Chapter 12
Sunny all the way to Launceston
The walk to Sawyer’s house is becoming one of my favorites.
Saturday mornings are always quiet in town, but in this secluded alcove, it’s even more peaceful. The ocean spans all the way to the horizon, and the trickle of traffic disappears until there’s nothing but the birds singing the way to his doorstep.
When I round the bend, Sawyer stands with his back to me, loading his truck.
My breath catches. The more time I spend with him, the more I know he’s going to break my heart.
Not intentionally. He’s too nice. But I’m going to forget to hide how much my fingers ache to trace the outlines of the tattoos visible through the thin white cotton of his T-shirt. I’ll make it awkward between us.
I make it halfway up the driveway before the squeaky heels of my loafers freeze his hands mid-lift.
“Elsie Hoskins.” He turns to flash me a smile. “It’s about time—” His jaw drops at the same time the cooler plummets with a thud into the back of his truck.
“Oh, no! Am I late?” I push up the sleeve of my cardigan and glance at my watch. Didn’t we agree to meet at eight? Or was it nine? “I’m so sorry! I’m literally never late.”
“You’re twenty minutes early.”
“Then why the…” I copy his stunned expression by dropping my chin and popping up my eyebrows.
He chuckles. “We’re goin’ for a day. You’ve got—what? One…two…three bags. You’re haulin’ enough supplies to last us a week.”
The humiliation. “I wasn’t sure…” He must think I’m ridiculous. “How long does it take to drive to Launceston?”
“A couple of hours.”
“Oh, uh… well…” I bite down so hard on my lip that I’m shocked my teeth don’t pierce the skin.
“I’m just teasin’ you.” Calloused fingers touch my shoulder, and my heart stutters every second they linger. How can such a manly hand be such a gentle reassurance? “There isn’t any harm bein’ prepared.”
A smile threatens to burst onto my face. “Oh, I’m prepared…for fun!”
Sawyer’s eyes pop wide open again.
It’s too late, though. He’s set me off. I pat the bag slung over my shoulder. “I’ve got snacks. Healthy and unhealthy. Water.” I rummage around in the bag hanging over my arm, sifting through the mess to reach the junk at the bottom. “I swear I packed the first aid kit…”
“What’s that?” Sawyer points at the pink box in my hand.
“Oh! Conversation cards! I found them in that little gift shop behind the florist. We can use these if we run out of things to talk about.” And to avoid any awkward topics—like my pathetic love life or the real estate agent intent on making my life hell.
“We’ve had no problems talkin’ before.”
“Just in case. And I bought us a CD.” I stick the case in front of his nose. “I noticed how much you love music when I was over the other night.”
His eyes flit over the title. Pure Pop: The Hits of 2000. “Ah…”
I grin. There are no pop records in Sawyer’s collection. That’s the whole point. “It sounds awful because it is. We need to pick our favorite worst song.”
As Sawyer’s head bobs in a slow nod, I shrink into a ball. A wave of self-doubt floods over me. I’ve overdone it. I haven’t just gone overboard; I’ve swept a hundred miles out to sea, and no one is going to bother rescuing me.
I can’t look anywhere but my loafers. “You think I’m weird…don’t you?”
“Hey. Hey. Look at me.” His hands brace my shoulders, and he bends down so we’re standing eye to eye. “I don’t think that. You just like plannin’ ahead. No surprises. And I don’t mind that at all. I appreciate the trouble you’ve gone to.”
“It’s the least I could do. You’re driving. And you refused to let me give you any gas money…”
“Damn straight I did.”
His thumb slips into the spot between my fluffy cardigan and the strap of my loose silk shirt, and it soothes the bare skin in a slow, intimate swirl. His head tilts, his eyebrows furrowed. What is he thinking?
My woman doesn’t pay for gas money…
My heart hammers in my chest. I’m skipping into dangerous territory, inventing stories like that in my head, but I can almost hear his deep voice murmuring those words by my ear.
I suck in a sharp breath. “Th-thanks.” Why on earth am I thanking him? For being hot? Nice? God, this is too much. “Soy…”
He barks a laugh and steps back to a much safer distance. “Nice try.”
“Oh, come on! You call me Hosko. It’s only fair that I give you a nickname.”
“Sure. You can call me… Sawyer.” He grins.
He insists on taking all my bags and loading them into the truck and then offers me his hand so I can climb inside. Before I grab on, I shrug off my cardigan.
“Wha… What are you…?” His throat bobs with a gulp.
“The sun’s out this morning. I don’t want to cook once I’m strapped into the tank.”
He doesn’t even crack a smile at my joke. “Ye…yeah.” His gaze goes to the sky as he drags a hand down his face. “Right.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah.”
“If it’s too much hassle—”
“It’s no hassle. You just caught me off guard by dressin’ up all nice like that.”
