16. Ava
CHAPTER 16
Ava
JUST TO SEE YOU SMILE
The Caffeinated Cowgirl might be the most adorable place on earth. It has a pink awning that matches the pink tables and chairs set out on the sidewalk in front of its brick building on Main Street. Its tagline, written in white script on the awning, reads Drinking Coffee, Wrangling Hearts .
The shop is also closed.
“What?” Sawyer cups his hands over his face to peer inside the front door. “They’re always open. Since when does Wendy go on vacation?”
I read the sign taped to the door for the third time. Wendy is apparently out west visiting Glacier National Park. Her BFF, a cat named Dahlia, is accompanying her on the trip.
“Good for her,” I say, even as I’m hit by a tidal wave of disappointment.
I was really looking forward to spending time with Sawyer. Which—again—is probably why I shouldn’t be spending time with him at all. Yes, I have a rare morning without any lessons or paperwork to do back at the ranch. But I need to be smart here. Need to protect myself so I don’t end up sacrificing myself—and my freedom—for the sake of keeping someone else happy.
Still, when Sawyer asks, “How ’bout we have coffee at my place, then? It’s just ten minutes down Highway 21,” I immediately agree.
“You sure you don’t mind?”
He shakes his head. “Not at all. I already had a pot on anyway.”
Following him down the sunbaked highway, I can’t tell if my jitters are excitement, anticipation, dread, or what. Grabbing coffee at a coffee shop is one thing. Going to Sawyer’s house is something else entirely.
I give Dan a quick call to let him know drop-off went well. He’s his usual short, snippy self on the phone, and I hang up feeling annoyed but also relieved. I don’t have to interact with him again until he picks up June next.
A few miles down 21, Sawyer hangs a left, and we pass beneath a shiny new archway that reads LUCKY RIVER RANCH, EST. 1902 . My stomach dips.
I’ve heard a lot about Mollie Luck and Cash Rivers’s ranch—how big and beautiful it is, and then of course I’ve heard from Sally about Mollie’s plans to turn it into a Hill Country headquarters for her boot company, Bellamy Brooks. Mollie inherited the property from her dad, who struck oil on the land back in the ’90s. He died a very wealthy man last year. Mollie inherited the ranch, then combined it with the Rivers Ranch when she got engaged to Cash Rivers back in the fall.
I follow Sawyer’s truck down a dirt road that’s bordered on either side by wide-open pastures. I notice there’s some heavy machinery around—excavators, bulldozers, dump trucks—along with stacks of what appear to be irrigation piping and materials for fencing.
It’s a mess, but having all this work done means big things are happening here.
It means Sawyer and his brothers care about the ranch. Judging by the scope of the project, they care a lot . I wonder how long this land has been in Sawyer’s family. The idea of him being a careful, thoughtful steward of their legacy?—
Heavens, my pulse won’t quit fluttering.
But it’s the house that comes into view after we crest a small rise that has my heart really pounding. It’s modest—two stories, maybe fifteen hundred square feet—but it’s beautiful. The exterior is limestone on the first level, white siding on the second. The house has a wide, rocking-chair front porch and light green shutters that gleam in the morning light.
My chest twists when I see the screen door that opens onto the porch, which is painted green to match the shutters. There’s something about a screen door that speaks to me. Growing up, I distinctly remember the sound ours would make as my sisters and I ran in and out of the house to play—a noise somewhere between a clap and a bang . Those were happy times that have become happy memories I revisit when I need a boost.
Sawyer parks on a patch of gravel to the left of the house, and I follow suit.
“This is beautiful,” I breathe as I climb out of my car.
Sawyer adjusts his hat. “Thanks. It’s the house I grew up in. Was kind of a mess, but we fixed her up over the fall. Ella and I moved in about a month ago.”
“How cool that you live in your family’s house,” I say. “Bet Ella loves hearing stories about y’all growing up here.”
His dimples pop again. I wonder if I’m going to faint.
“She does, yeah. As a matter of fact, she keeps asking Wyatt to teach her how to play poker. I told her that my dad taught all of us how to play, but that Uncle Wyatt is the best bluffer. She says ‘fluffer,’ which has him howling every time.”
