CHAPTER SIXTEEN SAWYER #4
Seeman, is it?
No, it’s Simon, you tool.
Ah, that’s right ...
If I wasn’t on the receiving end of Peter’s misnaming, I’d stand up and applaud the man, because without Fallon knowing, he just put me in my place.
She’s mine—back off, guy.
If there was a neon sign on his shirt, that’s what it would say.
Either that or This Dick Belongs to Her . With an accompanying arrow that rotates when she moves around.
“Peter, his name is Sawyer,” Fallon says to correct him, completely oblivious to the jab.
“Oh shoot.” Peter snaps his fingers, moving seamlessly to the friendly-neighbor approach. “That’s right, Sawyer. Sorry about that, my guy.”
My guy.
Yeah... I’m not your guy. Not even close.
“Simple mistake.” I give him a brief smile. “But seriously, I can take off.”
“You stay seated,” Fallon says. “After all the work you’ve done, there’s no way you’re going to go eat by yourself.”
“She’s right,” Peter says. He takes his wallet out of his pocket and places it on the table before taking a seat next to Fallon. “Lunch is on me.”
A few things:
One, his wallet on the table, fat and with obvious bills stashed on the inside, is, once again, another power move. He’s flashing his money in my direction—though little does he know, I probably have investments that put his salary to shame.
Two, we’re sitting at a round four-person table, a seat for each side of the table, and yet Peter scoots his chair right next to Fallon’s so they’re sitting shoulder to shoulder. Might as well have pulled his pants down and peed a circle all around her.
The man is embarrassing.
And yet I’m jealous of him.
I’m jealous of the way he angles his body toward Fallon, slipping his hand on her thigh and lending his lips to the column of her neck.
Her face heats up with embarrassment from the public display of affection, but she also doesn’t push him away, which means she might not welcome it, but she’s not mad about it either.
Maybe a secret part of me wished that she would push him away, that she would comically slap him across the face out of pure mortification, only to apologize, and then slap him again because she doesn’t know what’s gotten into her.
A little slapstick humor wouldn’t kill the mood for me.
“You don’t have to pay for lunch,” Fallon says. “I owe Sawyer. I can buy it.”
“No, sweetheart, let me. I want to treat the man that’s been helping out my girlfriend—it’s the least I can do.”
Did you see that... the marking his territory? Yeah, buddy, I get it.
Also... “sweetheart”? Ugh, gross, that’s what parents call their children, at least in my writing experience. “Sweetheart” is reserved for the men who can’t handle calling their woman “baby.”
Sweetheart is not for the forever man.
Sweetheart is designated for the throwaway secondary hero.
“Thanks, man. That’s kind of you,” I say, wanting to stop the chatter of who’s paying for lunch. “How was your drive up?”
“It was good.” Peter shifts and moves in even closer to Fallon, if that’s even possible. “I was listening to a rather fastening podcast about medical procedures gone wrong. I think the situations that happen are every doctor’s nightmare.”
“Why do you listen to it?” I ask.
He shrugs. “To remind myself not to get lazy.”
“That makes sense.”
“Glad it does.” His tone is clipped, but Fallon doesn’t seem to notice because she’s glancing over at Sully, who’s chuckling at something Rigatoni Roy just said.
“Seems like he’s doing well,” I offer.
She turns back to me. “A big part of that is thanks to what you’re doing with him.”
“What’s Sawyer doing with Sully?” Peter asks.
Fallon keeps her eyes on me. “He’s been including Sully on the renovations, making him feel like he has purpose while protecting him from hurting himself. It’s been... it’s been mood changing for Sully.” To my horror, Fallon reaches across the table and places her hand on mine.
I gulp.
Heat spikes up my spine as the air between the three of us becomes so palpable, so thick, that I’m struggling to find my next breath.
The glare of Peter’s eyes on me is intense, like after a few more seconds his eyes will shoot out lasers, splitting me in half, leaving me to melt onto the floor, helpless against his inferno of anger.
“Uh, it’s nothing.” I—feebly—attempt to pull my hand away from hers, but she grips me even tighter.
“It isn’t nothing. When I took Sully to the doctor, he said there was a change in his demeanor, and he asked what we were doing differently.
For the life of me, I didn’t know, but I had my theories, and after seeing the way you were with him, I know now exactly why he’s been finding some moments of clarity from the fog that’s taken over his brain.
” She tilts her head slightly to the side, her tongue wetting her lips. “It’s you.”
