Chapter 2
Tank
I don’t bring women home.
It’s not a rule I made consciously, but more like a truth that settled into my bones somewhere between my third deployment and my first year on this mountain.
My cabin is my space. The one place I can be too loud, too much, too everything without worrying about overwhelming someone.
Without watching their faces tighten when my voice carries too far, or my presence fills too much of the room.
And now Jessie Henry is sitting in the passenger seat of my truck as I navigate a snow-laden road that nobody takes unless they’re lost or they’re me.
What the hell am I doing?
The answer comes faster than I’d like: whatever it takes to keep her safe.
My grip tightens on the steering wheel. That motel she mentioned, the Roadside, out on 12, I know the place as well as the type of people who drift through there. The locks don’t work, and the manager doesn’t ask questions. The thought of Jessie sleeping there alone...
My jaw clenches.
Nope. Not happening.
My brain wasn’t listening to reason tonight. I had no intention of bidding.
But when I looked across that auction room and saw red hair catching the light, saw her spine go rigid when Mr. Rolex opened his mouth, saw her chin lift like she was preparing to fight the whole damn room if necessary, something deep inside me clicked into place.
I told myself the bid was about protection. About not letting some wealthy businessman win a cohabitation placement with her like she was a prize at a county fair.
And that’s true. But it’s not the whole truth.
I wanted her looking at me. Wanted to be the reason her shoulders relaxed. Wanted to see if her sharp tongue could handle mine.
Well, shit. Guess I’ve got a woman living with me now.
The cabin comes into view as we round the final bend—a solid A-frame tucked into a clearing where the pines part enough to let the stars through. Smoke still curls from the chimney; I banked the fire before heading to town, not expecting to bring anyone back.
Not expecting her.
I park and kill the engine. Jessie has been quiet the whole journey, and I’m not one for small talk. I glance at her as she takes a deep breath. Steeling herself.
She’s scared, I realize. Not of me. Of needing help.
The recognition hits somewhere beneath my ribs. I’ve been there. When you’re so accustomed to going it alone that letting someone help feels like giving up.
I climb out and round the truck to open her door for her. The mountain air hits my lungs—that crispness that only exists above five thousand feet. Home. I’ve never wanted to share this with anyone.
Until tonight.
Don’t think about that. Just get her inside, get her settled, and keep your hands to yourself.
Jessie unfolds herself from the passenger seat, and I have to look away because watching her stretch makes my mouth go dry. When I glance back, she’s staring up at the cabin with an expression I can’t quite read.
The cabin is me. Every rough edge, every practical choice, every deliberate absence of softness. Designed for solitude. Built for one.
“This is yours?” Her voice carries across the clearing. “It looks like it grew out of the mountain.”
Something warm spreads through my chest at that.
“Built it myself five years ago.” I grab the heavy duffel bag from the trunk. “With a bit of help from the two guys I was with at the auction tonight. We nearly killed each other three times getting the roof timbers in.” My mouth twitches with a fond smile at the memory.
“I saw the women they went home with backstage. Jane and…” Jessie’s brow furrows as she tries to remember.
“Sadie,” I say. “She went home with Wyatt. And Jackson won the bid for Jane. Sadie’s situation is a little more… complicated.”
Her frown deepens with concern. “But Jane and Sadie are both safe, right? With Jackson and Wyatt?”
I nod. “No two men they’d be safer with.”
Jackson “Tex” Briggs and Wyatt “Saint” Callahan are my brothers, not by blood, but because we’ve been through things together that most people can’t imagine.
Deployment. Trauma. The type of trust that only forms when someone’s literally had your back in a firefight.
They helped me build my cabin when we got out, then watched me retreat into it like a wounded animal, convincing myself that isolation was the same as peace.
“They live close by at Havenridge Ranch. The Sutton family runs a veterans program there. A safe place for former military men struggling with PTSD, injuries, survivor’s guilt.”
The wind picks up, sending a flurry of snow dancing around Jessie’s face.
“Come on. Let’s get you inside.” I head for the porch, hyper-aware of her footsteps crunching in the snow behind me. “Fair warning—it’s not fancy. But it’s warm and the locks work.”
“That’s more than I can say for the Roadside.”
The reminder of where she’d planned to stay makes my shoulders tense. I shove open the front door harder than necessary.
Inside, the fire I banked is still glowing.
Jessie steps inside, and the room immediately feels smaller. Her presence takes up more space than her body should—all that energy, that barely contained brightness, filling corners I didn't know were empty. For once, I don’t feel like the loudest thing in the room.
She turns in a slow circle, taking it all in. A king bed against the far wall. Kitchen built for efficiency, not company. A leather couch I’ve fallen asleep on more nights than I’d admit. Books stacked on every surface because I never got around to building enough shelves.
The exposed beams, worn wool blankets, and complete lack of anything decorative except a single photograph of me and my unit on the mantel. It was the last picture we took together before everything changed.
Her gaze snags on it for a second before moving on.
I move automatically to add a log, buying myself time before I have to face her reaction.
“One room,” she says slowly.
“Told you it wasn’t fancy.”
“You told me it had a bed,” she says, staring at the bed I sleep in alone.
“It does.”
“Singular.” She turns to face me, and something in her expression makes heat crawl up my neck. “So where exactly were you planning to sleep, Mountain Man?”
I hook a thumb toward the couch. “I’ve crashed there plenty of times.”
“That couch isn’t even six feet long. You’re what, six-three?”
“Six-five.”
“So your feet will hang off.”
“Slept in smaller spaces. Jackson once made me fold into a supply crate for six hours during an extraction.” I shrug. “I’m flexible when I need to be.”
She arches a challenging eyebrow. “This is your home and your bed. I’m not kicking you out.”
