Every time Sawyer walks into the house, I have to shove something under a blanket or pretend I’m hemming napkins for no reason.
But now everything’s finally done, and I can’t wait another second to show him.
It’s the middle of the week, and everyone is busy elsewhere, so I start on the big reveal.
After a few hours, I look around and realize I’ve transformed the whole front of the house.
Angie will be back any minute to start dinner, and I want to surprise her too, so I spent the last forty-five minutes hanging the kitchen curtains and putting the aprons on the hook she keeps by the back door.
Now, I’m just fussing, fluffing pillows, and straightening the table runner just so.
I take a step back, brushing hair from my face, and grin.
The place doesn’t look like a bachelor’s ranch house anymore—it looks likehome.
And for the first time in my life, that word doesn’t scare me one bit.
I’m hardly aware of how much time has passed when I hear the heavy thud of boots at the door.
Sawyer.
When he steps into the living room, he freezes mid stride.
His gaze sweeps over everything—the new curtains fluttering in the open window, the bright quilt on the sofa, the burst of color where before it was all muted leather and wood.
And his face—oh God help me—looks hard.Unhappy.
My stomach drops.
“Oh no,” I blurt, standing up.“I went too far, didn’t I?I should’ve asked first.”
He doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking around, that unreadable expression on his face.
Panic flares, and I start yanking the new pillows off the couch.
“I-I’ll take them down, I can put everything back the way it was?—”
“Bit.”
“No, I’m sorry, I just wanted to repay you for the shopping, and I know I’m essentially useless, but I can sew and I just wanted –shit,” I wipe my face, hating the fact that I’m falling apart right now.
“Bit,” he says my name again.Louder.
It’s not the word, it’s his tone that stops me.
“I’m sorry if I didn’t react the way you wanted.I’m not used to, well, topeople.It’s hard for me,” he explains, and the breath just leaves my body.
His voice is low, steady, but there’s something in it that makes me ache.
He crosses the room in two long strides, catches my wrist, and pulls me gently toward him.
The heat of his hand, the calm weight of his touch—it undoes me.
“I wasn’t expecting this.Thank you, Honey,” he says simply.
I blink up at him, startled.
“W-what?You’re not mad?”
