
“What if what I want,” I say slowly, “isn’t to draw you?”
His pupils dilate. “Then I’d say I’m already undressed for the occasion.”
I laugh. God, this man. Then I’m kissing him, and he’s lifting me, and the sketchbook is forgotten because there are better ways to prove I’m talented with my hands.
Later—much later—I’m sprawled across his chest, boneless and satisfied, watching the sunlight shift across the ceiling.
The annulment papers are still in the kitchen drawer. I know exactly where they are. I’ve known for days.
I slide out of bed, ignoring Tank's questioning sound, and pad across the cabin in nothing but satisfaction and afternoon light. The drawer sticks—it always sticks—and then the papers are in my hands.
Petition for Annulment of Marriage.
Sawyer James Granger and Jessica Marie Henry.
Tank appears in the bedroom doorway, still gloriously naked, watching me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“Jessie?”
I don’t answer. I take the papers in both hands and tear them down the middle.
The sound is louder than I expected. More satisfying too.
I tear them again. And again. Until what was supposed to be our escape hatch is nothing but confetti in my hands.
“I’m not signing the annulment papers.” The words come out easily and naturally, as if I’ve been waiting to say them my whole life.
Tank crosses the room in three strides. “What?”
I let the pieces fall through my fingers like snow. “Too late anyway. They’re confetti now.”
“Jessie.” His voice cracks on my name.
This man who built me a studio before I even decided to stay. Who stood behind me while I fought my own battle. Who got naked and posed like an idiot just to make me laugh.
“I’m staying,” I say, stepping over the paper scraps to reach him. “I’m keeping you right back.”
His hand comes up to cup my face. His eyes are bright—wet, I realize. This man, who’s been protecting himself his whole life, convinced he was too much for anyone to handle.
“I know I’m chaos.” I turn my head and press a kiss to his palm.
“I know I’m messy and scared and probably going to rearrange your mugs a hundred more times.
But I’m done running. I’m done leaving before anyone can ask me to stay.
” I hold his gaze. “You didn’t ask. You just made room.
And I want to fill it. All of it. For as long as you’ll let me. ”
His mouth lands on mine in a kiss that tastes like forever.
“For as long as I’ll let you?” He laughs against my mouth. “Jessie. I was ready to keep you the second I saw you. You think I’m ever letting you go now?”
“No.”
“Damn right. You’re mine. And I’m yours. We’re going to build that studio, and you’re going to paint whatever the hell you want, and I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure you never doubt yourself again.”
“That’s a big promise.”
“I’m a big guy.” His grin transforms his whole face. “I can handle it.”
The torn papers are still scattered across the kitchen floor. We’ll clean them up later.
Or maybe we won’t. Maybe we’ll leave them there as a reminder of the day I stopped running. Of the day I chose to stay.
This is what it feels like to finally come home.