He glances down, then up at me, grinning that lazy, devastating grin that ought to come with a warning label.
“Sure did.Used it so I had an excuse to hold your hand in line.”
“You brat!”I laugh, smacking his arm lightly.“I didn’t want you to pay for my clothes, Sawyer.”
He shrugs one broad shoulder, unbothered.
“Now hold on, Lil Bit.I bought stuff in each store we went to.It would’ve been too much trouble to separate the purchases.No worries.I’m sure we can figure it out later.”
Then he steps up to the counter, effectively ending the discussion.Typical.
I cross my arms, pretending to pout, though the truth is my heart’s doing a happy little dance.
Still, I can’t let him get away with it forever.
He’s too used to carrying the world on his back—and I want to find ways to carry a little of it for him.
While I’m thinking about that, he orders a dozen dark-chocolate cayenne brownies with cinnamon-fudge topping.The woman behind the counter raises an eyebrow like she’s impressed.
“Can we also have two of those chocolate sourdough loaves, and oooh, a large rosemary focaccia?”I ask quickly, leaning forward to point at the display.
Sawyer shoots me a look, one brow raised.“Planning on feeding the whole county?”
“Ha!I need something for me and Angie with all you cowboys around.And don’t you sneak any brownies before we get home,” I shoot back, smiling sweetly.
He chuckles, low and warm, and the sound curls through me like melted sugar.
Standing there, with him beside me and the scent of chocolate in the air, I realize something simple and terrifying all at once.
I’m happy.
Not running.Not pretending.Just happy.
And maybe—just maybe—I don’t need to think about how to repay him right now.
Maybe being here, choosing to stay, is enough.
Chapter 17-Sawyer
I’m walking on air—but there’s still that tightness in my chest, like my heart’s running faster than it knows how.
Everything’s moving quick.Too quick.
She’s been here only a few days, but somehow the house already smells like her shampoo and laughter, and hell if that doesn’t do something to me.
I don’t want her to think it’s a mistake, though, so I’m taking it slow.
As slow as a man like me knows how, anyway.
This morning, I caught her voice drifting down the hall while I was pulling on my boots.
She was in the kitchen with Angie, talking about that old trunk full of clothes we found in one of the storage sheds when I bought the place.
Thing hadn’t been opened since Eisenhower was president.
Angie was talking about vintage prints and fabric and who-knows-what, and then I heard Bit ask if there was a sewing machine she could use.
Angie told her there was one in the pantry—hell, I know all about it.
