Page 35 of Easy, Tiger

Her own flannel lies in a heap by the workbench, buttons long gone, and she leaves it abandoned in the shadows. "Here." I grab a fresh navy-blue flannel from the hook by my desk, worn soft at the elbows. "Since I destroyed yours."

"You don't have to⁠—"

"I want you to have it." The need to mark her, to have my scent on her skin, burns through my veins. "Besides, it looks better on you anyway."

She slips into the shirt, rolling the sleeves up her forearms. The fabric hangs loose on her smaller frame, and something primitive in my chest purrs with satisfaction at seeing her wrapped in my clothes.

We dress in comfortable silence, catching loops of shared smiles and soft touches as we shimmy on jeans and boots. I tie my boots while she braids her hair back, both of us moving with the easy intimacy of lovers who've shared more than only physical release.

"Ready?" I extend my hand as we approach the workshop door.

She laces our fingers together. "Lead the way, carpenter."

Pushing open the heavy door lets the cool evening air hit our flushed skin. The sun had set while we were inside, leaving the mountains bathed in purple twilight. Stars begin to emerge overhead, pinpricks of light against the darkening sky.

Click. Click.

The sound freezes my blood. Camera shutters in digital, rapid-fire. My head snaps toward the tree line, every instinct screaming danger.

"Everything okay?" Halsey follows my gaze, squinting into the shadows between the pines.

Scouring the darkness, my nostrils flare as I search for unfamiliar scents. Nothing but pine sap and the distant musk of deer. But the sound was unmistakable—someone photographing us as we left the workshop.

"Thought I heard something." I keep my voice level, protective instincts coiling tight in my chest. "Probably a branch falling."

I don't wait to make it home first. My fingers tighten around hers as I steer us toward my truck instead of the walking path, my thumb already moving across my phone screen where she can't see it. Someone's out past the workshop with a camera. Eyes on the tree line. Taking Halsey home now; want a patrol on her cabin within the hour.

The reply comes before I've even pocketed the phone. On it.

Halsey studies my face as I tuck it away. "Are you sure that wasn't nothing?"

"Simply being careful." Opening the truck door for her, I rake the dark tree line once more before I climb in beside her. Careful isn't the same as honest, and the gap between the two has never felt wider than it does tonight.

13

HALSEY

The morning after our first night together, a soft knock on my cabin door jolts me from a doze I didn't mean to fall into on the couch, in yesterday's clothes, coffee gone cold on the side table. Opening it, I find Nolan on my porch with two cups from Ellie's balanced in one hand.

"Figured you might need this more than sleep at this point." He hands one over, searching my face with an attention that misses nothing. "How are you feeling? After last night, I mean. All of it."

"Good." Wrapping both hands around the warm cup, I lean into the doorframe. "Better than good, actually. Thank you. For last night, and for not letting me spiral about everything else going on right now," I find it surprisingly easy to admit. "It's been a long time since I trusted anyone enough to let my guard down like that."

"You don't have to guard yourself around me." He tips my chin up, the warmth of his hand anchoring my face. "Whatever comes, Halsey, I’ve got your back. No matter what."

Inviting him inside, we end up sharing the last of my bread and eggs at my small kitchen table, sharing a surprising comfort as we trade easy conversation about nothing important until the sun's fully up.

"I've got a lumber delivery to deal with this morning," he says eventually, checking his watch with obvious reluctance. "Otherwise I'd stay right here all day."

"Go build things. I'll be productive too. Do some sketches in town, maybe get out on the trails while the light's good." Kissing him goodbye at the door, I linger a beat longer than strictly necessary. "I'll see you tonight."

He heads for his truck, and I take my time walking into town, savoring the crisp morning air and the particular kind of happiness that feels new enough to marvel at.

Ducking into Ellie's café, I grab a table to get some sketching done before the trails call my name, art supplies tucked under one arm. I'm barely nestled into a booth with my pencils spread out when a man with a pressed suit and a predatory smile approaches my table.

"Halsey Gallagher? I'm Mark Trent, a freelance journalist. I heard about your new Red Pine commission." He slides into the booth across from me uninvited. "Care to comment on how you're rebuilding after the falsified illustration scandal? Some say you're hiding out here because no reputable organization will hire you."

A chill races down my spine. My fingers dig into the cover of my sketchbook. This renewed attention threatens to destroy both my fragile recovery and the peaceful community I've come to love. Before I can even form a response, a large, calloused hand clamps down on the journalist's shoulder.