"Thank you," Sawyer says in relief as she bends to retrieve her clutch, then dusts it off. "Now I can go check out that special little boutique in town." Her words are covered in that sarcasm I've come to expect.
Benson Bone, clearly satisfied with his work, trots off to stir up somethin’ else.
"Special" ain’t the right word for the shop she's aiming to visit, but I keep that thought to myself.
I squint toward the horizon where the sky’s mood shifts without warning. Dark clouds gather fast, rolling in like a freight train. The first fat drops hit the dry earth—then the wind kicks up, fierce and sudden. Sawyer raises her hand to shield her head, but it barely helps as the rain begins to fall hard and fast, drumming against the ground and the roof of the barn.
My horse lets out a low, uneasy snort—she always knows when something bad’s coming. I tighten my grip on the reins and urge her forward with a sharp motion.
“Storm’s coming—now!” I call out, voice low but urgent. “Get inside, Sawyer.”
She snaps her head toward me, confusion flickering before realization. I point toward the barn. The horse shifts nervously beneath me, and I pull the reins, guiding us toward shelter.
Sawyer wastes no time, quick on her feet despite those ridiculous heels. When she gets inside the barn, I swing off and lead my horse straight to her stall, securing her inside before turning back to Sawyer. The wind howls through cracks in the walls as the first fierce gusts tear acrossthe land.
The rain isn’t letting up. It’s mean—like it holds a grudge against the barn and against me and Sawyer for being in its way. With a tin roof, every drop sounds even worse than it is. I lean against a stall and watch Sawyer do her best to pretend I’m not here.
She’s seated on a hay bale, knees together, back ruler-straight. She’s in a cream dress, the kind meant for a warm summer day, and her heels are tucked neatly beneath her. Her hair—so blonde it’s almost white—falls like she’s in a shampoo commercial.
She glares through the warped barn window, chin lifted like the storm is personal. It probably is.
Her phone keeps going off in her hand. She keeps ignoring it, but I clock it each time. It’s regular, insistent, like some desperate wild animal gnawing its way through her hand.
She doesn’t break, though. Not even to sigh. Just sits there, hands in her lap.
“You gonna get that?” I say when her phone has vibrated for the tenth time.
She doesn’t even glance over. “Nope.”
“It might be important.”
She snorts. “It’s not.”
“Aren’t you real estate people supposed to answer every call?”
Now she looks. Ice blue, a little tired, and zero percent amused. “It’s not a client.”
So, what, this means it’s the ex-boyfriend? Some Tinder match, maybe? I don’t love either thought.
I give her my best slouch, tip my chin, “You want me to answer that for you? I’m sure your brother would approve of what I’d have to say.”
She laughs, but it comes out sharp-edged. “Harrison would love that.”
“If he’s an ex, why do we care what he thinks?”
She goes quiet. The phone buzzes again, and I see her tongue work at the inside of her cheek.
“We don’t,” she says. And then, she drops her arms like she’s tired of her own bullshit. “It’s complicated.”
It’s in the way she says “complicated” that makes me think she doesn’t believe it’s reallythatcomplicated. She drums her fingers against her thigh, nails painted a soft pink, and there’s not a single dent or chip on them. She turns, and really looks at me.
“You ever dated someone you thought was safe?” she asks. “Like, you know you won’t fall hard for them because they don’t even make you laugh, and you know it’s not gonna wreck you if they leave, but then?—”
“But then it does anyway,” I finish.
She nods. Rain thuds overhead. “He said he loved me,” she says, letting out a small laugh behind her words. “And then he sleeps with his assistant.”
I’m not supposed to like this, but I do. I like that she’s letting her guard down, even if it’s just because the storm is so loud we can both pretend we aren’t really talking. I like the color in her cheeks, the shine in her eyes that’s not all anger.
