Drift

Chapter 2

A temporary lull to make a new friend

Nothing but rapid blinks and a prayer guide me through the dusty labyrinth out the back of Mulligan’s Bait and Tackle.

Cracks of orange sunset filter between the gaps of stacked boxes. Shadows swallow most of the storeroom—if that’s what this tight spot is—and I edge around the nets and poles, doing my best to avoid tripping over…something. I can’t even see the toes of my Mary Janes in so much black.

I wedge my body into a corner and press my hand against my heart.

Steady. I almost smile. Strong. And no tears!

They’ll make a grand entrance eventually.

They always do. Frustrated, stubbing my finger on the filing cabinet at work, that time of the month—it doesn’t take much to tip me over the edge.

I can almost cry on command. If standing on a stage didn’t terrify me, I’d make a superb actress.

The doorknob rattles.

I suck in a breath and anchor my spine to the wall. Maybe I can disappear…

Sunset spills into the shop, and broad shoulders crowd the open doorway. “What the—” A palm skims the wall, searching, until a bulb snaps on overhead.

I scramble to duck behind a pile of boxes.

“Don’t worry.” Sawyer spots me through a gap in the fishing poles. “They can’t see you back here.” He nods at the window.

If I strain my neck and tilt my head just right, I can make out Luke and Kristen past the edges of the enormous green M painted on the glass. Luke turns to the beach, one hand shading his eyes as he scans the shoreline. Is he searching for me? He pivots the other way. I think he is.

“Let him suffer,” Sawyer says. “He’ll figure out you aren’t comin’ at some point.”

I agree to wait with a dip of my chin. Barreling outside without a plan and no backup is the last thing I want to do.

“Dare Watson bought this place a year ago,” Sawyer says, sidestepping the junk. “He’s a friend of mine. You know him?”

I shake my head.

I know of people from work.

If I weren’t so distracted by Luke, maybe I’d make more friends. Or…any. And it’s not like a hundred people are sitting by their phones back home waiting for my call, either. No one warned me that when you divorce a husband, you divorce all your “friends” too.

“He was too cheap to pay for a new sign.” Sawyer’s tattooed forearms strain under the weight of the box he lifts off the wooden countertop behind me.

“But that’s why most people around here call him Mullie…

if you’re wonderin’.” Unceremoniously, the box drops to the floor.

“I wish he’d get around to sortin’ this place out instead of chasin’ so much tail. He’s got shit everywhere. Tea?”

I blink.

Sawyer’s hand dwarfs a blue tin with two bags rattling around inside. Oh. Actual tea. There’s a kitchenette buried under all the boxes.

“It’s just the cheap kind,” he says. “That okay?”

After waiting for my nod, he pulls a mug off the shelf above his head. Just one.

I try to make my mouth work, but I only croak an awkward “Yuh…”

Sawyer’s head swivels, and he cocks his chin. “Thought I might’ve finally got you talkin’.” He’s trying to coax me out of my shell. It works.

A shy smile tugs at my lips. “You’re not having one?” I point at the mug.

“Can’t say I drink much tea.”

I twist the loose cuff of my sweater around my wrist. “I like tea…”

“Thought you might.”

He did? Is that a good thing?

My mind spins, fumbling for why he reached that conclusion despite not knowing me.

The frumpy clothes? My shoes? Is it wrong to enjoy a cup of tea?

What does he drink? He takes his trawler out before dawn.

He has to drink coffee. I doubt he dines in at the cafe.

He’s the type of man who has an enormous jar of the freeze-dried blend in his pantry. I bet he drinks it black.

Sawyer’s eyebrows furrow as he watches me chasing thoughts around my head.

“Don’t read into that,” he says. “It’s not like what happened outside. I didn’t mean…” He pauses. “You’re an old soul, Elsie Hoskins. You… shit.” He flicks me a sheepish look. “How deep am I diggin’ myself into this hole?”

The polite thing to say is, “It’s okay.”

He doesn’t buy it. “You sure?” he asks.

The tension in his shoulders relaxes when I smile up at him. After a small nod, almost like he’s saying, “Good,” he flips the switch for the plastic kettle on the countertop.

With nothing except the back of his blue flannel to distract me, my gaze wanders to the window.

The lashes of orange in the sky are almost drowned in indigo now, and the first prickles of starlight peek from behind the clouds.

Kristen’s barely a dot on the horizon. Luke’s the only person on the beach.

My heart flutters in my chest—the stupid thing. He’s still waiting for me. But why? A train wreck, zero out of ten, isn’t his only option.

“So…” Sawyer says. “What do your friends call you?”

Because I have so many… “Some people call me Els, but…” The nickname sours on my tongue. That’s what Luke calls me.

A crease settles between Sawyer’s brows. “Not your favorite?”

“Not anymore,” I mumble. “In high school, some of my friends called me Hosko.”

“Sounds a bit like a semi-retired cricket player livin’ out the back of Dubbo.”

“Which fits me so well because I’m excellent at sport.”

Sawyer tries to smother a smile and fails miserably. “No sports. Got it. But you are from Dubbo?”

I laugh. “I’m from Melbourne.”

“So, livin’ down here isn’t too far from your family?”

“I suppose not.” But it’s absolutely too close to my ex-husband. I steer the conversation away from my least favorite topic by asking, “What do people call you?”

“Sawyer.”

“No nicknames?”

“Not if they know what’s good for ’em.”

“Sawyer it is.”

He grins. He has a warm sort of smile, with almost perfectly straight teeth, all of him a little unpolished. Rough and rugged suits him, though. But that light expression doesn’t stick for long. His frown appears again.

