Chapter Four
Sawyer’s apartment was somewhat similar to his office in that it was neat, streamlined, and very masculine. I, never being one to have a ton of fluffy, girly stuff lying around, found it almost a little comforting.
The floors were the same deep hardwood as the floor below, but where the walls downstairs were gray, the walls in his home were a rich coffee brown.
All the trim was white, and the U-shaped kitchen to the left of the door was full of white cabinets with butcher block countertops and stainless steel appliances.
There were stools butted up against the outside of the kitchen counter, but no actual dining space.
Sawyer didn’t exactly seem like the dinner party kind of person.
Directly forward was a large living space with a long brown leather couch on the left wall and two armchairs in a brown and black pattern facing the front windows of the building.
On the wall to the right, directly beside a hallway that I imagined led to the bedrooms and bathrooms was a giant, only-men-need-such-big-ones TV.
To the right was a desk butted up against the wall with an impressive amount of clutter sitting on top, like maybe he used it more to throw random crap on than to do actual work.
I took a breath and moved toward the living room, peeking down the hall before I walked in, maybe a bit more paranoid than I usually was. But there were no dark corners to hide in, so I moved on down.
The first door to my right was a bathroom.
It had a lighter-than-his-usual palette of cream tile and a giant walk-in shower, along with a double vanity with wood-framed mirrors and overhead lights.
And, to my surprise, there was a tub too.
A nice soaking one, rectangular and deep, perfect for unwinding after a hard day.
I moved toward the door across the hall.
And, well, I met Slim.
That is to say, I walked into the primary bedroom to find slightly lighter brown walls, wood dressers, and a wood bed frame and headboard holding a giant, truly massive bed that had a rich patterned comforter on top.
But on top of the comforter was the biggest freaking dog I had ever seen in my life.
I knew enough about dog breeds to recognize an English Mastiff when I saw one. I had seen countless pictures of them over the years—all hulking bodies, droopy eyes, and endless slobbery jowls.
Slim was, well, not slim. He was huge. I was pretty sure if I laid down next to him, he would be longer than me.
And he definitely outweighed me by a good hundred pounds.
He was a rich gray-blue color with a thick brown leather collar.
His tags jingled musically when he lifted his giant head and let out a truly half-hearted “woof,” before dropping his head again.
“Great guard dog you are,” I said, moving in because I figured if Sawyer told me to play with him, then he must have been friendly.
“Hey buddy,” I said, sitting down at the edge of the bed and carefully reaching out to let him sniff my hand.
And I swear the beast raised a brow at me like I was out of my mind, then snorted on the hand in question and rolled onto his side to give me his belly.
When a dog gave you his belly, especially on first introduction, you pet it.
So I did.
And soon, lulled by his friendly giant, lazy presence, and overwrought from the events of the morning and part of the afternoon, I slowly drifted off to sleep beside him.
I woke up to the sound of Slim’s trademark half-hearted “woof.”
“Shh,” I whispered to him, reaching out toward him and feeling the side of his jowl against my hand, patting it.
“He’s alerting you to my presence, the timid little ass,” Sawyer’s voice said, amused, almost affectionate when talking about the dog, making me roll slightly so I could watch him walk into the room.
“Looks mean as hell, but I swear he would help a burglar carry out the TV,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and taking Slim’s big head between his hands and rubbing it, making his tail wag hard, slapping into my thigh with enough pressure to hurt.
“What time is it?” I asked, the windows in his bedroom being behind the bed and, even then, shrouded with heavy, room-darkening drapery.
“Seven-thirty, give or take,” he said casually, like it was no big deal.
But it was a big deal. I had slept for five hours with his massive beast and wasted the whole day. We hadn’t even gotten anything done.
“Shit ran later than I planned,” he said, and I figured it was his version of an apology. “We can get to your old apartment first thing in the morning.”
“But…” I started to object, sitting up quickly and having to slam my hands down wide, one of them landing on Slim’s back, and he let out a grunt at the impact.
“Whoa,” Sawyer said, his hand reaching out suddenly to grab my shoulder, pushing back enough to hold all my weight if I needed him to. But I didn’t. “You alright?”
“Lightheaded,” I admitted, my brain feeling like it was swishing around in my skull and my eyes unable to focus for a long moment. “That’s weird.”
