Chapter 5
Jessie
Tuesday morning arrives with the smell of bacon and the shrill ring of Tank’s phone.
I’m at the stove making pancakes again, because apparently that’s our thing now, when the sound cuts through the quiet.
Tank’s been outside doing something aggressively competent with an axe, but he must have come in while I was focused on the batter.
On not thinking about how his mouth felt against mine on Sunday night.
On definitely not replaying the way he groaned when I pulled him closer.
Focus, Jessie. Pancakes.
“Tank Granger.” His deep voice rumbles from somewhere behind me. A pause. “Yeah, this is him.”
I flip a pancake, only half-listening. Probably work stuff. Lumber orders. Mountain man business.
“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”
Something in his voice makes me turn around.
He’s standing by the window, the phone pressed to his ear, and his expression has gone carefully blank in a way that makes my stomach flip. Not the good kind of flip. The “something is very wrong” kind.
“No, I understand what you’re saying. I’m asking you to explain how that’s possible.”
I set down the spatula.
“Right. And when was this processed?” Another pause. His eyes find mine across the room, and there’s something in them I can’t read. “I see. And the timeline for… right. Thirty days. Got it.”
His voice is mechanical and weirdly polite as he thanks whoever’s on the other end before he lowers the phone.
The silence stretches.
“Tank?” I wipe my hands on a dish towel, moving toward him. “What’s wrong? You look like someone just told you your truck got repossessed.”
“That was the county clerk’s office.” He says it slowly, like he’s still processing. “Apparently, there was some confusion with the paperwork we signed after the auction Friday night.”
I stop a few feet away. “Did they lose our forms? Because I remember signing a lot of things—”
“Marlie’s Angels filed our Domestic Partnership Agreement with the county.
Standard procedure. It’s how they track placements and make sure the women are protected legally.
” Tank scrubs a hand over his jaw in a tell I'm learning means he’s working up to something.
“Usually, those forms get delivered to the clerk in Havenstone County.”
“Okay...” I draw the word out, waiting for the other shoe.
“Although the cabin is technically part of Havenridge Ranch, the land is part of the new expansion zone. So the paperwork went to the county office out here instead.” He pauses. “Where they have a new clerk.”
“A new clerk who...?”
“Processed our Domestic Partnership Agreement as a marriage license application.”
I blink.
Wait for the punchline.
Tank just looks at me.
“I’m sorry,” I say carefully. “Did you just say marriage license?”
“Montana recognizes domestic partnership agreements as grounds for common-law marriage if they’re filed as such.” His throat bobs. “The agreement had our legal names, addresses, ID verification. There’s a checkbox for ‘intent to cohabitate in an exclusive partnership.’”
“The checkbox,” I say slowly. “I remember that. I thought it was asking if I intended to stay at Havenridge.”
“So did I. But the new clerk flagged it. And apparently, there was a software update last week. The system auto-generated a marriage record number and sent it straight to the state database.” His voice has gone flat, reciting what he must have just learned.
“According to the state of Montana, we’ve been legally married since Friday at 6:47 PM. ”
The words hit me one at a time.
Marriage. Record. Legally. Married.
“That’s not—” I shake my head as if I can physically dislodge the information. “We didn’t—You can’t just accidentally get married because of a software glitch. There are rules. Processes. Someone checks these things!”
“Usually, yes. But the new clerk didn’t know the difference, and by the time the system flagged it, we were already in the state database.”
I think back to Friday night. The cramped hallway behind the auction stage. The forms I signed on autopilot because I was too rattled by Tank’s thousand-dollar bid to read the fine print. All those boxes about non-harassment clauses and asset protection and legal traceability—
“So Marlie’s Angels filed paperwork to protect me,” I say slowly, “and a new clerk at an unfamiliar county office processed it as a marriage license because their system had an update that auto-filled the wrong form type.”
“That’s about it.”
I stare at him.
He stares back.
And then—I can’t help it—I laugh.
It starts as a snort. Then a giggle. Then a full-body, slightly unhinged cackle that has me bracing my hands on my knees because I might actually collapse.
“Jessie?”
“I’m sorry,” I wheeze. “I’m sorry, I just—I accidentally married a mountain man because of a checkbox and a software update.”
Tank’s mouth twitches. “When you put it that way.”
“How else would I put it?” I straighten up, wiping my eyes. “This is insane. This is absolutely, certifiably, made-for-TV-movie insane.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
“My mother is going to have a stroke.” I press my hands to my cheeks. “My agent is going to have seventeen strokes. I can see the headline now: ‘Nomad Artist Accidentally Marries Stranger. More at Eleven.’”
“Technically, we’re not strangers anymore.”
“Oh, well, that fixes everything.” I gesture between us. “We’ve known each other for four days, Tank. Four. Days. And now we’re legally married because a volunteer was having a bad shift.”
“Four days,” he agrees. “And one really good kiss.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “That’s not—We’re not—That’s completely beside the point.”
“Is it?”
The question hangs in the air. His eyes are dark, steady, and there’s something in them that makes my breath catch. Something that says he remembers exactly how that kiss felt too.
I clear my throat. “Four days and I’m already a wife. I’ve had leftovers in my fridge longer than I’ve been married.”
