Chapter 9
Tank
Jessie sleeps like she’s fighting off dreams.
Her brow furrows, smooths, furrows again. Her fingers twitch against my chest, curling into the fabric of my shirt like she’s holding on to something. She’s restless and searching even in her sleep, never truly at peace.
Morning light filters through the curtains, catching the red in her hair, turning it copper and gold.
Her breath comes slow and even now, whatever dream she was battling finally releasing its grip.
She burrows closer, her knee wedged somewhere it shouldn’t be, her palm flat against my ribs like she’s checking that I’m still here.
I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.
The thought settles into me, bone-deep. This chaotic, brilliant, sunshine-and-teeth woman has burrowed into every corner of my life in a matter of weeks.
My flannel smells like her now. My kitchen table is covered in her sketches.
My truck still carries the ghost of what we did in the woods, and every time I slide into the passenger seat, my blood runs hot.
But none of that matters if she leaves.
The gallery show looms like a countdown timer I can’t stop. Just over two weeks until New York comes calling. Until she has to choose between the life she built before me and whatever this is between us.
I already know what I want. Have known since the auction, if I’m honest. Since she walked onto that stage, and I thought: There. That one. She’s mine.
But wanting someone isn’t the same as keeping them.
I’ve been too much before. Too big, too intense. I’ve watched people flinch away from the space I take up, had relationships crumble under the weight of my need to protect, to fix, to build walls around the people I love.
Jessie doesn’t flinch. She leans in. Pushes back. She fills up every corner of my life with her brand of sunshine.
But she’s always on the move, never really staying anywhere for long. And I’ve never been enough to make someone want to stay.
Her eyes flutter open, unfocused and soft. “Stop staring at me.” Sleep roughens her voice. “It’s creepy.”
“Can’t help it. You drool in your sleep.”
“I do not.” She lifts her head, hair a magnificent disaster, eyes still half-closed. “Take it back.”
“Can’t. I have photographic evidence.”
“You do not.”
“Might.”
She swats at my chest, but she’s smiling, her eyes crinkling in the corners. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet”—I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, let my thumb trace her cheekbone—“here you are.”
“Here I am.” Her expression shifts, becoming soft and wondering, like she’s still surprised to find herself in my bed. “Weird, right?”
Her sleepy vulnerability makes my chest ache.
“Little bit.” I kiss her forehead, letting my lips linger. “Get dressed. I want to show you something.”
“Show me what?”
“Something.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s all the answer you’re getting.” I roll out of bed, ignoring her indignant squawk. “Wear boots. The good ones.”
“I only have one pair of boots!”
“Then wear those.”
The pillow hits me in the back of the head as I’m pulling on jeans.
It could’ve been filled with rocks instead of feathers, and it would still be worth it.
The south slope behind the cabin glows in the morning light.
I’ve walked the path on the south slope behind the cabin hundreds of times, but my heart is racing like I’m going into combat. I’ve been eyeing the clearing up ahead for days, running calculations in my head, sketching layouts on scrap paper when Jessie was absorbed in her work.
This is the best idea I’ve ever had, or a sure-fire way to scare her off for good.
“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” Jessie’s wearing my flannel again—I’m starting to think I’ll never get it back—and her boots are already collecting mud. “Or is this some kind of mountain man murder situation?”
“If I were going to murder you, I wouldn’t do it this close to the cabin. Too easy to find the body.”
“That’s... disturbingly specific.”
“I’m a planner.”
She laughs, bright and warm, and bumps her shoulder against my arm. The contact sends heat through me, even through layers of flannel.
Please let this be right. Please don’t let this be too much.
The clearing opens up before us—a natural shelf where the slope levels out, sheltered by pines on three sides but open to the south. The morning light here is something else entirely. Gold and soft, framing the mountains like art.
I stop at the edge. Jessie stops beside me, her breath catching.
“Oh.” The word comes out reverent. “Tank, this is...”
“South-facing.” I point toward the tree line. “Sun from morning until late afternoon. Natural windbreak from the north. Flat enough to build on, close enough to the cabin to run power.”
She turns to look at me, something dawning in her expression. “Build what?”
I meet her eyes. “Your studio.”
Silence stretches between us.
“My—”
“You need a proper space. Not the kitchen table.” I gesture at the clearing, suddenly aware of how exposed I am.
How much I’m laying bare with every word.
“I’ve been thinking about it. Twenty by thirty feet.
Big enough for your large canvases. South-facing windows, floor to ceiling on that wall.