Hell ...
She couldn’t have saved this for when Peter wasn’t around, staring me down and ready to take me outside and introduce me to the obvious boulders in his biceps? I’m a fit man, I even have muscles of my own, but Peter clearly has a vendetta against barbells, because he’s been abusing them.
Unsure of how to react, I slowly pull my hand away and then grip the back of my neck. “It’s nothing, really. He’s been keeping me company, which has been nice because, well, you know, things have been lonely.”
“That’s right, your ex-girlfriend married your best friend,” Peter says, losing his grip on civility. “How has that been going?”
“Peter,” Fallon chastises. “Clearly that’s none of our business.”
“It’s fine,” I say. I glance over at Peter.
“Being here in Canoodle has helped. I haven’t been in love with Annalisa for a while, but the lack of loyalty hurt.
Spending my time around people who have an abundance of loyalty has been refreshing.
I told Fallon the other night that I’m grateful for her friendship, because it’s really helped me. ”
“The other night, huh?” Peter asks, his tongue running over his teeth. Oh yeah, he wants to introduce me to his fist, no doubt about that.
“Here’s your food,” Agora says, slamming two baskets of food in front of us. She looks up at Peter and huffs. “Do you want food?”
“He can share with me,” Fallon says.
Agora generates one of the heaviest, most annoyed eye rolls I believe I’ve ever seen. Call up the Guinness Book of World Records , because I think we have a leader in exasperation.
She turns on her heel, and I silently thank her impeccable timing.
“So, what’s the plan for when we get back to the cabins?” I ask, wanting to divert from the “other night” as much as we can.
“I think since Tank’s crew is coming tomorrow, I want to finish moving furniture into storage and ripping out the carpets so we can have all hands on deck with the floors and painting, which will be the biggest projects.
Bathroom countertops and replacement sinks are also being brought up by one of Tank’s guys—we got them at cost, which I’m still marveling about. ”
“Cost, really? That’s amazing. I can’t wait to see them.”
“They’re a really pretty white quartz that will look beautiful against the pewter-gray accent wall and the original red floor tiles, which I’m so glad we’re able to preserve.”
I nod, pleased as well. “Those tiles are a huge cost saver and offer some nostalgia to the cabin while also preserving Grandma Joan’s memory.”
Fallon smiles at me. “Yes, very true. Do you think it’s okay if the cabins’ exteriors stay the same?”
I pick up a fry from my basket and put one in my mouth. Just because I know she wants one, I take a large fry—the biggest in the basket—and I hold it out to Fallon. She takes it and thanks me with a smirk.
“I think the cabins will be fine as they are. They look stunning, maybe slightly weathered, but I don’t think their outward design looks dated at all—they look retro if anything.
They provide the kind of rugged mountain feel that visitors will want, especially on their social media.
But yeah, those carpets.” I shiver. “They have to go.”
She chuckles. “I bet you’ll be happy to have your cabin fixed.”
“More like grateful.” I wink and then pick up my chicken sandwich and take a large bite. Only then do I remember that Peter is sitting next to Fallon.
And let me just tell you, I’m meeting a new friend of his while escaping into the multitude of flavors bouncing off my tongue. It’s called the left vein in his forehead, and it’s pulsing with anger.
Throbbing.
Hammering so hard that I’m afraid it very well might burst.
Trying to break the tension, I hold a fry out to Peter. “Fry? They’re yummy.”
I envision him swatting the fry away, flipping the table over, and then gripping me by the neck before chucking me across the room with his boulder biceps, right into a wooden barrel of wing sauce.
But in reality, he takes the fry and chomps on it, staring me down.
Safe to say, I don’t think we’re going to be friends.
“You’re stronger than I thought you’d be, Julia Dripping Balls,” Jaz says as we maneuver a coffee table into one of the storage pods Fallon rented for the weekend.
“I have visible muscles.”
Her eyes roam my arms. “You do, and they are very bulgy, especially when you’re carrying something, but I wasn’t sure if they were artificial.”
“Artificial?”
“You know, implants. Isn’t that a thing done over in LA? Fake muscles.”
“I’d like to say it isn’t, but I know quite a few guys who’ve gotten calf implants, so, yeah, it is. But these bulging meat arms are real.”
“God, you’re so corny. ‘Meat arms.’ Who honestly says that?”
“I didn’t want to say ‘muscles’ because that would have been a word echo, and I wanted to keep the conversation fresh.”