But here? These people don’t know my follower count. Don’t care about my engagement rate. They’re not looking at me and calculating my value.
Here, it’s just curiosity. Simple, genuine interest as if they actually want to knowme,not justknow aboutme.
There’s a difference.
“Booth in the back,” Tank says, his hand finding the small of my back again.
I’m starting to crave that touch. The steadiness of it. The way it saysI’m herewithout demanding anything in return. After yesterday’s kiss on the porch, every brush of contact feels charged.
We slide into a worn leather booth, the worn upholstery soft against my thighs. Tank takes the bench across from me, and for a moment, we just look at each other.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.” But he’s almost smiling.
Something in me goes dangerously gooey. I don't know what to do with it, so I look away.
A woman with a gray bouffant and cat-eye glasses appears at our table before I can spiral.
“Well, well.” She sets down two mugs and fills them with coffee from the pot in her hand without asking. “Sawyer Granger in my diner. And with a friend, too. Should I check outside for flying pigs?”
“Wanda.” Tank’s voice is gruff, but there’s warmth underneath. “This is Jessie.”
“Honey, the whole town knows who she is.” Wanda turns her sharp gaze on me, her scrutiny piercing me like an X-ray. “Mabel spotted you two at the general store. That was”—she checks her watch—“forty-seven minutes ago.”
Tank drums against the table. “Must be a new record for the gossip chain.”
I stifle a laugh.
“Small towns run on nosiness and casseroles.” Wanda pulls out a notepad. “What can I get you, honey?”
“Two slices of Shay’s huckleberry pie,” Tank says before I can open my mouth. “With ice cream.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Presumptuous.”
“Trust me.”
“And if I want something else?”
“You don’t.”
Wanda tucks the notepad back into her apron. “Huckleberry pie it is. Drinks?”
“Just coffee,” Tank replies.
Wanda’s expression softens as she looks at me again. “It’s nice to meet you. And it’s good to see him smiling. Been a while.”
She’s gone before I can respond, weaving between tables toward the kitchen.
I look at Tank. “Been a while?”
He shrugs, but tension creeps into his shoulders. “She worries about whether I’m eating enough, sleeping enough, talking toenough humans.” He wraps his hands around his coffee mug. “Small town stuff.”
“That’s not small-town stuff. That’s people caring about you.”
His jaw tightens, and he busies himself straightening the sugar packets into a perfect row because, apparently, accepting concern is harder for him than defusing bombs with paper clips.
This gruff, growly mountain man who bid a thousand dollars to keep me safe. Who gave me his bed and slept on a too-small couch for days. Who stood in his kitchen this morning, coffeepot in hand, watching me sketch like I was something worth looking at.
