4. Sawyer #3
“From what?” I let out a sardonic laugh. “The truth? I’ve been living in the truth my whole life. I don’t need you to manage it for me.”
“You’re right,” he says quietly. “You’re right and I’m sorry.”
An apology? Who the hell is this and what has he done with Knox?
He takes a step closer, and I should push him away, but his scent wraps around me, calming my racing pulse.
“I need to explain. Not just about Owen. All of it. Everything you don’t know yet.
I know I don’t deserve the time. I know I have absolutely no right to ask you for anything. But I’m asking anyway.”
“I can’t—”
“Please.” The word sounds like it came from somewhere deep in his chest. “One conversation. After that whatever you decide, I’ll respect it. I’ll back off. I’ll—” he stops himself, “—I’ll do whatever you need me to do. But not yet. I can’t…I can’t do it yet.”
I’ve never heard Knox Aldrich say please like that before.
I’ve never heard him admit he can’t do something.
I stand there, trying to locate the anger I had thirty seconds ago.
It’s still there…I know it’s still there.
But he’s looking at me like that and he’s this close and I’ve spent weeks trying to forget how being near him feels and my body hasn’t gotten the message.
His hand moves slowly, and I wait for myself to turn away, to have even an ounce of self preservation. Move. Don’t let him near you. His fingers find my cheek, barely touching, and he’s so warm against my skin. That spark moves through me, awakening a chord inside that’s been asleep for weeks.
My eyelids flutter closed.
“Don’t.” I say, but I lean toward him.
“Sawyer,” he breathes.
His thumb traces my cheekbone in one slow pass before his palm cups the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair.
I open my eyes and he’s right there, so close. His gaze drops to my mouth at the exact same moment mine finds his. The space between us is magnetic.
Three seconds. I’ll allow myself three seconds of this and then I’ll walk away and I’ll be a person with functioning self-preservation instincts. I’ll get in my car and not look back.
One.
His forehead tilts toward mine. His breath comes in short pants.
Two.
My hand finds the front of his shirt without me deciding to put it there.
Three.
“Knox Aldrich? That you?”
We separate like a live wire snapping.
A man in a golf shirt stops beside us, silver-haired with a suntan that probably came from weekends on his yacht. His eyes move between us and he looks like he’s either having a stroke or working way too hard to make a forced casual expression.
Knox clears his throat. “Tom.”
“Didn’t expect to see you out of the office this early.” Tom’s gaze slides to me and there’s a half second pause, a quiet judgement behind his eyes. The moment he places me, I can practically see the name form in his head. Thorne. “And this is?”
“Sawyer,” I say, refusing to wait for Knox to figure out how to introduce me.
Tom blinks too many times to be natural. David Thorne’s daughter. Realization moves across his face before he smooths it back out. “Of course. Good to see you, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart.
I smile at him with every tooth I have.
“Well, Knox, might as well give you my RSVP now while I see you. The Mrs. and I will be at the engagement party. Wouldn’t miss it.” His eyes flick to me one more time, cold and assessing. “You two enjoy your afternoon.”
He moves on without waiting for a response, already pulling out his phone, probably texting his crusty old golf buddies. We’ll be the topic of conversation to his wife over dinner tonight too. You’ll never guess who I saw outside The Ivy Room.
I watch him go. Then I look at Knox.
His mask is back on. I can spot the difference a mile away.
It’s like the last ten minutes happened to someone else entirely.
He watches Tom’s retreating back with an expression that gives absolutely nothing away and something about how quickly and easily he’s able to go there makes me remember why I was angry.
And that anger reminds me exactly who I’m dealing with.
“I have to go,” I say.
“No, Thorne.”
The way he says Thorne instead of my first name stings. I push off the wall and pull my keys from my purse.
“Come on. Wait—”
But I’m already walking. Head up, shoulders back, the Thorne version of holding it together that Mom taught me well. Don’t let them see. Not here. Not in the middle of Ashford where Tom whoever the fuck he is is watching from down the street.
Knox follows me until I reach my car, and then he stands there, quietly stewing, waiting for me to crack. Well, I won’t. Not again.
“Just go!”
He finally listens.
Once he’s a few steps away, I get in my car, shut the door, and sit there for ten seconds, waiting for him to be far enough away before I drop my forehead against the steering wheel.
My cheek is still warm where his hand was.
My fist is still holding the shape of his shirt.
I take a shaky breath and sit up, start the engine, and pull out of the lot before I do something I can’t take back.