Chapter 45 Noah
Chapter forty-five
Noah
“This is incredible!” Sawyer shouts over the blast of the horn.
Her fingers are linked in the fencing, the force of the freight train below causing her copper hair to whip around her head.
I’m supposed to be counting cars.
But I can’t take my eyes off her.
She leans back, hanging off the fence, showing off the elegant arch of her throat.
God, I want to kiss her.
It occurs to me in that moment, with the sun shining down on my face, that there’s no reason I can’t act on my urge.
Garnering all my courage, I abandon my post on the opposite side of the bridge.
When my shadow falls over her, a smile blooms on her face.
Funny, that blocking her from the light, taking away the warmth, made her smile even brighter.
Maybe it isn’t always about the sunny days.
Maybe it comes down to who you get to share them with.
Wordlessly, I step in close so the top of her head nearly brushes my chest. Then I weave my fingers in her hair and kiss her, my nose bumping her chin and hers bumping mine.
She laughs into my mouth, the sheer joy emanating from her bringing with it more warmth than the sun could ever provide.
After a few clumsy seconds, we adjust to the angle, and then I kiss her in earnest.
I keep her head steady, supporting her as I press my lips hard against hers. With a little sweep of my tongue, she opens for me.
She welcomes me in, welcomes me home.
As her mouth caresses against mine, the warmth spreads down my back and through my core.
Everything about kissing her feels good.
“Noah,” she laughs, finally breaking away. “My arms are getting sore.”
I straighten, then cup her shoulders and help her up. “Are you okay?”
“You worry too much, you know that?” Her eyes twinkle with affection, dashing my concerns.
Shaking my head, I crowd her, pressing her up against the fence along the edge of the train bridge.
“You let me worry about how much I worry. I just need to know you’re okay, honey.”
Grinning, she throws her arms around my neck. “I’m always okay when I’m with you.”
My heart stutters in my chest.
I really like the sound of that.
Always safe with me.
Her assurances might as well be dirty talk for the way my chest swells and my cock rises to half-mast.
I lick my lips, leaning in to kiss her again, but freeze when her face falls.
“Oh.”
That light sensation evaporates in a blink. “What’s wrong?”
She peeks up at me through her lashes. God, her eyes are pretty. Light brown with little gold specks. Like the deepest, darkest batch of late autumn honey.
“Nothing.” She shakes her head, her lips tipping up slightly. “I just lost count.”
Shit. I did, too.
“You win by default,” I concede. “I distracted you, so it’s my loss.”
We’ve been up here for nearly two hours, placing bets and counting train cars as they hurtle down the tracks beneath us. The person whose guess was closest earned the right to ask the other a question.
So far she’s won twice, and I’ve won six times.
Helps that I’ve been coming up to this pedestrian bridge since before I could drive.
At least forty trains cross these tracks every day. The path continues up through Hampton, toward Cleveland, then cuts across the state.
I nudge Sawyer’s nose with mine. “Whatcha got for me, honey?”
She pecks me on the lips, and when she pulls back, she gives me a salacious smile that tells me I’m in trouble.
“Do you have any tattoos?”
“I do,” I tell her evenly. Technically, that answers her question, so I don’t elaborate.
“Seriously?” she huffs when I don’t go on. “How many? Can I see them?”
There it is.
Chuckling, I pull off my hat and run my hand through my hair.
Wide-eyed, she peers up at me, silently pleading for me to give in.
There’s no sense in keeping them from her now. I’m shocked, really, that she hasn’t spotted them already.
“You’re sure you want to see?” I ask as I bring a hand to my belt buckle.
She tracks the movement, gasps, then giggles. “Are you serious right now?”
The laugh I let out isn’t the nervous sort. I’m actually amused. I look over my shoulder to ensure we’re alone before I unbutton my pants.
“I lost a bet,” I explain as I unzip my fly.
With zero finesse, I adjust my dick so I can show her what she wants to see. Then I roll down my waistband, taking my boxers down with it, and reveal my one and only—okay, technically it’s four—tattoo.
She drops into a squat, studying the skin, then snaps her head up.
“You lost a bet that required you to get four little bees tattooed on your hip?”
Yes. Yes I did.
“That was the deal.”
Balancing on her toes, she brings a finger to the ink, hovering it an inch from my skin, and looks up, silently seeking permission.
I nod.