“Y’all are cute.”
“Cute?” He tilts his head, frowning. “Last I checked, you said I was ‘hot as fuck.’”
My blood thrums with a rush of heat. Sawyer’s flirting with me.
I love flirting with him, probably because I’m able to let loose and just say what’s on my mind.
At the same time, I need to be smart . But I guess my need to have fun supersedes that.
“If memory serves, you were the one who said we were hot,” I reply. “I said we were cute.”
“Why not both?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I think I like ‘hot’ better, too.”
His eyes flick down my body. It’s a quick perusal, but it’s intentional, shameless even, and very, very sexy. The spark between my legs flares into a full-blown fire.
Wow this is happening fast. In many ways, it feels like we’re picking up right where we left off that night in Austin.
In others, it feels like we’re starting from scratch. I found out two days ago that Sawyer is a dad. There’s clearly so much about him I don’t know.
I’m dying to do some digging.
I’m also doing my best to slow things down. I’ve been down this road before—Dan was great in the beginning too—and I have no desire to end up at a dead end all over again.
“You are hot, Ava.” Sawyer’s eyes meet mine, his lips twitching. “Now you say that I’m hot too.”
“That why you wore the backward baseball hat to drop-off? To tease us unsuspecting preschool moms with your hotness?”
“So you do think I’m hot.”
I laugh. This is why I love flirting with Sawyer. He doesn’t make me feel stupid or ashamed for being, well, me .
In fact, he very much seems to enjoy my less-than-appropriate side.
“Don’t ask me questions you already know the answer to,” I reply.
“And you like the backward baseball hat. Noted.”
My heart hiccups. He’s not asking me out. But the idea that he’s noticing what I like and doing more of it?—
That has to mean something, right?
“I’m relatively certain almost every woman with a pulse likes guys in backward baseball hats.”
Reaching behind his head, he adjusts his hat again. “But not all guys in backward hats are created equal.”
“You’re really jonesin’ for an ego boost this morning, aren’t you?”
“Nah.” He’s grinning. “Well, okay, maybe a little bit. But really, I just wanna make you smile.”
A hot press of tears hits the back of my eyes. I blink. “Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Being hot and nice.”
His expression softens. “I won’t stop. Not ever. Especially not the hot part.”
I laugh, and I feel myself slipping. Floating, more like it. Like all my vital organs are rising up into the air, weightless, immune to gravity. It’s the way your body feels when you crest a hill on a roller coaster and it plunges downward.
I’m so turned on that I could scream.
“C’mon, let’s get some caffeine.” He nods at the house.
I climb the front steps with unsteady legs, the smell of fresh paint and new lumber filling my head. Sawyer opens the door— of course he doesn’t lock it, I bet no one in Hartsville does —and gestures me inside.
“After you.”
Shoving my hands in the pockets of my jacket, I smile. “Thanks.”
I’m hit by a gust of warmth as I step inside, along with the sugary sweet smell of—yep, I bet that’s pancakes.
“I’ll take your coat,” Sawyer says, holding out his hand.
Taking it off, I watch him hang it on the nearby rack. Then he shoulders off his vest and hangs it beside mine. I notice the tiny fleece jacket that’s covered in cute red-and-white mushrooms that hangs on the rack’s bottom branch. There’s something that looks like a life vest, or maybe a dog jacket, hanging there too.
Right on cue, a deliciously droopy dog ambles into the hallway.
Sawyer drops down to give the dog a pet. “Hey, Mule.”
“Mule?” I chuckle, dropping down beside Sawyer. “That’s actually a perfect name for him.”
“That’s the name he came with. I think it stuck because Ella was able to say it, even at one and a half years old. He’s some kind of Lab basset hound mix we can’t quite figure out.”
Mule noses my outstretched hand. “You got a dog with a one-and-a-half-year-old in the house?”
Sawyer’s shoulder brushes against mine when he shrugs. “Felt like Ella needed a playmate. Couldn’t give her a sibling, so …”
Not for the first time, I wonder what Sawyer’s story is. He hasn’t mentioned Ella’s mom. Feels weird not knowing if he’s a widower, divorced, estranged, or what.
