8. Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Lucy
Sunlight filters through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the wooden walls of Tank’s cabin. The morning air is crisp, but beneath the thick blankets, my body is deliciously warm, muscles pleasantly sore from last night’s slow, intense lovemaking. A lazy smile spreads across my lips as memories flood back.
Tank’s hands… his mouth… the way he made me feel completely and utterly his.
I stretch, my bare skin brushing against the sheets that still smell like him. The scent of pine, cedar, and paint lingers in the air, grounding me in the moment. I glance to my side, and there he is.
Tank.
He’s still asleep, lying on his stomach, one arm draped loosely over the pillow. In the soft morning light, the hard edges of him look a little less intimidating. The lines that usually crease his forehead are smoothed out, his breathing slow and steady. It’s rare, I think, to see him like this. Unguarded, peaceful.
I prop myself up on my elbow, trailing my fingers lightly over the broad expanse of his back, tracing the lines of rippling muscle. This man . He’s everything I never let myself dream about. Steady, protective, strong in ways that have nothing to do with his body and everything to do with his soul.
And he’s mine .
My fingertips barely graze his shoulder when his eyelids flutter open. His blue eyes land on me, still hazy with sleep, but the slow smile that tugs at his lips is pure awareness.
“Hello,” he rumbles, voice gravelly from sleep.
“Hello,” I murmur, feeling a ridiculous warmth flood my chest.
He reaches for me, wrapping an arm around my waist, pulling me flush against his solid, naked body. Heat sparks all over again as I press a kiss against the sharp edge of his jaw, feeling the roughness of his scruff.
His fingers trail lazily up my spine. “Didn’t dream you, then.”
“Nope,” I say, smiling against his skin. “I’m still here.”
He rolls onto his back, bringing me with him, so I’m sprawled across his chest. His large hands slide over my thighs, squeezing, grounding, but there’s something softer in his gaze this morning. Something deeper.
“It’s time to tell me a little bit about yourself,” I say, propping my chin on his chest.
Tank’s fingers skim my hip, absentminded but possessive. “Ask whatever you want.”
I glance around the cabin, my gaze landing on the paintings lining the walls. I’d noticed them last night, but now, in the daylight, I see them. They’re wild, textured, layered with depth and movement, each brushstroke full of life. They’re not just paintings. They’re pieces of him .
“You did all of these?”
His chest rises and falls beneath me. “Most of them.”
“So you’re a professional artist?”
His hand stops moving. A muscle in his jaw tics before he exhales, rubbing a palm over his face. “Used to be.”
I push up, resting my weight on my forearms. “What does that mean?”
His lips press together for a moment before he speaks. “My older pieces sell for a lot of money. Wylie Cole has one of my paintings above his mantel.”
I blink. “The actor Wylie Cole?”
Tank chuckles. “Yeah. Of course, he doesn’t realize the infamous recluse on the mountain painted it.”
I gape at him. Wylie Cole has a vacation home in Hawks Roost. He’s our most famous resident. And he’s known for his expensive tastes and impressive art collection. “How much did he pay for it?”
I know it’s rude to ask, but Tank did say I could ask anything.
A tiny smile dances on his lips. “Six figures.”
My jaw drops. “You’re kidding .”
He shakes his head.
I glance at the paintings surrounding us, my heart stuttering. “Does it have bits of earth in it, like the painting we did yesterday?”
“No,” he says. “No one but you has seen my current work. Wylie has one of the abstract cityscapes that made me famous.”
I narrow my eyes. “How famous are you?”
He sighs. “Famous enough to entice a movie star to buy a painting for three hundred grand.”
My stomach flips. “But I Googled you. There’s no trace of you at all. You’re a ghost.”
Tank smirks. “Changed my name. Needed anonymity after—” His voice falters.
“After?” I prompt, worried about what he’s about to reveal. Is this where he confesses to being in witness protection?
He takes a shaky breath. “After my wife passed away.”
A cold, guilty weight settles in my chest. “Oh, Tank,” I whisper, pressing a hand to my mouth. “I’m so sorry.”
He folds me into his arms, holding me tight. “Thank you.” His voice is steady, but I feel the emotion beneath it. “Her name was Tiffany. I was devastated when I lost her. I couldn’t paint for years. Eventually, I moved here for a fresh start.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, stroking his arm. “And your name…?”
“Walk Tankersley,” he says. “But my friends have always called me Tank.”
I blink. “I’ll have to Google you again later,” I tease gently. “Find out the real dirt.”
His lips quirk. “What do you want to know? I’ll tell you anything.”
I look into his eyes, my own steady. “Everything. I want to know everything .”
He nods, rubbing slow circles on my back. “I’m an only child. Grew up in Hoboken, New Jersey. My parents still live there. Went to NYU for college. Met Tiffany there—she was studying psychology.” His voice softens at the memory. “We were happy for a long time. Until…”
“How did she die?” I ask, squeezing his hand.
“Car accident. A truck ran a red light, T-boning her. Investigators said it was quick. She didn’t suffer.” His voice is even, but I feel the weight of his grief.
I brush my lips against his shoulder. “That’s a relief, at least.”
Tank nods, then exhales. “After that, I moved here. Slowly found my way back to art. And now, I have love again, too.”
The words send a shockwave through me. Love.
A thick silence stretches between us, but neither of us move away. Then, suddenly, his mouth is on mine again, claiming, needing. This time, there’s no hesitation. Just fire.
When we finally pull apart, breathless, he rests his forehead against mine. “Stay.”
“For the day?” I whisper.
“For forever .”
My heart pounds against my ribs. “I will,” I say, voice trembling. “If you do something for me.”
His grip tightens on my waist. “Anything.”
I run a hand down his chest, letting my fingers rest over his heart. “Show your new art. It doesn’t have to be a big thing. Just a gallery show here in Hawks Roost. Let the people in town see you.”
His body tenses beside me. I can almost hear the walls going up again. “Lucy—”
“No,” I say firmly, placing a hand on his cheek, forcing him to meet my gaze. “You can’t keep hiding. This—” I gesture to the cabin, the walls filled with his breathtaking work. “—is incredible . The world deserves to see it. You deserve to be seen.”
Tank stares at me for a long time, his jaw working.
Finally, he exhales. “One show.”
A thrill rushes through me. “One show,” I agree, even though I already know this is just the beginning.
Because Walk Tankersley won’t be hiding for much longer. It’s time for him to return to the world of the living as the new and improved Tank Walker.