Chapter 6 #2
She’s walking away before I can respond, and I feel the town grapevine firing up in real time. By noon, everyone will know that Tank Granger brought a red-haired woman to town.
The thought should bother me.
It doesn’t.
I steer Jessie toward the store entrance, keeping my hand on her lower back because I can’t seem to stop touching her. “Come on. We need flour.”
“We have flour.”
“We had flour. Someone’s been making a lot of pancakes.”
Her laugh cuts through the tension she’s been carrying all morning, and something in my chest loosens.
The grocery store smells like fresh bread and floor polish. Roger looks up from behind the counter, his eyebrows climbing toward his receding hairline when he sees Jessie beside me.
“Well, well.” He sets down the inventory clipboard. “Tank Granger with company. Is this a sign of the apocalypse I should know about?”
“Flour,” I say flatly. “Eggs. Coffee.”
“And a hello would be nice, but I see we’re skipping pleasantries today.” Roger grins at Jessie. “I’m Roger. I run this place. You must be the woman Tank bid on at the placement auction.”
“This is Jessie.” I put my hand on the small of her back without thinking. She doesn’t pull away.
Don’t crowd her. Don’t be too much. Let her set the pace.
The mantra’s wearing thin.
“Word travels fast.” Jessie’s voice is wry, but she’s smiling.
“Small town. Not much else to do.” Roger says. “A thousand dollars, I heard. Must’ve been some auction.”
“She’s worth more than that.”
Jessie goes still beside me. Roger’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline.
I clear my throat. “The program, I mean. It was for a good cause.”
I grab a basket and steer Jessie toward the back of the store before Roger can elaborate further. She comes willingly, but I catch the curious look she shoots me.
“Was I?”
“Were you what?”
“Worth it.” She’s not looking at me, studying a row of canned tomatoes like they hold the secrets of the universe. “The thousand dollars.”
I stop walking. She stops too, finally turning to face me.
“Jessie.” Her name comes out low. Serious. “I would’ve paid ten times that to outbid Mr. Rolex. And I’d do it again tomorrow without thinking twice.”
Her eyes search mine. “That’s not what I asked.”
“Yeah, it is.” I take a step closer, close enough to smell her shampoo and see the faint freckles across her nose. “You’re asking if I regret it. If I think the money was wasted.” I hold her gaze. “The answer is no. Not for a second. Not even close.”
She swallows hard. Her cheeks are flushed, and she’s looking at me like she’s seeing something she didn’t expect to find.
The moment stretches, thick with everything we’re not saying. I want to close the distance, back her against these shelves, and show her exactly how much I meant every word.
Instead, I clear my throat and nod toward the baking aisle. “Flour. Top shelf.”
“I’ve got it.” She stretches up on her toes, and my flannel rides up her thighs, exposing an inch of pale skin that makes my mouth go dry.
I’m behind her before I think, reaching over her head to grab the flour, just like in the kitchen the other day. Like it’s our thing now. My chest brushes her back. She goes still.
“Got it,” I manage, stepping back before I do something stupid.
Stop. You’re in public.
Jessie turns, flour clutched to her chest, cheeks faintly pink. “Thanks.”
“Yep.”
We finish the shopping in charged silence, grabbing eggs, coffee, and milk.
At the register, Roger rings us up with a running commentary about the weather and his daughter’s new baby.
Jessie listens like she’s genuinely interested—asking questions, laughing at his jokes, complimenting a photo of the baby he produces from his wallet.
By the time we’re done, Roger’s looking at her like she hung the moon.
Can’t blame him. I know the feeling.
“You come back anytime,” he tells her as we gather our bags. “Any friend of Tank’s is welcome here. Even if Tank himself is a grumpy bastard.”
“I heard that.”
“You were meant to.” Roger winks at Jessie.
We push through the door into the winter sun. I nod toward the truck. “Let’s drop these bags, then I’m buying you lunch.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Diner’s got the best huckleberry pie in the county, supplied by Shay Sutton,” I say. “You hungry?”
Her stomach growls before she can answer. She laughs, pressing a hand to her belly. “Starving.”
Mrs. Patterson from the hardware store waves as we pass, and old Bill Smithers tips his hat from the bench outside the feed shop.
“They’re all staring,” Jessie murmurs as we load the bags into the truck bed.
“They’re curious.”
“About me?”
“About us.” The word slips out before I can stop it. Us. Like we’re a unit. A pair. Like we’re something.
Jessie doesn’t correct me. Just shoots me a sidelong look that I can’t quite read.
“You’re growling,” she says.
“I don’t growl.”
“You’re making a sound with your throat that is definitely a growl.” She hip-checks me as she reaches for another bag. “What’s wrong? Afraid the town gossips are going to find out about the paperwork snafu and start planning our wedding?”
The word wedding lands weird, given that we’re already technically married. But she doesn’t know I’m thinking about that—about how the paperwork that’s supposed to be a problem feels more like a promise every day.
“I figured you’d be sick of it,” I say instead. “People being all up in your business.”
She pauses, bag in hand. Surprise flickers across her face. Recognition. But she doesn’t answer. Just sets the bag down and turns toward the diner.
“Come on, Mountain Man.” She’s already walking, throwing the words over her shoulder. “You promised me pie.”
I watch her go for a second—red hair catching the light, my flannel tied around her waist, walking through my town like she owns it.
Then I follow. Because apparently that’s what I do now.
I follow her.