When those delicate fingers brush over the bees, electricity zings through my limbs and strikes deep in my core.
“They’re beautiful,” she murmurs, her breath caressing the inked skin. “Although they are a little girly.” With another giggle, she rises to her feet. “Was the bet with your wife?”
She says it so casually. Like she’s not scared of the shape or the size of my grief.
That makes one of us.
Eyes drifting closed, I strike the melancholy from my mind.
“It was,” I answer as I button my pants.
Turning, she loops her fingers through the metal rungs of the fence again. When she smiles at me over her shoulder, I sidle up to the edge and stand beside her.
She takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. “If you want to tell me, I’d love to know the story.”
It’s a bold ask. Not for the first time, I admire her bravery.
As I consider my options, silence looms.
She doesn’t shy away, though. She squeezes my hand twice and says, “You don’t have to.”
I turn to face her and pull her a little closer. “I know I don’t. But I think I want to share it with you.”
As if the gravity of the moment weighs on her, she slides down to a sitting position and crosses her legs.
Less gracefully, I join her, my leg brushing hers before I recapture her hand.
“Meg and I were both competitive by nature. Every year, we’d strive to see who could save the most bees,” I explain.
“Over time, our competition grew more serious. Four years ago, we placed a wager. We may or may not have been drunk when we agreed to the terms. The person who lost had to get a tattoo of the other’s choosing. ”
I shake my head. The term competitive doesn’t begin to describe Meg’s driven nature. I should have known from the start I’d lose.
The space Sawyer gives me when I’m silent for a moment is a relief. I’m not sure I could get through this if I had to keep gauging her reaction or walk on eggshells. She’s an excellent listener, which makes this a hell of a lot easier than I thought it would be.
“I mentioned before that people around town know to call us when they have bee problems.”
Sawyer snorts. “Yeah, you did, Bee Daddy.”
I bow my head and give it a shake. She’s so good at lightening the mood exactly when it’s needed.
“When a call came in, if I was available, I’d go.
But sometimes Meg would answer the phone and beat me to it.
Saving a swarm is tricky. We have to act fast. Sometimes we’d miss them.
Sometimes we’d show up and find wasps or yellow jackets.
Only the honeybees counted. That year, in the span of a month, we got six non-honeybee calls, and I managed to be the one on the scene every time.
” I adjust my hat, pulling it a little lower.
“Needless to say, I lost. By a lot. Meg saved four more colonies than I did that summer.”
“Hence the four bees,” Sawyer surmises.
“Yep. She picked the design. And the location. When it came time to get in the chair, she couldn’t stop laughing, which made my entire body shake. Mercer had to hold my hand instead.”
“Oh my god,” she snickers. “You haven’t lived that down, have you?”
“It gets worse.” I wince. “In my defense, there are a lot of nerve endings around the hip bone.”
She shifts closer, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “You cried, didn’t you?”
“Like a baby,” I admit with a laugh. “It’s the hardest I’d ever cried until… well. You know.”
Squeezing my hand, she hums in understanding.
With the lightness of the moment overshadowed by the ever-present reminder of grief, we grow quiet, and without releasing my hand, she shifts back and leans against the fence. We sit like that, quiet but not uncomfortable, for several minutes.
Eventually, with a wistful sigh, Sawyer breaks the silence. “She sounds incredible.”
Contentment envelops me like a warm blanket. “She was spectacular.”
She squeezes my hand again. “Anytime you want to talk about her, I’m more than willing to listen. And if you don’t, that’s okay, too.”
I examine her genuine expression, marveling. How does this woman who’s so much younger than me have such a deep, thorough understanding of grief? It’s impressive and also heartbreaking.
I’ve waded through more than my fair share of bullshit platitudes over the last year and a half. So often, people project their grief onto me or struggle to find the appropriate sentiments.
For the longest time, only Mercer, Edna, and Bella understood.
But even then, they didn’t always know what to do with me.
Sawyer’s different.
She sees the grief, and she respects its dark disposition and sharp edges. But she doesn’t shy away from asking questions and offering support.
She sees it—she sees me—and she’s not scared of the damage that’s been done.
“Come here.” I pull her close and kiss the crown of her head. “I know I can tell you anything, honey. And for the record, I think you’re pretty spectacular, too.”
From the crook of my arm, she offers me a cheeky smile.
“Right back at ya, Bee Daddy.”