“You’re not kicking me out of anything. I’m offering.”
“And I’m declining.” She crosses her arms, and I’m absolutely not noticing how the movement presses her breasts together. “I’m five-ten. I’ll take the couch.”
“Like hell you will.”
“Excuse me?” She glares, lifting her chin. “You’re being chivalrous. But you can’t just decide—”
“I’m not being chivalrous. I’m being practical.” I match her stance, arms crossed, and watch her eyes track the movement. Good. Let her look. “That bed’s got a memory foam topper I hauled up this mountain on my back. You’ll sleep better than you have in months.”
“You don’t know how I sleep.”
“I know that motel mattress would’ve destroyed your spine.”
“Maybe I like being destroyed.”
The words hang in the air. Her cheeks flush pink.
I shouldn’t grin. I definitely shouldn’t let her see that she just made my whole night. But my face doesn’t get the memo.
“Interesting choice of words,” I manage.
“Oh, shut up.” She’s fighting a smile now, and something in my chest cracks open watching it. “You know what I meant.”
“Do I?”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re sleeping in the bed.” I grab her duffel and carry it across the room, setting it on the cedar chest at the foot of the mattress. “Non-negotiable.”
“We just met. You can’t ‘non-negotiate’ me.”
“Watch me.”
She stares at me, and I stare right back. It’s a standoff. A test. Although I don’t know what answer she’s looking for, I’m not backing down.
Finally, she throws her hands up. “Fine. But I’m going on record that this is ridiculous.”
“Noted.”
“And if your back hurts tomorrow, I’m not rubbing it.”
The image her words conjure, of her hands on my bare skin, working out the knots, makes my brain short-circuit for a second. “Wasn’t gonna ask.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
We’re both still standing there like idiots, the bed looming between us like a dare. I need to move. Need to do something other than imagine her tangled in my sheets, hair spread across my pillow, that sharp mouth softened by sleep.
“Make yourself at home. Bathroom’s through there.” I point. “Towels in the cabinet. Water takes a minute to heat up.”
“Thanks.” She grabs her duffel, and our hands brush as she takes the strap from me.
Heat and something indefinable shoot up my arm.
She feels it too. I hear it in the catch of her breath, the way her eyes dart to mine and then away.
Fuck.
She pauses in the bathroom doorway, looking back at me over her shoulder.
“Tank?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.” Her voice is soft now, stripped of the banter. “For the bid. For sharing your space. And for not making it weird.”
I want to tell her it’s already weird. That having her in my space is overwhelming, like a natural disaster—impossible to prepare for. I’ve known her for three hours, and I’m already rearranging my entire life to make room for her.
Instead, I say, “Enjoy your shower, Jessie.”
She disappears into the bathroom. The door clicks shut.
I stand there like a moron, listening to the water run, and try to remember how to breathe.
By the time she emerges, I’ve got myself under control.
Mostly.
The fire’s built back up. I’ve changed into sweats and a t-shirt, spread an extra blanket on the couch, and I’m pretending to read a book I grabbed at random from the stack by the window.
Then Jessie steps out in sleep shorts and a tank top, and every rational thought exits my skull.
Jesus Christ.
Those legs. All that pale, freckled skin. The soft curve of her hips, the dip of her waist. She’s smaller than she seemed in the auction dress. Softer and more vulnerable.
And I’m supposed to act like this is normal when she’s standing in my cabin, about to sleep in my bed.
“Bathroom’s all yours.” She crosses to the bed, pulling back the quilt. “Fair warning—I used your toothpaste. I’ll replace it tomorrow.”
“Don't worry about it.”
“I worry about everything. It’s my cardio.” She slides under the covers, and watching her sink into the mattress with a groan that should be illegal is almost more than I can handle. “Oh, my god.”
“Told you.”
“This is obscene. This is the most comfortable bed I’ve ever—” She cuts herself off, pulling the quilt up to her chin. “You really sleep on this every night?”
“When I sleep.”
Her eyes find mine across the room. “Insomniac?”
“Something like that.”
She studies me for a long moment, and I can see her filing that information away. Learning me. The scrutiny should make me uncomfortable. It usually does when people try to look too closely.
With her, I don’t want to hide.
“Well.” She burrows deeper into the pillows. “Your sacrifice is appreciated. And noted. And will be repaid somehow, even if you’re too stubborn to accept rent.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“Then what do you want?”
The question lands like a grenade. What do I want? I want to cross this room and climb into that bed beside her. Want to learn every freckle, every sigh, every way her body fits against mine. Want to wake up tomorrow and every day after that with her right where she is now.
I want to keep her.
“For you to stop arguing and go to sleep.”
She snorts. “Charming.”
“Never claimed to be.”
“No.” Her voice is softer now, drowsy. “You claimed me instead.”
Before I can respond, she rolls onto her side, facing away from me. Within minutes, her breathing evens out.
She’s asleep. In my bed. In my cabin.
I set down the book I wasn’t reading and scrub my hands over my face. The couch is exactly as uncomfortable as I expected—too short, too narrow, entirely wrong.
I don’t care.
I lie there in the dark, listening to her breathe, watching the firelight play across the ceiling. This woman, this stranger who’s somehow already under my skin, is wrapped in my blankets, her red hair spilled across my pillow, sleeping in my bed like she belongs there.
It’s unsettling.
I tell myself I’m just fulfilling the agreement. Just solving a problem. Just making sure she’s safe until the cohabitation period runs its course and she can move on to whatever life she was living before I brought her up this mountain.
But watching her sleep in my bed, wrapped in my blankets, I know the truth.
I’m not helping her. I’m keeping her.
She just doesn’t know it yet.