“Maybe. But you’re the one makin’ your ex turn redder than a boiled crawfish.”
That earns me another laugh, screechy and unguarded, and she tucks her face into my back like she can’t hide it fast enough.
I carry her across the lot, holding her legs against me, her perfume wrapping around us. Uniquely Sawyer, all summer thunderstorms and wildflowers. “You’re heavier than you look,” I tease.
Her legs squirm. “Excuse me?”
“Relax, you know you’re perfect,” I chuckle. “I meant all that sass you’re packin’. About breaks my back.”
She laughs again, shaking her head against my back, and I feel every little giggle.
I ease the truck to a stop in front of the guest house. The automatic porch light flickers on.
“Alright, now. You go get yourself some more of that beauty rest.”
But instead of reaching for the door handle, she hesitates. Her eyes dart toward the porch, then back to me.
“Can I… go to your place for a while?” she asks quietly. “If Harrison finds out where I’m staying and shows up, I’d rather not be here.”
The muscle in my jaw ticks. I wish he’d try. She doesn’t know it, but I always got eyes on the guesthouse. She’s safe anywhere on this ranch. Amped up our security the moment someone messed with Mama’s truck. No one is gettin’ near either woman on this ranch. But one look at her eyes—wide, uncertain, vulnerable—and there’s no way in hell I can tell her no.
I reach up, brushing my thumb on her jaw. “Then you'll be with me. Let’s go.”
Her shoulders drop like I just lifted a weight off them.
A few minutes later, my tires crunch gravel as we roll further down to my place. I cut the engine and glance her way. Neither of us moves to get out. Sawyer leans back against the seat, her head tilting toward the roof.
She sighs heavily. "I just can't believe he came all this way."
I drape one arm around her, one hand still resting on the steering wheel. "I can."
She looks at me then, eyebrows raised in question.
"If you were mine," I continue, the words slipping out before I can hold ‘em back, "I'd cross more than a few state lines to find you, too."
Something flickers in her eyes. She’s caught off guard, maybe even flattered. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, trying not to smile.
“Wait. Was that a real compliment?”
“Careful,” I say. “You point them out, I’ll start making you do ranch work for ‘em.”
She lets out a soft laugh, but it fades quickly. A moment passes before she exhales.
"I should have seen it earlier," she finally says, voice soft but edged with anger, maybe. Or hurt. "Obviously, he was still keeping her around for a reason. He kept having these business trips, was still staying late. Classic signs, right? And I missed every one of them."
“You didn’tmissthe signs,” I say. “You just didn’t wanna believe ‘em. Happens sometimes—you try like hell to see the best in people, even when they don’t deserve it.”
I don’t know much about bein’ in love. But Idoknow what it looks like when someone believes in it. I saw it in Mama—how she kept believin’ in a man who let her down more times than he ever lifted her up. How all of us boys gave Daddy more chances than he deserved, 'cause that's what you do when your heart’s tied to someone who don’t deserve the rope.
People get it wrong. It ain’t love that blinds you, it’s hope. It’s hope that holds you back, trips you up, and makes you put up with someone else’s bullshit.
Mama wanted to see the best in that man. And I can’t fault her for that. Means her heart’s good—even if he wasn’t.
"I just wanted someone who respected me," she says, laughing bitterly as she throws her hands up. "Instead, I picked a man who was more faithful to his Rolex than to me. Always polishing that damn thing, checking it like time mattered more than I did. Even when he talked about ourfuture… he couldn’t keep his hands off his assistant. And me?" She shakes her head, eyes glassy. "I'd just pay good money to smash that watch into a million pieces."
“If…” I start, then squint like I’m trying real hard to recall. “What was his name again? Guy who looks like he probably steps off a yacht with a sweater tied around his neck. Harold… Hemmingway?”
Sawyer throws her head back with a laugh. “Harrisson Windsor the third,” she says in the world’s worst fake accent I’ve ever heard.
