Chapter 4
four
Sawyer
It's a standstill. We’re deadlocked in a silent negotiation, neither of us making the decision to make a first move. Finally, the deer prances across the road. I exhale, the tension leaving my body as I press my foot to the accelerator.
But then—a crash shatters the calm. My heart leaps straight into my ass.
I slam on the brakes in reaction to the catastrophe.
Another deer quickly bounds away, leaving behind my side mirror, dangling by a single cord.
Great. Breaking Fucking News: I just got T-boned by Bambi.
I should have known there would be more than one deer. I grew up here. I know better.
"Of course," I exhale, as the deer disappears without a glance back, swallowed by the darkness beyond the trees.
Five years. Five years of city life, far away from this sleepy hollow town that I never thought I’d come back to.
With a shake of my head, I keep driving.
This town, these woods—they don't belong to me anymore. And with one last glance at the pathetic remnant of my side-mirror swaying gently, I realize that maybe it’s a sign. Did I make a mistake coming back here?
I navigate the familiar winding road that cuts through the heart of my past. Gravel crunches beneath the tires.
Ponds and tall trees sweep by. The GPS finally declares in the Australian accent I selected, “You’ve arrived,” like I’ve just pulled up to a five-star hotel and not a field full of trucks, trailers, and questionable decisions.
Welcome back to small-town life, Sawyer.
Memories flood in—county fairs, starry-night concerts, and now…
my brother, Knox, willingly strapping himself to a bull like that’s a normal way to spend a Friday night.
I’m equal parts nostalgic and mildly horrified.
After growing up with that wild child, I’ve seen enough ER visits to fill a photo album.
But hey, what better way to announce my dramatic return than popping up right before he gets tossed like a rag doll?
Pulling into a makeshift parking spot, I kill the engine and sit for a moment, taking in the buzz of distant cheers. I straighten up and step out of the car. A sidelong glance confirms the damage: my side mirror still dangles unpleasantly.
I dust off my dress and follow the cheers towards the fairgrounds. Then, I spot a no-nonsense man in uniform guarding the entrance.
"Excuse me," I call out. "How much for entry?"
"Last performance is almost over," he says sternly. "No entry."
"Sir," I press, not in the mood for this. "My brother's inside there, and I just drove all the way from Chicago. A lot more traffic and deranged deers than I expected."
The expression on his face stays stale. "No entry," he repeats.
This man is uncalled for.
I tilt my head, forcing a tight smile. "Well now, isn't this the warmest welcome I've ever received," I say, sarcastically. "Do all guests get the red carpet treatment, or am I just special?"
For a moment, there's a flicker of something in his eyes—annoyance, maybe?—but it vanishes as quickly as it appeared. He turns away and dismisses me entirely.
"Good chat," I say bitterly. I could argue, insist, demand, but something holds me back. I pivot on my heel, leaving the stubborn guard. "No entry my ass," I whisper to myself.
I scan the perimeter, looking for something, any sign of an alternative route. The trailers, haphazardly arranged to the left, catch my eye. They form a line next to an area that leads to a promising gap in the fence—an open pathway.
With all the determination of a woman on a mission—and exactly none of the footwear for it—I strut toward the trailers like I belong here. The ground is uneven, probably plotting against me, but I keep moving.
Then it happens. My right heel betrays me, sinking straight into a patch of mud so squishy it could easily be quicksand. Shoe? Gone. Dignity? Hanging on by a pesky little thread.
Now I’m hopping on one foot, muttering every four-letter word I know as I crouch down to rescue my Louboutin from the depths of hell. Mud oozes between my fingers—cold, wet, and deeply personal.
"Sign number two I should not be back here," I grumble.
The trailers are lined up in a row as I tiptoe past. A sudden burst of laughter grabs my attention, and I jerk to a stop.
"Are you with the beauty pageant?" The voice startles me, and I spin around, dirt-streaked heel in hand. A woman leans against the door of a trailer.
"Uh, yes. Yes, I am," I reply, the lie sliding off my tongue with an ease that surprises me. My heart beats a frantic rhythm against my ribs, hoping she doesn’t realize I was sneaking in.
The woman's gaze drops to the heel in my hand, her lips quivering with a hint of disapproval. "You can clean yourself up in trailer three," she says, nodding toward the trailer just ahead.