Sawyer’s hand slid from my shoulder and glided up my neck, cupping my jaw to tilt my face up to him just as my vision seemed to clear again. “Really curious to see how your blood work comes back. But maybe we should get some more food in you in case it’s a sugar thing,” he said.
I wasn’t sure if he realized it, but I was almost overwhelmingly aware of the fact that his thumb was stroking upward over my cheekbone, the sensation feeling way too good after way too bad a day.
Really, that was the only explanation I could come up with for why the sweet, chaste contact sent a visible tremor through my body.
And, judging by the way his dark eyes darkened and his hand tightened ever so slightly, he felt it.
In the end, though, he exhaled loudly enough for it to almost be a sigh, then moved off the bed. “Come on. I have something for you, and then I need to take this lug for a walk before we order.”
With that, Slim climbed off the bed, using it to stretch out long with his front paws on the floor, his back ones on the bed, his back arched, letting out a loud, long yawn.
“Yeah, Slim, your life is tough,” Sawyer said as he walked into the hall, his dog following behind him with interest, likely knowing it was time for him to go outside.
“Come on, Riya,” Sawyer called when I paused.
I followed him back into the living room to stand on the outside of the kitchen counter, whereas he was on the inside.
A simple brown shopping bag was sitting on the countertop with an S inside a diamond logo on the front.
“That’s for you,” he said simply, pulling open a drawer and finding a leash that made Slim let out a loud whimper as Sawyer leaned down to clip it on his collar.
“What is it?”
“Shit you need,” he said simply, moving with his dog toward the door. “Be back in twenty, and we can talk food.”
With that, he was gone again.
Almost a little hesitantly, as if there were snakes in the bag instead of “shit I’d need,” I reached for the bag and half-turned it over, letting the contents fall onto the counter.
I’d be damned; it was shit I needed.
This shit included: a toothbrush, travel-size shampoo and conditioner in good brands, deodorant, girly razors and shaving cream (pink tax included, no doubt), a bra and panty set, a pair of yoga pants, and a simple black zip up sweatshirt with the same S in a diamond logo as the bag.
My hands went for the bra immediately, brows drawn together because, well, as all women know, it was hard enough to pick out a bra for yourself when you were the one who had been carting around those things every day since puberty.
You never really knew. Sometimes your usual thirty-six C was too small or too big, depending on the brand and even the time of the month.
So when my fingers pulled up the label and I saw, indeed, a thirty-six C, I couldn’t keep my mouth from falling open.
No way was he that observant.
In my experience, most guys couldn’t tell you their woman’s pant size even though they had been peeling said pants off said woman for years.
With a head shake, wondering if maybe he had gotten the information from Ashley, who had intimate knowledge of the body parts in question—in all my body parts in fact—I collected all the items and moved them into the bathroom, waiting for Sawyer to get back.
He walked in a couple of minutes later, releasing Slim, who moved over toward his giant water dish, drank two-thirds of it, then dripped the other third of it all over the kitchen floor.
“Can I take a shower?” I asked, as I had been waiting to for their whole walk.
Sawyer’s brows drew together. “I said to settle in, Riya.”
“No, um… I meant… am I done being poked and prodded? I won’t be destroying any evidence or anything, will I?”
His face softened a little at that as he reached into one of his cabinets and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. “Nah, babe. You’re all done being examined. I mean,” he said, his smile going a little wicked, “not that I would mind…”
“Okay then,” I cut him off, smiling a little because I knew he was only trying to lighten the mood. “On that note, I am going to take a shower.”
He nodded at that. “Is pizza alright?”
“Pizza is always a good idea,” I agreed, moving away. “But if you put pineapple on it, I’m revoking your man card.”
To that, he chuckled slightly. “Meat lovers?”
I looked back over my shoulder. “Now you’re talking.”
“Want me to pour you a glass?” he asked, nodding toward the bottle of whiskey.
“No thanks. I’m good,” I said, going into the bathroom, closing, and locking the door.
It wasn’t that I couldn’t use a drink. It was more that I could never drink it straight, especially not whiskey.
As much as I hated to admit it, it was all about girly drinks for me.
Give me a good cosmo or margarita, and I was a happy camper. Straight liquor? God, no.