Chapter 6
six
Sawyer
It’s been a long day of doing absolutely nothing, which somehow feels more exhausting than being productive. Add that to the fact I got zero sleep last night. Thank you goats for not abiding by the rules of quiet time. And my brain—well, that’s fried.
I’m staring at my laptop pretending to work when the buzzing starts again. The phone practically vibrates off the nightstand. I fumble around the sheets, finally snag it, and sigh.
“Please tell me this is worth me spraining a wrist.”
"You never checked in," Harrison grumbles into the phone. "Have a long first day?"
"Something like that. Some asshole decided my dress looked better with his drink on it last night. And those heels you got me..." I trail off, not even sure of their current condition.
"Sounds like you need to leave the sticks and get back here. Your clients aren’t too happy you’re gone.”
"Not a chance," I push back. I’ve yet to even lay eyes on Daddy, let alone figure all this out. He wasn’t home when I went by his house today and just thinking about the talk we still need to have is giving me anxiety. "Still got some things to figure out."
A pause lingers until it’s broken by a warm welcoming voice from downstairs. "I got you dinner down here, honey."
I whisper into the phone, hoping the person downstairs can’t hear me. "I'll call you back, Harrison. I think the host is here."
Slipping the phone into the pocket of my shorts, I descend the wooden steps.
This little home has a warm, cozy cabin feel. On the main level, there’s an entertainment area and a kitchen with an impressive coffee station, and upstairs is a large loft bedroom.
A woman is standing just outside the screen door, and there’s an adorable young boy with dirty blonde curls beside her. I push the door open and gesture inside. “Please come in.” She steps inside. Her short blonde hair is caught in a claw clip, and her smile glows.
"Hi there," she says in a way that’s almost like we’ve been friends for years. And then, before I can brace for it, she pulls me into a hug. I'm normally not a hugger, but it’s comforting.
"It's a pleasure to have you here," she says. She releases me but keeps a hand on my arm. "You can call me PJ, and this little one next to me is my grandson, Fisher."
"It’s nice to meet you both. I'm Sawyer.”
"Better not let your sons know she’s pretty," Fisher says to PJ, not even trying to lower his voice. He takes a dramatic bite of the dinner roll he’s holding.
"Oh, you hush, Fisher." She looks at me, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Don't you listen to him, Sawyer. They're harmless."
Fisher snorts. "Harmless ain't the right word, Nana."
"Anyway, you need anything at all, Sawyer, my house is right through those trees." She points out the window. In the distance, I can just make out her place—a white farmhouse. "Seriously. If any of my boys give you any hassle, just come knock."
“I will. Thank you for hosting me."
"Anytime," she says warmly. "I love to host." She sets the plate down on the countertop. "And what brings you to visit our little town here?"
"You didn’t have to bring me a plate, that’s so sweet. But I’m just here visiting my daddy and brother."
"Ah, family. And who is your daddy?"
"Daniel Woodworth."
There's a flicker of recognition in PJ's eyes. Not sure if it’s good or bad.
"Wait a minute. You're Dan's daughter? And Knox’s sister from the city?"
"Yep, that's me," I reply, realizing I forgot just how small this town is and that I’m sure the news I’m here has already spread all the way through it. Something I didn’t miss in the city.
"Oh my." PJ smiles. "And do you have that same fiery spirit your father has?"
There's something about her—the way she holds herself, the lightness in her voice—that makes it impossible not to love her already. "I sure do, ma'am. But just a little less grumpy."
"Well, we all get a little more grumpy the older we get," she muses.
“Thought that was just you, Nana,” Fisher pipes up, raising an eyebrow.
She messes up his hair with a chuckle. “You keep talkin’ like that and I’ll start hiding vegetables in your cookies again.”
“Joke’s on you,” he says. “I know where your secret chocolate chip cookie stash is, and I swapped ‘em last time.”
She rolls her eyes and turns to me. “Well, Sawyer, we’ll get out of your hair. My table’s always open. You want a meal, you come eat. You want a drink, you come drink. We don’t lock doors in my house.” She winks. “You remember that.”
“Thank you, PJ, I appreciate it!”
My phone vibrates in my pocket, so I pull it out. Honey's name flashes on the screen.
Honey
How do you feel about going to the Woods tonight?
Sawyer
Woods as in… Weston Woods?
Honey
Don’t pretend you’re not dying to go back
Sawyer
It’s been forever. What if the nostalgia kills me?
