I stop a few feet away, arms crossed to match his earlier posture. “A thousand dollars.”
“Yep.”
“For a cohabitation placement.”
“That’s what it said on the program.”
“You know there are cheaper ways to shut down a rich suit, right? A stern look. A well-placed elbow. A cattle prod.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Cattle prod would’ve caused paperwork.”
“And a thousand-dollar bid doesn't?”
“Different kind of paperwork.” He turns back to the forms, signing his name with efficient strokes. “The program needed funding. Mr. Rolex was looking for a new plaything, not a woman with her own mind.” He shrugs, shoulders rolling like this is the most obvious logic in the world. “Win-win.”
Something in my chest loosens. He’s not making this weird or acting like I owe him anything.
“I’m Jessie,” I say, because we haven’t been formally introduced, and it feels weird to keep calling him the mountain man in my head. “But you knew that.”
“Hard to miss the name when they announce it to a hundred people.” He extends his hand, and his warm, calloused palm engulfs mine. “Sawyer Granger, but people call me Tank.”
A little shock of electricity shoots up my arm at the contact. I pull my hand back too quickly.
Get a grip, Jessie.
“Tank,” I repeat. “Is that short for something?”
“It’s short for don’t ask.”
A genuine laugh escapes before I can stop it, surprised and rusty from lack of use. Tank’s expression shifts, and something warm flickers behind the granite.
He slides the completed forms toward a volunteer, who looks like she might spontaneously combust from proximity to him. “All set?”
“Yes!” She nods enthusiastically before passing the forms to me. “Just need you to sign here, here, and... here.” She points to three different spots on the form.
I was expecting Gwen, Marlie’s representative, tonight, but I guess she’s busy dealing with the other bidders.
I skim the paperwork—cohabitation agreement, mutual responsibility clauses, protection provisions, contact exchange—nothing alarming. Standard Marlie’s Angels forms, from what I understand. The legalese is so dense that it made my eyes cross when I studied it yesterday. I sign on autopilot, hyper-aware of Tank beside me. The way his flannel stretches across his shoulders when he shifts.
Oh, this is going to be a problem.
“You two are going to have the best time,” the volunteer gushes. “The artist and the most eligible hermit in three counties. So romantic!”
“Romantic.” Tank's voice is dust-dry. “Nothing says romance like outbidding a guy who peaked during high school.”
I snort. God, when did I last laugh this easily?
I glance up, realizing how tall he is—at least six-three, maybe more. I’m tall at five-ten, but next to him, I feel delicate. Small.
Protected.
The thought sends alarm bells clanging through my head.
“For the record,” he says, his voice low enough for only me to hear, “I paid a thousand dollars for the program. You don’t owe me anything.”
“Right.”
His steady gaze holds mine, heat simmering underneath. “But I meant what I did back there. And if anyone else tries?—”
