These peopleseehim. They care about him. They’ve been worried about him, alone on his mountain, and now they’re looking at me like maybe I’m the answer to a question they’ve been asking for years.
It should feel like pressure. Like expectation. Like all the reasons I usually run. But… it doesn’t.
Wanda returns with a slice of pie that’s frankly obscene—golden double crust, lemon-scented berries piled high, a scoop of vanilla ice cream melting down the side. She sets it in front of me with a theatrical flourish.
“Best pie in three counties,” she announces. “Shay Sutton’s special recipe, and she’s got the ribbons to prove it.”
I take a bite.
Oh.
“Oh, my god.” The words come out muffled around the fork. I don't care. This is the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth, and I’ve eaten at Michelin-starred restaurants.
“Good?” he asks.
“I’m going to need a minute.” I pause to let my taste buds absorb the fruity, sugary goodness. “And an introduction to the angel who makes this pie.”
Tank nods. “Shay. Henry Sutton’s wife. Henry’s father founded the veterans’ program at Havenridge Ranch.”
I take another bite, closing my eyes. “Don’t talk to me.”
His laugh is low and warm, doing things to my stomach that have nothing to do with the pie.
By the time I’ve scraped the plate clean, Wanda has refilled our coffees twice, and at least six different townspeople have craned their necks to get a look at us. Tank ignores them all, his attention fixed on me like I’m the only person in the diner.
It’s a lot. He’s a lot.
I could get used to this.The thought surfaces before I can stop it. This diner, this pie, this man watching me like I’m the most interesting thing he’s seen in years.
I could stay.
We leave cash on the table and push back out into the cold, snowy afternoon. Tank falls into step beside me as we head toward the truck.
“That guy on the phone this morning,” he says, voice carefully casual. “Does he always talk to you like that?”
I should’ve known this was coming. Tank doesn’t push, but he doesn’t forget either.
“Albert.” I sigh. “He’s my agent. Five years now. He got me my first gallery show, my first commission over ten thousand dollars, my first feature in a real magazine.”
“Sounds like you owe him.”
“That’s what he thinks.” The words come out more bitter than I intend. “That’s what I thought too, for a long time.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m starting to wonder if I built my own cage and handed him the key.”
Tank stops walking. I stop too, turning to face him. We’re in front of the hardware store, afternoon light catching the dust motes floating between us.
“Why do you let him talk to you like that?”
The directness startles a laugh out of me. “Tell me how you really feel.”
“I’m serious. He treats you like you should be grateful he deigns to represent you. Why?”
“Because I wanted strangers to validate me.” God, it sounds even worse out loud. “I wanted the followers, Tank. The commissions. The features. I didn’t believe my work mattered unless someone else told me it did.”
He listens, his expression unchanging, but his eyes soften. He’s not judging.