“This isn’t dressing up, silly. But I suppose it’s less buttoned up than what I usually wear to work.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “No buttons at all…” He darts a glance at the silk before he finds somewhere else to look again.
Is he…? My arms prickle with gooseflesh even though my cheeks are burning up. Is he checking me out?
No. No way. I’m imagining it. I’m fussy and overcomplicated. A man like Sawyer would never be interested in someone like me.
“We should, uh…” He roughs up his hair on a slow breath out. “Jesus. Let’s get goin’.”
The truck barrels down the Tasman Highway, but the stretch of road is only one lane on both sides, and a whole song off the terrible CD plays before we pass another car.
“It’s not busy like Melbourne,” I say, watching as the never-ending blur of trees and rocky hills zip past.
“The roads are quiet down this way.”
Another song plays through without us saying anything.
“I was thinkin’…” Sawyer trails off.
I almost launch out of the seat from excitement. Finally. Will we talk now? I made everything so awkward by imagining him in ways I shouldn’t.
“Cain’s havin’ some people over tomorrow night,” he continues. “Nothin’ fancy. Just a cookout for everyone helpin’ with the festival.”
“Explain a cookout to me.”
“Everyone brings food to share. A salad or somethin’.”
“What’s your signature salad?”
He turns slightly, his eyebrow arched. “Do I look like a man who eats a lot of salad?”
I laugh. With a big, broad chest like his? Not likely. “Well, what do you take along then?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Steaks, maybe? I usually get conned into helpin’ out with the grill. Think you’ll come?”
“Try to stop me.”
When his attention shifts back to the road, the tense silence resettles into the car. Sawyer drums the steering wheel to the beat of whatever terrible song plays over the speakers, and, every so often, he sneaks a look at me from the corner of his eye.
I knew this was going to be awkward.
I slip the pink box out of my bag and hold it over my mouth. The next time Sawyer’s gaze slides in my direction, I waggle my eyebrows.
“Okay.” He sighs, but he’s grinning. “Let’s try your conversation cards.”
“Yes!” I pop the lid off the box and flip over the first card. “Here we go!” I clear my throat. “Do you play an instrument?”
“I play a bit of guitar.”
A bit. I’ve seen the guitar at his place. There’s no dust on it. He plays it. “Like how I know a bit about history?”
“Aw… Maybe.”
“Yes.”
“I’m tryin’ to be modest here. What instrument do you play?”
I snort a laugh. “To the relief of my parents and my older brother, the first and last instrument I ever played was when I was eleven.”
“No good?”
“My hand-eye coordination was as awful at the French Horn as it is getting out of your truck.”
He chuckles. “Can’t be that bad.”
“Don’t underestimate me, sir. I wouldn’t subject my worst enemy to my attempts at playing that stupid thing.”
Except maybe Kristen. A beautiful solo ballad outside her bedroom window at 2 a.m. sounds like the perfect revenge. I’ll set my alarm when we get home…
I shuffle the cards and pick the next one to read out. “What’s the last book you read?”
Sawyer sinks low in the seat. “Aw, Elsie… Don’t ask me that.” His proud shoulders slump. “I don’t want you thinkin’ like that about me.”
“Thinking like what?”
“That I’m stupid.”
“I would never think that.”
The look he shoots me is dubious. “I know you’re tryin’ to make me feel better. You’ve been to university. Fuckin’ Oxford.” His jaw tenses when he focuses back on the road. “I barely made it out of high school.”
I sense him shutting down, his energy pulling inward. I wish so much that I could give him a big hug. This seems to be a sore point for him, and while it doesn’t bother me at all, I can’t deny the distance it seems to put between us.
“Well,” I say, “you already know the absolutely titillating book that’s keeping me up at night. So, let’s find a new question.”
He doesn’t respond to my joke or my smile. I shuffle the cards, anxiety blooming in my chest. I hate that he feels small…less than, somehow. Did I make it even worse by dismissing his feelings so flippantly?
“Just so you know…” I tentatively reach out to touch his arm. My fingers brush over the tattooed eye of a ferocious-looking kraken. “I like the differences between us. We don’t need to have followed the same path or enjoy the same things to be friends.”
He frowns.
“We have interesting things to talk about,” I insist.
This time, he doubles down with a raised eyebrow.
“Well, usually.” I grin. “But that’s why we have…these!” I hold up the next card.
Sawyer groans.
“You secretly love this game.” I read the card and burst out laughing.
“What’s the question?” he asks.
“What was your childhood nickname?”
“Pass.”
“Come on!”
“Move it along, Hosko.”
“One day, I’m giving you a nickname.”
“Next card.”
After I poke out my tongue—and enjoy the warm rumble of his laughter filling the car again—I read the next question. “Oh, um…” I grimace. “These cards must be for couples. This question is a little more, um…personal.”
“What do you mean?” His gaze shifts off the road. “What’s the question?”