Then again, I don’t exactly love talking about my relationship with Dan. I imagine Sawyer will tell me about his past if—when—he’s ready.
Mule lets me pet him, even leaning in to give my cheek a nice, slobbery lick.
“C’mon, dude, that’s not polite.” Sawyer gives the dog’s collar a gentle tug. “We wait until after coffee to lick people.”
“You have some interesting house rules.”
Sawyer stands and offers me his hand. “You’re tempting me to break them.”
“Is it because I’m hot?” I take his hand.
He pulls me to my feet. “Yes.”
Our eyes lock and we stand like that, hands clasped, for a beat too long. The tension between us—the heat—is back, and I can’t help but bask in it. The fear and the uncertainty that plagued my morning are still there in my head and chest. But Sawyer’s attention softens them. Makes them less immediate, less terrifying.
I have no idea if everything’s going to be okay. But being with Sawyer makes me feel like it’s okay to be myself at the very least. There’s comfort in that, a kind of ease I’ve never experienced with a guy.
“I’m glad you’re here.” His voice is low. Gruff.
I lick my lips. “I am too.”
Mule’s wagging tail hits our legs, waking us from our lust-induced stupor. I drop Sawyer’s hand and he clears his throat.
“So, uh. Coffee.” He puts his hands on his hips. “Right. This way.”
My suspicion about the pancakes is confirmed when I follow Sawyer into a small kitchen at the back of the house. A box of blueberry pancake mix sits beside the stove, and a frying pan, spatula, and glass measuring cup sit in the drying rack beside the massive farmhouse sink.
Guess Sawyer doesn’t leave dirty dishes in the sink to wash themselves.
Also. The man makes pancakes on a Monday morning. I gave myself kudos for throwing together some avocado toast earlier, which is much less involved.
He really just might be the most perfect man to ever exist.
The kitchen is lived in, but neat and very clean. A round table with four chairs is pushed up against the near wall, which is painted a pale shade of yellow. A bowl of fruit—bananas, oranges, pears—sits on the spotless countertop. I can just hear the hum of a dishwasher.
It’s cute and cozy, and I love it.
Sawyer grabs the carafe from the coffeepot on the counter. “You take yours with cream? Sugar?”
“Just cream, please. I can grab?—”
“Nope.” Sawyer nods at the nearby living room that opens into the kitchen. “Go sit and relax. I’ll be right there.”
I wonder if it’s hot in here, or if I’m just about to combust. Being with a man who’s a doer—who not only notices when you’re tired and need a break, but gives you that break—is quite possibly the most arousing experience I’ve ever had.
I wander to the family room, which is just as cozy and inviting as the kitchen. A rust-colored sofa sits underneath a wall of windows. The limestone fireplace is massive, the mantel almost as tall as I am. I’d bet my life Sawyer split the logs that sit in a leather sling on the hearth himself.
But it’s the photos in silver frames that crowd the mantel that really catch my eye. There are dozens of them, some filled with photos blurry with age. Others feature close-up pictures of Ella as a baby, Ella dressed as a pumpkin, Ella in front of a Christmas tree.
Sawyer clearly treasures his people and the memories they’ve made together.
It’s clear Sawyer is a family man at heart. He may be the world’s best lay, and a cowboy, and a DILF to end all DILFs. But at his core, he loves his people, and he loves them fiercely.
I suddenly feel short of breath.
There are many, many pictures of Sawyer and his brothers on the mantel. I can tell by their blue eyes and crooked smiles that it’s the five of them as kids. My stomach dips when I see a photograph of a woman with Sawyer’s blue eyes alongside a man with his thick head of dark hair. I pick it up to get a better look.
“My mom and dad.”
I glance over my shoulder to see Sawyer standing behind me with two steaming mugs of coffee in his hands. One of the mugs says WORLD’S BEST DAD . The other has the Texas state flag painted on its side.
“I can see that. You take after them both.” I set the picture back on the mantel and turn to face him, taking the Texas mug out of his hand. “Your parents make a handsome couple.”
“They did, yeah.” He brings his coffee to his lips. We’re standing close enough that I can see the freckles that dot his neck and cheeks. “I don’t wanna, like, get too far into the weeds here. But I’ve been thinking about them a lot lately. How I wish they were around so I could ask them the billion questions I have about being a parent.”
