“You come back anytime,” he tells her as we gather our bags. “Any friend of Tank’s is welcome here. Even if Tank himself is a grumpy bastard.”
“I heard that.”
“You were meant to.” Roger winks at Jessie.
We push through the door into the winter sun. I nod toward the truck. “Let’s drop these bags, then I’m buying you lunch.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“Diner’s got the best huckleberry pie in the county, supplied by Shay Sutton,” I say. “You hungry?”
Her stomach growls before she can answer. She laughs, pressing a hand to her belly. “Starving.”
Mrs. Patterson from the hardware store waves as we pass, and old Bill Smithers tips his hat from the bench outside the feed shop.
“They’re all staring,” Jessie murmurs as we load the bags into the truck bed.
“They’re curious.”
“About me?”
“About us.” The word slips out before I can stop it.Us.Like we’re a unit. A pair. Like we’re something.
Jessie doesn’t correct me. Just shoots me a sidelong look that I can’t quite read.
“You’re growling,” she says.
“I don’t growl.”
“You’re making a sound with your throat that is definitely a growl.” She hip-checks me as she reaches for another bag. “What’s wrong? Afraid the town gossips are going to find out about the paperwork snafu and start planning our wedding?”
The wordweddinglands weird, given that we’re already technically married. But she doesn’t know I’m thinking about that—about how the paperwork that’s supposed to be a problem feels more like a promise every day.
“I figured you’d be sick of it,” I say instead. “People being all up in your business.”
She pauses, bag in hand. Surprise flickers across her face. Recognition. But she doesn’t answer. Just sets the bag down and turns toward the diner.
“Come on, Mountain Man.” She’s already walking, throwing the words over her shoulder. “You promised me pie.”
I watch her go for a second—red hair catching the light, my flannel tied around her waist, walking through my town like she owns it.
Then I follow. Because apparently that’s what I do now.
I follow her.
Chapter 7
Jessie
Spur & Spoon diner smells like coffee, bacon, and something sweet baking in the back. It’s small—maybe a dozen tables, half of them occupied by people who look up when we walk in, then quickly pretend they weren’t staring.
Getting used to that. The looking.
It’s funny—three years I spent cultivating an audience of strangers who wanted to watch my every move.Jessie Henry, Free-Spirited Nomad Artist.The paint-stained hands, the artfully messy studio interior. I built a brand out of being unbranded. And somewhere along the way, I stopped making art for myself and started creating content for the algorithm.
The trap was so pretty I didn’t notice the bars until I couldn’t breathe.
In the city, people wanting to know about me always felt like they were looking for a story to screenshot and share. Or content for their own channels.