Heated floors for winter. Good ventilation for when you’re working with oils or acrylics. ”
“Oh, Sawyer.” Her voice cracks.
“I researched artist studios. Talked to a guy in Bozeman who builds them. The light diffusion matters. You want indirect northern light for color accuracy, but southern exposure for warmth and visibility. So we’d angle the windows, add some overhangs.
” I’m rambling, filling the silence because her expression is unreadable and I can’t stand not knowing.
“Forge can do custom window frames, whatever you want. And Tex knows a guy who does reclaimed wood flooring.”
She’s staring at me with wet eyes, coffee forgotten in her hands, and I still can’t read her expression. Is this too much? Too fast? Did I overstep?
Too much. I’m always too much.
I stop talking.
“You want to build me a studio.” The words come out slowly, like she’s testing each one.
“I want to give you a place that’s yours, where you can work without hunching over a table that’s too small.
” I brace my hands on my hips, then force myself to stay still so I don’t reach for her.
“You need a place where you don’t need to compromise your vision because the light’s wrong or the space is cramped. ”
“I haven’t even decided—”
“I know.” I hold her gaze, let her see everything I’m feeling—the hope, the fear, the desperate want. “This isn’t about that. Whatever you decide, whatever happens with New York, you deserve a space that’s built for who you are. For what you create.”
“You can’t just—” She breaks off, pressing a hand to her mouth.
“Can’t what?”
“Can’t just build me things because you think I deserve them!”
“Why not?”
The question stops her cold. She stares at me, tears spilling over now, and that’s when I step closer. I lift my hands, giving her time to pull away if she wants to. She doesn’t.
I cup her face, my thumbs sweeping under her eyes, catching her tears before they can fall.
“Here’s what I know,” I say quietly. “You came here looking for space to breathe. To figure out who you are without everyone else’s expectations weighing you down.
And I’ve watched you light up every time you pick up a pencil.
Watched you lose yourself in your work like nothing else in the world exists.
” I let her see everything—the certainty, the fear, the love I haven’t said out loud yet.
“You don’t owe me anything. And I’m not doing it to make you stay.
But I truly believe you deserve your own space, and I want to give it to you. ”
“Tank...” She sniffles.
I hate that I made her cry, but I also can’t stop.
“I’m not asking you to decide anything. I’m just showing you that whatever you choose, there’s room for it here.” I press my forehead to hers. “For your art. For your chaos. For all of it.”
She kisses me.
Her lips are salty with tears, a little desperate, and absolutely perfect. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I go—God, I always go—wrapping her up in my arms like I can protect her from everything that’s ever made her doubt herself.
When she finally pulls back, her eyes are red, but she’s smiling.
“You’re insane,” she whispers. “We’ve known each other for a few weeks.”
I huff out a quiet laugh, tipping my forehead to hers again. “Sixteen days.” I straighten, brushing my hands down my thighs—not nerves, just grounding myself. “And I knew what I wanted after sixteen minutes. The rest has just been waiting for you to catch up.”
She laughs—wet, overwhelmed, beautiful. “Can I at least help? If you’re going to build me a whole damn studio, I want to be part of it.”
My chest feels like it's breaking open. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “Show me what to do.”
We spend the morning laying out the foundation with stakes and twine.
Teaching her to drive stakes is an exercise in self-control—not because she’s bad at it, but because showing her requires standing behind her, my chest against her back, my hands over hers on the mallet. Her hair brushes my jaw. Her hips press back against mine when she swings.
Every touch reminds me of how she feels in my arms, and of how she tastes when she comes apart.
Focus, Granger. You’re building her a studio, not seducing her.
Although... both could happen.
By midmorning, the outline of the studio is staked out. She stands in the middle of it, turning in a slow circle, her expression somewhere between wonder and overwhelm.
“You’re building me a home,” she says softly.
The words hit me in the chest.
“I’m building you a studio.”
“No.” She crosses to me, takes my hands. “You’re building me a place where I can be exactly who I am. Where I don’t have to shrink or compromise or pretend. That’s not a studio.” Her voice breaks. “That’s a home.”
I don’t have words. Don’t have anything except this feeling in my chest that’s too big for my ribs.
Her eyes are glassy. “What if I'm not good enough? What if I can't actually do it on my own?”
“Then you figure it out. And I'll be right here while you do.” I brush my thumb across her cheekbone. “I'm not going anywhere, Jessie.”
“You're keeping me,” she whispers.
“Damn right I am.”
She laughs—watery, overwhelmed—and rises on her toes to kiss me. I pull her close, tasting salt and morning and the future I'm finally letting myself want.