A minute later, he’s back with a plate of meats and cheeses, a bottle of wine, and a couple mugs. He’s dressed in gray sweats and a waffle-knit henley. It’s like a cozy second skin to his muscled body, and I can’t help tracing my eyes over him. My nipples bead tight and heat pools low in my belly.
We agreed to take things slow. But what does that even mean when he’s already seen me naked and had me writhing multiple times?
There’s that ever-present buzzing electricity between us that has me clenching my thighs together.
The smart thing is to take things slow.
I spent nearly my entire life thinking the worst of Sawyer. Being suspicious of him at every turn. Even though he isn’t that same kid, all it does is prove how little I actually know the true Sawyer.
He gives me a bashful smile as he pours, sending another little thrill through me. “Sorry I don’t have proper wine glasses. Never needed them before.”
“Why do you have wine if you don’t drink it?”
“I didn’t say I don’t drink wine.” He sits down on the floor in front of the hearth with me, elbows resting on his knees. “I’m just not fancy about it.” He raises his glass. “I drink the cheap stuff, remember?”
“Right, because the Ikea wine glasses I own are the epitome of class.”
He clinks his mug to mine. “Cheers to there not being an Ikea within two hours of here.”
I smile, but I kind of love Ikea. I spent many a Saturday morning walking through the showrooms and buyingseasonal items. Blue Ridge lacks other things I love, too. Target. Trader Joe’s. An Ethiopian restaurant.
Sawyer interrupts my thoughts on small-town hell. “And cheers to the tree missing the main cabin.”
“Cheers. You’re taking the absolute destruction of your back porch pretty well.”
“Best case scenario if the tree had to hit something.”
He rolls a square of cheese into some prosciutto and, before I can do the same, he offers it to me. It could be a book of handwritten poems for the way my body reacts. A fizziness erupts in my belly, floating up to my chest and expanding. I bite my lip to keep from smiling, but it’s no use. He sees it, and shoots me a devastating grin I feel between my legs.
“To be fair,” he continues, “I wasn’t crazy about the porch. I threw it together without much thought while waiting on materials for the back of the house to come in. I think I should’ve made it bigger.”
He threw an entire porch together without much thought? Images of him chopping wood earlier today—was that just today?—come to mind. The thump of an axe on wood echoed to the bathroom where I was hiding. When I looked out, I saw him throwhis axe down and rip a log in half with his bare hands. It was the most unhinged, sexy thing I’ve ever seen. If I wasn’t so mortified from already trying to get in his pants, I would have gone outside and tried all over again.
“Silver lining,” I say, shaking the image. “What else would you change about the porch?”
He pops a slice of salami into his mouth. “Besides the huge oak lying across it? Not sure. What would you?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say into my mug.
What’s wrong with me? I’m suddenly shy with butterfliesin my stomach. This is what it felt like those months after Sawyer drove me home in the rain. I noticed every look in my direction, keenly aware of him in every room.
And now, it’s the same. Every look feels like a caress, making me as nervous as a schoolgirl.
Oh my gosh.
I have a crush on Sawyer.
Like a teenager.
Just like before.
But it’s different this time. Sawyer’s different.
His knee bumps mine. “You have something in mind, I can tell. What is it?”
For one panicked second, I stare at him, wondering if he can read my mind.This is stupid. We’ve more or less admitted we like each other, so why am I hesitating to tell him how I feel?
“Come on,” he presses. “Tell me what you think would make it better.”
