She grins. “You’re always on thin ice.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
Sawyer notices.
He always notices.
Afternoons stretch long and warm. Lacee paints at the table while I sit with her, the windows open, the mountains breathingin slow and steady. Sometimes Sawyer is home, sometimes he’s not. When he is, he pretends not to watch us.
He fails.
I can feel his gaze on my back when I reach for a glass, when I tuck my leg beneath me on the couch, when Lacee leans into my side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
It doesn’t scare him.
That’s the problem.
Evenings are the worst.
The porch becomes our neutral ground. A place where everything is quiet enough to hear what we’re not saying. Lacee curls up with a book, feet tucked under Sawyer’s thigh. I sit across from him, knees pulled to my chest, the air between us heavy with unsaid things.
“You’re spoiling her,” he says one night, voice low.
“I’m enriching her,” I shoot back. “There’s a difference.”
He smirks. “She asked for dessert after dinner three nights in a row.”
“She’s ten. That’s her job.”
His laugh is brief. Rough. It hits something in my chest I didn’t know was exposed.
Later, when Lacee goes to bed, the silence stretches. Sawyer doesn’t retreat like he used to. He stays. Sits. Talks.
About nothing.
About everything.
“You always this patient?” he asks once.
“With kids,” I say. “Yes.”
“And with men?”
I arch a brow. “Depends on the man.”
His gaze sharpens. Darkens.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “You’re walking a line.”
I meet his eyes. Hold them. “You drew the line, Sawyer. I’m just standing near it.”
The tension snaps tight. He doesn’t touch me.
That restraint feels intentional.
It unnerves me.
Because Sawyer Rivers doesn’t lack control.
