Of course he had, but he pretended he hadn’t. He shrugged it off. “There might be a storm coming.”
Sawyer seemed appeased by that, as if he hadn’t considered it, then leaned over to get a closer look at the map on the wall. “Jeez, how old is that?”
“1832.”
“Holy shit.”
Ciaran almost smiled. “It’s an old mining map. They used to mine copper and tin here. There are shafts all through the forest, so you shouldn’t go wandering off by yourself.”
He hadn’t meant that to sound so accusatory, but Sawyer really should know better. Especially now that Ciaran was invested in his well-being.
His recklessness was just another reason why this stupidmatenotion was such a bad idea.
That voice in the back of his mind was getting a little louder.
You don’t think it’s stupid.
You want him.
You want to take him and have him. You want to do obscene things to him?—
Sawyer’s eyes met his. “Yeah, I guess I didn’t think of that.”
Jesus, his eyes are the perfect shade of ice-blue.
Maybe it’d be death by perfect eyes....
Ciaran shook his head, silently kicking himself, and tried to have one fucking successful conversation with Sawyer.
“They milled timber as well,” Ciaran added, pointing up the cove and into the river. “And there’s an old brick mill. Not much of it left, though. Just some ruins, really.”
He nodded slowly, his eyes fixating on the older map, then on his newer one. “So those two houses are empty,” he said, tapping the piece of paper. “And Mr Brown lives out on Huon Pine Gully Road. Are there any other houses? Folks who live in the mountains, maybe? You guys all live down here in the village, right? So who else is there in this town?”
Ciaran stared at him, wondering how best to answer. He did not like where this line of questioning was headed. “There are some folks who live in the mountains, up past Mr Brown. But they don’t come to town very often. Just for supplies and whatever.”
“Oh.” Sawyer seemed surprised by this. “I should probably go up and introduce myself.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Ciaran said quietly, trying to keep the warning out of his tone but not succeeding too well, if the tilt of Sawyer’s head was any gauge. “There’s a reason they don’t come down too often,” he tried. “Not the friendliest. They keep to themselves and don’t take too kindly to unwanted visitors.”
Sawyer frowned at first, but then shrugged it off. “They’re not running a weed plantation in the national park, are they?”
Ciaran almost snorted. “Not likely. Though I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been up there.”
Whether he was mollified by that, didn’t believe it, or was now disinterested, Ciaran wasn’t sure. It was hard to tell.
Sawyer looked around the store. “So, antiques, huh?”
Was he making small talk? “Yes.”
“Been doing it long?”
“Long enough.”
Another slow nod. “And you dive shipwrecks?”
Ciaran wasn’t sure if this was still small talk or if they were entering interrogation territory. “Yes.”
He grinned. “That’s kinda cool.”
