Chapter 1
Jessie
Marlie has a gift for convincing people to do things they swore they’d never do.
That’s how I ended up backstage at the Marlie’s Angels placement auction, watching nervous women smooth their dresses while men in pressed shirts waited to bid on a chance to give us a fresh start.
“It’s not about the auction, Jessie. It’s about choosing something different. Letting someone choose you back.”
Marlie’s words from yesterday echo in my head. She said them over coffee at the local café, her sharp eyes seeing straight through my protests about needing “quiet time” and “creative space.”
The woman runs a matchmaking agency that pairs women seeking fresh starts with good men in rural communities. A program designed to give both parties a chance at something real.
She’s built a career on reading people. She read me in about thirty seconds.
“You didn’t come to Montana to hide. You came because you’re tired of performing for your fans and clients. So stop performing and start living.”
I came to Montana to find space and remember what my art looks like when I’m not curating it for social media. To stop beingJessie Henry, Free-Spirited Nomad Artist™and figure out who the hell I actually am.
Funny how you can build your own cage and call it a brand.
Marlie’s Angels has a reputation for helping women like me. Not broken, exactly, but bruised from years of folding ourselves into shapes that fit other people’s expectations.
The way it works is simple: vetted men bid for the privilege of offering a woman a place to stay—a cohabitation agreement that protects both parties. The women can leave anytime. The men cover living expenses. It’s old-fashioned in a way that should make my feminist hackles rise, but Marlie gave me an out, a chance to breathe, when no one else would.
When I showed up in Montana with nothing but a maxed-out credit card and a desperate need to disappear from my own life, she didn’t ask questions. Just handed me coffee, listened to my rambling explanation about burnout and social media and losing myself somewhere between brand deals, and said,“The funds go to the program, and you get a safe landing. Two birds, one very sparkly dress.”
Turns out what I needed was to wait backstage with a number pinned to my dress and a glass of wine someone pressed into my hand, watching a parade of women step up to be bid on.
This is insane. The most insane thing I’ve done in years.
The place buzzes with small-town energy. Everyone knows everyone’s business, and half the room is already mentally planning weddings based on tonight’s results. Men in tailored suits rub shoulders with cowboys in worn boots. The whole place smells like cheap punch, expensive cologne, and the nervous sweat of people hoping to find something real—or at least a decent chance at it.
Me? I’m fighting the urge to slip out the back door.
The announcer works the crowd like a pro, cycling through women with practiced enthusiasm. A shy librarian goes to a rancher who looks at her like she’s everything he’s ever wanted. A nurse from Billings sparks a bidding war that has the whole room leaning forward. The energy shifts from polite to competitive; men elbowing each other and shooting meaningful looks across tables.
Two more women in the lineup, then it’s my turn. Then I can find out who—if anyone—thinks I’m worth the trouble.
I scan the crowd, but it’s a sea of faces I don’t recognize. Friendly smiles, curious glances, the usual small-town sizing-up that makes my skin prickle with the urge to explain myself, justify my presence, prove I belong?—
“Stop it. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”
Marlie’s voice in my head again. She’s annoyingly quotable.
My gaze snags on a man at the back of the room, sitting at a table with his arms crossed over a chest that strains the buttons of his flannel shirt. He accepts a drink from one of the servers while saying something to the two guys beside him, one of whom laughs and claps his shoulder.
Dark hair kept short. Beard that says he doesn't give a damn what anyone thinks of his grooming choices. Built like he could bench-press my car without breaking a sweat.
Great. Just what I need. Another man who takes up too much space.
He turns, and our eyes meet.
Everything else blurs.
My stomach flips, and heat prickles down my spine, an awareness that has nothing to do with the spotlight and everything to do with him.
I look away first, my heart racing.
