Tank has stripped off his thermal entirely, despite the snow falling outside.
I drop my pencil.
The ax comes down. His back muscles shift under tanned skin, a topography of strength and scars I want to map with my fingers. With my mouth.
Stop it,I tell myself firmly.He’s not a landscape. You’re not painting him.
My artist’s brain kicks into overdrive, already mixing colors. Burnt umber for the tan of his skin. Titanium white for the pale lines of scar tissue. Cadmium red for the flush of exertion spreading across his shoulders.
I imagine how I’d capture his hands—the controlled strength, the calluses, the way they dwarf the axe handle. I imagine how I’d paint the tension in his forearms, the bunch and release of muscle with each swing.
I imagine how those hands would feel on my skin and nearly choke on my own saliva.
But my pencil is already moving, capturing the angle of his shoulders, his spread stance. Quick, hungry strokes that aren't contributing to the commission I should be working on.
He glances toward the window.
I duck so fast I nearly give myself whiplash, grabbing a random pencil and pretending to be deeply focused on my sketchbook.
When I risk a glance back up, he’s returned to his work, but a hint of a smile plays at the corner of his mouth.
Bastard.
He knows I was watching. And he’s enjoying it. I should be annoyed. Instead, heat curls low in my belly, inconvenient and undeniable.
This is becoming a problem.
The bigger problem? I don’t want to stop looking.
Chapter 4
Jessie
Tank produces whiskey like a magic trick. One minute we’re cleaning up from dinner, the next he’s holding a bottle and two glasses, tilting his head toward the porch.
I’m learning his language: the grunts, the gestures, the way a raised eyebrow from him says more than most men manage with a hundred words.
I follow him outside.
The evening air hits my skin, cool and pine-sharp, carrying a silence that only exists this far from civilization. No traffic. No neighbors. Just the creak of the porch steps and the distant call of something wild in the trees. It settles something in me I didn’t realize was wound tight.
Tank settles on the top step, leaving space beside him—an invitation, not an expectation. I take it, sitting close enough that our shoulders almost touch. He pours two fingers of whiskey into each glass and hands me one without asking.
“This a nightly ritual?” I ask, taking a sip. The whiskey burns going down, then spreads warmth through my chest. Good stuff.Better than I’d expect from a man who lives like he’s allergic to luxury.
“When I’ve got company worth sharing it with.”
“Smooth, Mountain Man.”
“I try.” He’s not looking at me. His eyes are fixed on the tree line where the last light is bleeding out of the sky. But a hint of a smile plays at the corner of his mouth.
We sit in comfortable silence for a while. The kind of quiet that doesn’t need filling. I’ve never been good at silence. Always felt the urge to talk, to perform, to fill the empty space before someone else decided I wasn’t worth the effort.
With Tank, silence feels like a gift.
“Can I ask you something?” The words are out before I think better of them.
“You just did.”
