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—Iaccidentally married a mountain manbecause of acheckboxand asoftware 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’scompletelybeside 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. Theycan 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, awhat?”
“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 amonth?”
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.”