Tank makes a sound that might be a laugh. “You done?”
“I don’t know. Give me a minute.” I pace toward the window, then back. “Okay. Okay. Let’s think about this logically. They can fix it, right? Just… un-file the paperwork? Delete the entry? Control-Z the whole thing?”
“The license was processed and filed. It’s in the state system.” He crosses his arms. “To undo it, we have to file for an annulment.”
My agent sent a message confirming the dates for the new job in New York. There’s no way I can stay on this mountain, even if I wanted to. Which I do, but that’s beside the point.
“Fine. We’ll file for annulment. Today. Right now.” I’m already looking around for my phone. “Where’s the nearest courthouse?”
“There’s a thirty-day waiting period.”
I stop. “I'm sorry, a what?”
“State law. Thirty days from filing before an annulment can be processed.” He moves toward the kitchen, pulls two mugs from the cabinet, and pours coffee into them like we're discussing the weather.
“Thirty days.” The number lands like a brick. “I’m supposed to be in New York in twenty days.”
“For the gallery show.” He says it without looking up, calmly measuring grounds and placing them in the chamber. “The one you've been sketching notes for since Saturday.”
He noticed that. Of course, he noticed that.
“The show my career is riding on,” I confirm, my voice climbing. “And you’re telling me we can’t get un-married for a month?”
Tank sets a mug in front of me and then leans against the counter, arms crossed. “That’s what the clerk said.”
I sink onto the arm of his couch, legs suddenly unreliable. “So I’m married. To you. For at least thirty days. Legally. On paper. In the eyes of the state of Montana.”
“That’s about the size of it.”
I look up at him. He’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite decode—calm on the surface, but something flickering underneath. Something that looks almost like…
“You’re not freaking out,” I realize.
“Panicking won’t unfile the paperwork.”
“No, I mean—” I study him more closely. “You’re really not freaking out. Most men would be halfway to Mexico by now.”
Tank shrugs, and the movement does unfair things to his shoulders. “Once had to defuse a bomb with a paper clip and a prayer.” His mouth curves. “This is just paperwork.”
That story can’t be true. A surprised laugh escapes me. “That’s… actually weirdly comforting?”
“Aim to please.”
I take a breath. Then another. Let the absurdity settle into something almost manageable.
“And your response to this situation is…?”
Tank looks at me for a long moment. Instead of heading for the door or calling a lawyer, he comes closer, stopping a few feet away. I tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
“My response,” he says quietly, “is that you’re not trapped. Whatever we decide, you’re not stuck here because of paperwork.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?” His gaze searches mine. “We can’t control the timeline. But we can control what we do with it.”
“Which is?”
“Make a plan. Handle what needs handling. Stop trying to solve thirty days in thirty minutes.”
I snort. “You sound like a motivational poster.”
“What can I say? It’s a gift.”
Something in my chest loosens. Not fixed—nothing about this is fixed—but… lighter. Like the weight has shifted from crushing to merely absurd.
“Fine,” I say, standing up. “You want to be practical? Let’s be practical. If we’re doing this accidental marriage, temporary cohabitation, bureaucratic nightmare thing, I have conditions.”
His eyebrow rises. “Is that right?”
“First, you’re not sleeping on that couch.” I point at the offending furniture. “You barely fit on it, and you’re shaped like a refrigerator.”
“I’m shaped like a what?”
“A very attractive refrigerator.” I wave my hand dismissively. “The point is, we’re adults. We can share a bed without it being weird.”
The look he gives me suggests he has thoughts about that. Thoughts that make heat prickle down my spine. Thoughts that probably involve what happened on Sunday night and what might happen if we share that bed.
“Anything else?” he asks, his voice rougher than before.
“Second, I reserve the right to rearrange your mugs.”
“Agreed.” He nods once, seemingly relieved. “Anything else?”
I should probably be treating this like a crisis, but standing here, wearing his flannel, looking at this man who just found out he’s accidentally my husband and responded with problem-solving…
“Yeah,” I say. “The pancakes are getting cold. Crisis management makes me hungry.”
His laugh is low and warm, doing something dangerous to my resolve. “I’ll figure something out.”
He heads toward the kitchen, then pauses, looking back at me over his shoulder. “For the record? This isn’t how I planned to get married.”
“No?”
“No.” His mouth curves into something that’s almost a smile. “But I’m not exactly upset about who I ended up with.”
He disappears into the kitchen before I can respond.
I stand there, heart doing something complicated in my chest, and realize I’m smiling.
Accidentally married to a mountain man.
Every dating app horror story I’ve ever heard just got topped by my own life.
But Tank Granger isn’t a horror story. He’s a man who gives up his bed for strangers, makes coffee without being asked, kisses like he’s staking a claim, and responds to accidental marriage with dry humor and practical planning.
There are worse people to be stuck with for thirty days.
There are definitely worse views.
I glance toward the kitchen, where I can hear him moving around, and something shifts in my chest. Something that feels dangerously like anticipation.
Twenty days until New York.
Thirty days until I can be un-married.
And one very attractive mountain man who’s “not exactly upset” about being stuck with me.
I’m already looking forward to tomorrow.