"Thank you," I murmur, walking toward the one she suggested. When I push the door open, the faint smell of warm vanilla hits me.
I step inside, relieved. Thank God for small wins. At least I didn’t lose the shoes. Sure, Harrison bought them, but they’re still Louboutins, and I’m not about to let designer footwear die on enemy soil.
I snatch a paper towel from the kitchen counter and run it under the faucet, dabbing carefully at the mud clinging to my heel. Once I’ve done a halfway decent job, I slip the shoe back on—only to glance down and realize I missed a few stubborn spots.
With an annoyed sigh, I bend down to finish the job, laser-focused on scrubbing. The faucet's still running, white noise in the background. Then everything freezes.
Two hands—big, unapologetic—grab my ass like they’ve got history there.
I jolt upright, heart bouncing off my ribs, halfway between a scream and a full on swing, when a deep voice rumbles behind me, all confidence and zero shame.
“Damn, how’d you know that’s my favorite position?”
My brain short-circuits. My heels? Wobbling. My balance? Gone. My grip on reality? Left the second I entered this town.
I suck in a breath then let out a scream that probably just popped all the tires on this trailer. I spin around so fast, I knock over the soap dispenser and come face to face with a man I most definitely did not invite to grope me.
His face shifts from cocky to “what-the-fuck” in under a second.
“Oh, shit,” he blurts, jerking his hands back like he just touched a cactus. “You’re not—”
Nope. I don’t even let him finish. Pure survival mode kicks in. I slap the faucet off, spot a butter knife in the sink, and wrap my fingers around the handle like I’ve been training for this exact moment.
“Back away,” I snap, holding it between us like it has the power to do actual damage.
But then I actually look at him.
And now I’m having a very inconvenient realization.
Because this man? He’s gorgeous.
The kind of gorgeous that makes your common sense take a quick trip to Cabo.
He’s tall—annoyingly so—with broad shoulders and a chest I’m now very much picturing without a shirt.
His hands look rough in that knows-how-to-fix-a-truck-but-also-might-ruin-your-life kind of way.
Tattoos trail down his arms, half-hidden under rolled sleeves like they’re trying to play hard to get.
His hair—god, the hair. That modern mullet situation is peeking from under his cowboy hat, like even his haircut couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be respectable or reckless.
Spoiler: it chose the latter.
All of it is put together with those hazel eyes—big and sultry—lingering on me like he’s got nowhere else to be, unraveling me bit by bit.
There’s the mustache. The sun-kissed skin. The boots that have clearly lived harder than my Louboutins ever will. He looks like he was plucked straight from a country music video. And possibly banned from a few.
He is, quite literally, made of everything women warn each other about in group chats.
And don’t even get me started on his smirk. That slow, cocky curve of his mouth like he knows what he looks like. Like he’s been getting away with murder and bad behavior since birth. He smells like cedar, leather, and very, very bad decisions.
Yeah, this man was obviously dangerous in more ways than one.
Meanwhile, I’m still holding a knife. And considering using it… mostly on myself for finding this situation even a little bit hot.
"Easy there, sweetheart."
“Easy? You think you can just sneak up and grab a woman like that? If this is your version of Southern hospitality, you’re getting a one-star review, cowboy.”
“Whoa,” he drawls, slow and shameless. “I ain’t even gotten to the good part yet. You sure you wanna rate me this early?”
“Oh, that wasn’t the worst part?” I scoff. “Fantastic. Good thing I’m the one holding the knife.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just grins the kind of grin that says he’s talked his way out of worse. Then he leans against the counter, arms crossed and casual like he’s settling in for a chat.
“Before you go all stabby on me,” he drawls, “I didn’t mean to grope a stranger. Thought you were someone else.”
His gaze drags over me, slow enough to make my blood boil, before his eyes find mine again, daring me to react.
“How lucky for her,” I snap. “Let me guess—do you even know her name?”
“Didn’t catch it.” He winks. “But tell me yours, and I’ll be sure to remember.”
“You wish.” I level the knife at him. “Now turn around and leave before I have to use this on you.”
He still doesn’t flinch. Just grins, like he’s got all the time in the world.
