“So we just… pretend we’re not married?”
“We don’t announce it. That’s not the same as pretending.” I hold her gaze. “Your privacy matters. I’m not gonna let a bunch of nosy townspeople make this harder for you than it already is.”
She studies me for a long moment, something shifting in her expression. Softening. “You’re protecting me.”
“Trying to.”
“From small-town gossip?”
“From anything I can.” The admission slips out before I can stop it. Too honest. Too much.
“Okay,” she says finally. “We keep it quiet.”
“Okay.” I nod, then before I can think better of it, I say, “Doesn’t change what you are, though.”
Her breath catches. “What’s that?”
I hold her gaze, letting her see everything I’m not saying out loud. “Mine.”
The word lands between us like a live wire. Her lips part. Color rises in her cheeks. And for a second, neither of us moves.
Then I’m out of the truck and rounding to her side before I do something stupid like kiss her in broad daylight where half the town can see.
Mabel Hutchins is already making her way toward us, moving with the determined efficiency of a woman who’s been extracting information from reluctant locals for sixty-odd years. Eighty-two years old, sharp as a tack, hasn’t missed a piece of gossip since the Carter administration.
“Sawyer Granger.” Her eyes sweep over Jessie as she climbs out of the truck, cataloging every detail. “And a… friend.”
Notlady friend.Justfriend,but the pause before it carries weight.
“Jessie Henry.” I keep my voice neutral. “She’s staying at my place for a while.”
“That so?”
Jessie extends her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Call me Mabel, sweetheart. Everyone does.” She clasps Jessie’s hand in both of hers, squeezing. “I have to say, I never thoughtI’d see the day Sawyer brought someone to town. You must be something special.”
“It’s the pancakes,” Jessie says, easy and light. “I make a mean stack.”
“The way to a man’s heart.” Mabel winks at me. “You hold on to this one, Sawyer. She’s got spirit.”
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.”
“Wehadflour. 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?”