“Now you’re probably thinkin’ I’m some stubborn-ass mule,” he mutters, passing me the mug.

“No.” I reach out and lightly touch his arm. “Not at all.”

I think he’s just about the nicest person I’ve met in this tiny town so far. Who else would stumble upon me behind the shop and offer me a hiding spot? Or make me a cup of tea?

His gaze dips to his boots. “Elsie, I was wonderin’—”

The crunch of gravel just beyond the wall cuts off his words. Sawyer glares at the door, and I hug my sweater close, not sure where to look.

Is Luke still hanging around?

Why?

If he walks into the bar—or even the post office under my apartment—a horde of women will fall over themselves to talk to him.

It won’t take any effort for him to find a new arrangement.

A smile. A sincere-sounding compliment, even if it turns out to be a lie.

That’s all he needed to coax me to share a bottle of wine with him that first night.

“Sawyer…” I twist my sweater around my fingers. “Is Luke one of your friends? Like Mullie?”

He shakes his head. “I sell him what he needs for the restaurant. I should’ve told him to find another supplier the first time he—”

Sawyer screws his eyes shut, his expression pinched, almost pained, before he covers it with the hand he drags down his face. He slipped up. That conversation wasn’t supposed to start, and now my mind is hooked on that one detail.

The last time Luke…what?

“Has Luke talked about me before?” I press.

“Aw, shit…” Sawyer sighs. “I shouldn’t have said anythin’.”

“So…he has?”

“I don’t want you hurtin’ more than you already are.”

My breath whooshes out as a pained “Oh” as my shoulders curl over.

That’s a yes.

I press my palm into my chest. This time my heart’s not steady. Thumps pound under my ribs. How many times has Luke talked about me behind my back? Has he dragged my name through the mud with…everyone? Did he score me lower than a zero? Did he laugh when he did?

“Elsie…”

Sawyer pries the mug from my hand, and the porcelain clatters onto the countertop. The only thing I see is a wall of blue flannel. He edges closer.

“I shouldn’t be runnin’ my mouth,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“Please. Don’t be.” None of this horrible situation is his fault.

“If you need to have a good cry, you go right ahead.” He pats the perfect spot on his chest for me to nuzzle my head, but I’m locked in, frozen to the spot. “I don’t have any tissues, but…”

“I’m…” I drag in a shaky breath. “I’m okay.” I even manage to force a smile.

“You two aren’t serious, then?”

“We’re…”

Nothing.

Luke didn’t promise me anything…and that’s precisely what I got. No loyalty. Not even a half-hearted defense when an over-primped real estate agent with lofty opinions of herself launched for my jugular.

But the whole point of a no-strings-attached arrangement is not getting hurt. I didn’t sign up for another heartbreak. I signed up for easy. There’s nothing fun about what happened when I arrived at the wharf, and Sawyer being pulled into this mess only makes me feel worse.

“We aren’t anything.” I sigh. “You probably think I’m stupid.”

“Nope.”

“But maybe…a bit…weird?”

Sawyer cocks his head. “Weird?”

“Awkward.”

His gaze flicks to the ceiling as he thinks over an answer. “Qu—”

“Please don’t say quirky.”

“Quiet. Thoughtful. There’s nothin’ wrong with bein’ a little shy.”

“You’re not shy.”

“No.”

“But you don’t say much.”

“I s’pose not. Is this your roundabout way of tellin’ me I’m weird?”

I snort a laugh. “No.”

“But maybe a bit awkward?”

My laugh grows louder. “No!”

“Standin’ up for yourself doesn’t have to be loud.” He butts his shoulder into mine. “Just so you know.”

I don’t know. I have no idea.

“Sometimes,” he says, “you need to be brave.”

Brave? Me? Not in this lifetime. “Joan was brave,” I grumble.

Sawyer’s eyebrows pinch together. “Joan…from…the newsagent?”

“No. Joan of Arc.”

“Ah…”

“And guess how she was rewarded for her bravery? She was executed!”

He attempts to cover a surprised chuckle by coughing into his fist.

“She was burned at the stake!” I cry.

“I reckon there’s a sweet spot somewhere between you leadin’ a revolution and sayin’ no sometimes.” He smirks. “How are you gettin’ home? Fleein’ on horseback at dawn?”

I muffle a laugh behind my hand. “Walking.” That’s how I get everywhere. The divorce settlement didn’t stretch far enough to splurge on a car, and the one I used to drive was deemed a “business asset.”

“Want some company?”

“Um, well… See…”

Sawyer bends down. The look he levels on me isn’t confrontational. His hazel eyes almost sparkle with mischief. “You can tell me no anytime you want.”

“I appreciate everything you’ve done for me tonight…”

“Elsie.”

“But I think I need some time…by myself…to, um…”

He parks a hand on his hip, waiting.

“I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful,” I rush to add.

“Elsie Hoskins. So help me God.”

I laugh. “No. Okay? No.”

He grins. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

I hold up my hand to show him how much it’s still shaking. “It was almost impossible.”

“Aw, you just need to practice a bit more.”

“I’ll forgo that exciting development opportunity. Can I say thank you instead?”

“There’s no need for that.”

“But you rescued me. And you let me hide in the back of this scary shop, and…” I raise the mug. “You made me tea.”

Sawyer’s smile is as big as mine, but he passes it off as no big deal with a slight shrug. I don’t think he hears too many thank-yous.

“We need to work on your no,” he says. “But you’ve got nothin’ to thank me for. For you, Elsie Hoskins…it’s the least I could do.”