“Well now,” he drawls, that Southern twang curling around me like smoke off a bonfire, “I do admire a woman who can protect herself. But sweetheart, if that butter knife’s your best weapon.., you might wanna work on your plan B.”
My grip tightens. I don’t laugh. I don’t blink.
“Be on your way, cowboy.”
He chuckles, tipping his hat. "Fair enough."
"Good," I say, still holding the knife like it gives me power. He backs away slowly, hands raised in mock surrender, with that crooked grin still on his face.
The moment the door clicks shut behind him, I exhale a long breath. Then, ever so cautiously, I inch toward the window, peering through the blinds to check that he's really gone.
Once it’s clear, I step carefully down the metal stairs. "Tonight can't get any worse, right?" I whisper to the dark, moving stealthily towards the bleachers. A few others are scattered around. My gaze sweeps the thinning crowd, hunting for Knox.
A high-pitched squeal finds me instead. "Sawyer Woodworth, that cannot be you!"
It’s Honey Longford. It’s been so long since high school, but she hasn’t changed a bit.
Her dark hair is still glossy and straight, like it does that effortlessly every day.
We weren’t super close but ran in the same friend group.
Back then, everyone knew her for how great of a singer she was.
I assumed people here would judge me for leaving, maybe even hate me, but she seems genuinely excited.
“It sure is," I respond. "How have you been?"
"Been great!" Honey's voice lifts a pitch higher. "I work over at the bar now. And what about you? You're real successful in Chicago now, aren't you? Some big-time agent?"
"I don't know about big time," I giggle. "But yes, I'm visiting from Chicago."
"Oh, amazing! While you're in town, you should come get some drinks so we can catch up. I'm heading over there in a few if you want to come by."
"I’ll see what my brother’s in the mood for and let you know," I say, giving the lot another once-over for Knox—until something irritating yanks my focus.
"Ugh. Hey, Honey… who’s the human red flag over there?”
Honey follows my gaze. The second her eyes land on him, I can tell she knows exactly who I’m talking about.
"Oh, Trouble?"
“Is that his government name?”
Honey leans in like she’s about to spill all the tea. "Nope. That’s just what everyone calls him. And trust me—he knows exactly how good he looks. Unfortunate, too, because the Stetson brothers don’t settle down."
I snort, hoping no one sees me gawking because honestly, it’s maddening how hot he is. “Of course they don’t.”
"Doesn’t stop half the town from tryin’, though." She smirks. "I get a front-row seat workin’ at the bar, and girls sure do line up for the Stetson men like it’s a meet-and-greet."
She tilts her head, watching him with a sigh that sounds a little too dreamy.
“Doesn’t surprise me one bit. Did they go to school with us?” I ask, curiously.
She shakes her head. “Same school, but they were a few years older. Probably graduated a year or two before Knox. Him and his family own a ton of land out by the ridge. If you want the best horses, you go to their ranch,” she adds.
“Lucky for me, I’m not in the market for horses,” I mutter, my eyes still on the cowboy disaster. Then finally—thank god—I spot him. “There’s my brother. I’ll check in with you soon.”
“Alright! Drinks on me if you come by tonight,” Honey says, pulling me into a quick hug. “Glad to have you back in town!”
I break away and head straight for Knox. I sneak up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist.
He stiffens mid-step, startled. “Sawyer?” His voice cracks a little when he turns. “You actually came?”
I don’t answer, just squeeze him tighter, because I’ve missed him. His arms wrap around me, and it’s the kind of hug that swallows you whole. The kind only a big brother can give when the world feels harsher than what you’re built for.
He’s taller now. Broader, too. His hair’s longer than I remember, sun-streaked and messy, and he looks… grown. Rugged, even. But still Knox.
I mumble into his chest, “It’s so good to see you.”
"You wanna go see Daddy?" he asks, releasing me. “If you would have told me you were coming, we could have planned somethin’ for you.”
"Not yet," I confess. "I've had a day. I booked a cute little guest house in town. Wasn’t sure how things were going to go with Daddy."
"You booked a guest house here in town?" he asks in a strange way like he knows something I don’t.
"Yes… The closest hotel was an hour away."
Knox's smile stays put as he puts an arm around me and says, "Alright then, let's go out and celebrate."