My heart clenches, my eyes burning all over again. “Parenting yourself while being a parent—it’s really freaking hard. I lean on my parents a lot—I’m lucky they’re still around—but now that we live far away, I can understand this a bit. Not to the extent you do, obviously. I really am sorry.”
“It sucks.” He lets out a breath, eyes meeting mine. “But Ella and I are muddling through.”
“I get the impression your brothers help some?”
“They do, yeah. When I let them.”
I sip my coffee. It’s perfect, hot and velvety, and just the right amount of bitter. “Do you not trust them?”
Sawyer looks down at his coffee. “It’s not that I don’t trust them. I don’t want to put them out, you know? I already feel bad not being able to help them out more. They’re always so busy, and the work we do, it’s draining. Feels wrong to ask them to babysit or whatever when they’ve been in the saddle or shoveling shit for twelve hours straight. Ella is not an easy kid either.”
“I get that. Hard not to feel like a burden when you’re a single parent. Last thing I want is to make other people pay for my choices. The mistakes I made in my relationships.”
“Exactly.” He blinks, eyes flicking to meet mine. “And I want my brothers to enjoy Ella. I don’t want them to feel like they have to watch her or do things with her if they don’t want to.”
“Before I got divorced, I used to think it’d be easier to do this parent thing alone. You don’t have to deal with someone else disappointing you, you know? And while some aspects have definitely gotten easier since I’ve been single …” I sigh. “Other parts, not so much. It truly takes a village to raise a kid, and I’ve had to rely on mine a lot.”
He frowns. “Who makes up your village?”
“My parents. My sisters. They don’t have kids yet, so Junie is definitely the apple of their eye. My ex is, eh, somewhat helpful, but he lives an hour away, so there’s that. Miss Lee, my nanny, has been wonderful. Oh! Mrs. Wallace helps out too. She loves teaching June how to bake. Vince, too, enjoys being with her. He’s teaching her all about being a ‘horsey doctor,’ as Junie calls it.”
Sawyer lets out a low whistle. “Damn, girl. You’ve lived here how long?”
I laugh. “You and Ella are welcome to be a part of our village if you’d like. Hell, judging by how well Ella and June get along, I’d say you are already part of it. I mean, here you are, already taking care of me.” I hold up my mug. “You’re going to have to let me return the favor.”
His expression flickers with emotion. “You don’t need to do anything.”
I’ve put two and two together. This poor guy thinks he needs to do everything on his own. He believes that he messed up by not being able to save his parents, so now he’s compensating by trying to save everyone else. All while feeling like a burden because he’s got a kid and can’t possibly be the safety net for his brothers that he thinks he should be.
I reach out and put my hand on his forearm. The fabric of his shirt is soft with age, and thin enough that I can feel the ripple of muscle beneath it. “But I want to. So let me.”
It’s when he looks down at my hand that I realize I’ve made a mistake. At the very least, I crossed a boundary and made him uncomfortable, because he’s quiet for a full beat, then another.
My pulse drums, face on fire. “Anyway,” I say, dropping my hand.
Sawyer immediately grabs it, fingers locking around my wrist. I meet his eyes, and the pressure between my legs becomes acute when I see the blue of his irises are burning with …
Hunger .
Fierce, vibrant hunger.
Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God. We can’t. We shouldn’t.
But I want to. So badly.
“So pretty, aren’t you? Inside”—his eyes move to my lips—“and out. You wanna help me, pretty girl?”
The nickname. It’s just as hot coming out of his mouth as I remember.
Swallowing, I nod. “I do, yeah.”
“Lemme kiss you.”
“Yes.” I keep nodding like an idiot, struggling to breathe. “I’d like that. Very much.”
He chuckles. “And here I thought I was the only one dying this whole time.”
“I’ve been dead since the second you waved to me in the parking lot.”
“Six feet under since you dumped your beer on me.”
My lips twitch. “Hey, that was an accident.”
His eyes search mine. “This isn’t.”
And then he leans in, his thick neck slanting in the sexiest way imaginable as his mouth meets mine.