“You areexactlylike the others,” I bit out. “In fact, you’re the worst of them because they all look up to you. Even if you don’t start it, you stand by while they treat me like the trash they think I am.”
Swinging the door open, I hopped out and turned toward him one last time.
“Don’t do me any more favors.” I slammed the door shut and raced across the mud to my door, not feeling the rain.
I shoved my key into the lock and was inside my housein half a second, heart thumping, listening for him to leave. My breaths were coming out fast as I leaned back against the front door, allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness inside. The faint scent of old cigarettes and booze greeted me as always.
Finally, I heard his truck pulling off the curb and driving away.
He was gone.
For some reason,thathurt more than anything else.
I sucked in a breath and lifted my arm to brush the wet hair from my face. When I felt the soft leather on my cheek, a sob escaped.
My hand was still swallowed by the sleeve of his letterman jacket.
Lifting the lapel, I buried my face in it and took a big whiff, letting his scent envelop me and drive away the stale cigarette smell. Chlorine and Sawyer.
Suddenly, my chest felt too small, squeezing around itself.
I couldn’t help feeling like something had been lost tonight.
Something that was almost in my grasp.
Then the tears came.
CHAPTER 10
BRIE
The following week,I can’t stop agonizing over that night I ran into Sawyer at the bar. Every time I catch myself thinking about it, I sternly remind myself I don’t care. Then my mind promptly replays the whole thing over again, bringing into focus a new detail.
Like the way the sleeves of his flannel, a surprising choice for him, were rolled up to reveal strong forearms. Or the way his firm hands caught me by the hips when I bounced into him. Or the way he smelled liked chlorine and toasty beer.
Why did I even notice those details?
Now, I watch Sawyer run his hand casually through his hair as he stands on the gym floor in his form-fitting slacks and button-down, waiting for kids to clamber over one another for the perfect seat on the bleachers.
His tie looks like one long hotdog with mustard on it.
I sit at the end of the row of teachers for the school-wide assembly. When all the kids have settled down, Sawyer turns on the microphone to greet everyone. His voice isdeep and even, but that night at the bar, it was deeper. Raspier. Like tires crunching over gravel.
Fuck polite and professional. Those standards shouldn’t apply to you.
What does that even mean? If it’s an insult, I’ve heard better. Or, worse?
Immediately after Sawyer said those words and left, I found Dev in the corner booth and got absolutely plastered, barely tasting my food and desperately trying to forget I’m stuck in this town for the next five months andSawyer Strongis my boss.
It didn’t work.
“We haven’t met yet,” whispers the young woman next to me. “Are you the third grade sub?”
I glance at her as Sawyer’s voice continues to blare out. She looks as though she stepped out of a fairytale. A perfectly curved blond ponytail, large blue eyes, and a matching blue dress that fans out over her folding chair. And she’s tall. Even sitting, she towers over me.
With a tight smile, I whisper, “Yeah, Brie Casey,” and turn pointedly forward again.
Sawyer’s clothes are borderline obscene, stretching over his muscles as he paces in front of the students and gestures to keep them engaged.
