I’m not back. The words are right there, already in mymouth, but I swallow them down. Wouldn’t want to give old Gus good news.
Instead, I give him a cloying smile. “Thanks, Gus.”
He bats his hand in the air, muttering to himself as he walks past.
With a genuine smile, I pull out my phone as I walk toward the town square. An early February breeze pebbles my skin, and I realize I left my coat in the car.
As I spin around to go back for it, my eyes are glued to my screen, texting Dev I’m here.
I jolt as I slam into a hard body, forcing me to stumble backward.
Then I freeze, and not from the chill in the air.
Sawyer’s eyes widen in horror. I’m no happier to see him.
He’s wearing another flannel shirt beneath his unzipped jacket. It’s unbuttoned at the top, revealing tan skin beneath, a smattering of dark hair peeking out from the edges.
Aside from his terse reply after the assembly, he hasn’t spoken to me since that night at the bar, when I ran into him just like this. Every time we cross paths in the hallways at school, he gives me a curt nod and looks straight ahead.
Even though it’s my best case scenario, having Sawyer avoidmefor a change, something about it eats at me.
And of course it’s just my luck to run into himnow. It’s like this town is actively trying to get me to leave it. Just when I think I might have a decent night, it throws Sawyer into my path, reminding me I don’t belong here.
Irritation brews in my stomach, and Ivery maturely, thank you very much,ignore him as I start to walk around him. At the same time, he tries to do the same, but miscalculatesand steps right in front of me. We do this dance two more times before I stop.
I glare up at him.
His body is tense. The strong muscles in his neck are taut. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. Thick, dark stubble has grown in since the assembly a few days ago.
That assembly. The way he saidcan I help you, Ms. Casey?in that robotic monotone replays in my mind.
And suddenly, I’m not cold anymore.
Indignation heats me.
I glance down at the box of screws in his hand. So this is what the Prince of Blue Ridge is doing on a Saturday night?
AndIhave a date.
Well well well, how the turntables, Michael Scott’s voice in my head says.
“Fun night planned?” I try keeping my tone light, but when his eyes narrow, and the corner of his mouth quirks halfway to his evil playful smirk, I know I’ve failed.
Thisis the Sawyer I remember, not the frosty principal at school.
My pulse ratchets up.
“Ran out of hardware,” he says, unapologetic. His eyes drop, running over me. When they land on my booby shirt, his smirk widens, showing off his perfect teeth. “Who’re you trying to impress?”
The fucking nerve of this man.
I step toward him, squaring my shoulders, thrusting the assets my shirt is so good at showing off and only wishing a little they were as good as Mara’s. “I’m nottryingto impress anyone.”
He lowers his eyes again, not even bothering to hide what he’s looking at. Red stains his cheeks.
Eat your fucking heart out, Sawyer. You willneverhave this. I jut my chest out even more.
Just as I register the intense burning in his eyes, the lights at Madam’s Hardware flicker off, casting the right side of Sawyer’s face in shadow.