Honey
A beautiful way to go if you ask me
I haven't been to the woods since high school. Back then, it was all bonfires and six packs, and someone's dad's truck blasting country until the speakers gave out. It was a place to disappear with a boy or your best friend—both most of the time.
I thumb a reply before I can second-guess it.
Sawyer
Fine
How could I ever say no to bad decisions with you?
Honey
Wanna meet me at the bar? I’ll drive
Sawyer
Sure thing
As they head out, Fisher leans in and whispers to PJ, though I catch it. “Bet you eight dollars she’s going for Uncle Cole.”
“You hush now. And why eight dollars?” PJ asks, narrowing her eyes.
Fisher shrugs. “’Cause that’s what’s in my piggy bank. But I can throw in three Canadian coins and some cat food if you want to make it interesting.”
PJ stares at him. “Where on earth did you even get Canadian coins?”
Fisher grins. “Let’s just say… I’ve got international business. And that’s what you’re worried about? You should be askin’ why I have cat food when we don’t got any cats.”
PJ sighs. “You’re somethin’ else, Fisher.”
“I know,” he says proudly. “I’m kind of a big deal.”
I giggle, and before I know it, I’m parking in front of the bar. Honey waves me over once she spots me. I climb into her truck, and she barely waits for me to shut the passenger door before hitting the gas. "Thought since you were back in town you could use a good ole Weston Woods night."
I pull the seatbelt across my chest. "I’m surprised people still go there. But I’m always down for a night out with you. How have things been?"
Honey blows air out her cheek. "Oh, you know. Nothing exciting. Still pulling double shifts and singing on stage anytime the owner allows." She glances sideways. "Still on and off with Milo, if you can believe it."
I blink. "Wait. Milo from high school?"
She drums her nails against the steering wheel. "Guilty."
"Wow, so you really are high school sweethearts."
"I don’t know about that. When things are good between us, it doesn’t last long." She smiles, like she's not sure if it's supposed to be a joke. "Sometimes I think the men in this town just don’t settle down. Like it's a disease."
"I think it's just men everywhere," I say, half-laughing. "Weston’s just got a higher concentration."
Honey kills the engine and lets out a low whistle. "Damn, girl. I think half of our graduating class is parked right there."
Weston Woods has grown up and out since the last time I set foot here, but not in a good way.
The trees are thinner. It’s more dirt than grass now, and the clearing's wide enough to fit two dozen trucks and still have plenty of room to run around.
Country music is playing from at least three different speakers.
Half the town is draped over tailgates and lawn chairs are spread out.
"I was hoping at least some of them would've moved on," I say, eyeing a cluster of guys in backwards caps doing their best to crush beer cans against their foreheads.
She pops open her cooler and fumbles for a bottle, pressing the cold glass into my hand. "Nothing ever really moves on around here." She swings her boots onto the tailgate and leans back, chin tilted to the stars. “Even for those of us who leave, we somehow always find our way back."
I follow her lead and plant myself on the tailgate.
Music cuts out for a split second from the truck next to us, replaced by the roar of a crowd.
A guy climbs into the bed of a jacked-up Ram—shirt already off—and punctures the side of a beer can with a key.
He holds it up for the crowd, smirks, then pops the tab and drains it in less time than it takes to blink.
The crowd loses its mind, hooting and stomping, and when he flips the can over his shoulder, half the girls within sight are busy pretending they don’t see how ripped he is.
"Who is that?"
Honey squints. "Oh, that's Rogue. Another Stetson."
Of course it is. "How many of them are there?"
"There’s four, and if you’re trying to avoid them, forget it. They’re all over there, usually blowing off steam after riding."
"Great," I say, trying to hold back what I’m really thinking. “I know all about Trouble. Who are the others?”
“Okay, so Rogue’s the one who just shotgunned that beer. He’s basically Trouble’s twin—same face, same smirk—but with green eyes and maybe even fewer boundaries, if that’s possible. Like, if Trouble’s a firecracker, Rogue’s a lit stick of dynamite.”
I nod, taking him in. Rogue looks like the type of guy who’d say his day consists of gym, tanning, and tequila. But maybe I’m just judging because he looks so much like Trouble.
“Then there’s Charming,” she continues. “He’s the one with the curly hair and the two blondes on his arms, currently flashing his dimples like a weapon. And yeah, he lives up to the name, so don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
It’s true. The man is basically a walking cologne ad—dimples, curls, and women who want to snatch him up like he’s the last drink at happy hour. Not even subtle about it.