Chapter 12
Twelve
Lainey
“Why?” Ollie asks.
For the umpteenth time in the last hour alone.
Why’s the ocean so big?
Why are WHALES so big?
When I grow up will I be tall like you, Saw-yur?
Why do dogs stick their tongues out all funny? Paired with him panting “funnily” like a pooch.
“Because your taste buds change over time,” Sawyer answers, patient as ever. “Right now, you might not like broccoli.” He chomps on one of the tree-like veggies, adds, “But later you might like it. That’s why your mom will always encourage you to try food more than once.”
Ollie pauses as he considers that. “I like cinnamon rolls right now.”
Sawyer’s eyes dance as they drift to mine for a moment. “Me too,” he says. “Especially the ones your mom worked so hard to make.”
Something flutters through my middle at the compliment.
Or maybe it’s that he clearly did like them—eating three himself.
Perhaps it’s the patience he’s shown with Ollie—answering questions, cracking jokes, not caring that his clothes ended up sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon, streaked with butter.
“But I like broccoli too.” Another bite of the green stuff.
Not trying to convince Ollie or cajole him or force him into trying the veggie.
Just…giving him an example to follow.
So maybe it’s all of that…and maybe it’s that he cooked dinner while my son peppered him with questions and didn’t leave the kitchen a war zone like Ben—
I cut that thought off in its tracks.
Not slamming it shut like I would have done a few days ago, the vibration of the steel doors closing reverberating through my mind and body, vibrating my teeth and setting my jaw aching. I just…push it shut.
And I sit for a beat in the quiet of the knowledge that Sawyer isn’t Ben.
“Do you like broccoli, Mom?”
I focus on my kiddo and smile. “It’s not my favorite,” I tell him because I promised I wouldn’t lie to my son. Soften the truth, file down the rough edges of reality, sure.
But outright lie?
No.
“But it’s good for me and I like that it makes my body strong.”
“Does it make your body strong?” he asks Sawyer.
“Yup.” He eats another piece of broccoli. “But lots of foods can.”
“Like what?”
“Well, like spinach and apples.”
“What about carrots? I love”—Ollie rubs his belly and exaggerates the word to approximately five syllables—“carrots.”
Sawyer’s eyes dance. “Carrots are good too.”
“What about…”
I sit and listen to them talk as we finish eating (and miracle of miracles, Ollie actually tries a few pieces of broccoli). Then I continue to sit as Sawyer insists I stay where I am while he pulls up a chair to the sink, and he and Ollie do the dishes together.
When they go for another round of cinnamon rolls, I pop some popcorn (because what’s a movie without popcorn?) then move to the living room to cue up the latest kids movie on the TV.
This one has talking dogs fighting crime and even though Ollie’s seen it a half-dozen times already, he’s amped to see it again.
I voted for a musical. Then again, I always vote for a musical.
Alas, I was overruled.
This time by Sawyer.
Who’s laughing at something my son is saying while he’s doing dishes in my kitchen.
“What am I doing?” I whisper, straightening on a sigh. Our Christmas tree twinkles in the corner, sending rainbows of lights across the room, onto the gaily wrapped packages beneath, onto the couch my friends moved in for me.
Sawyer…it’s messy.
Dangerous.
It barely been a year since Ben died and I have a man in my house who I want—
What?
I shove back my hair and try to figure out what I want.
Unfortunately, I just…come up blank.
Or maybe it’s that I know what I want already.
And it’s fucking terrifying.
Groaning softly, knowing none of that matters right now. We have an addition to keep. My lips twitch and I start to turn to the kitchen, intending to retrieve the popcorn that’s now filled the house with its yummy smell, but something outside the window catches my focus.
A reflection.
An animal moving in the shadows.
Something else?
I squint and try to discern—
“You okay?”
I jump at the sound of Sawyer’s voice and whirl around, shaking off the odd feeling. “I’m fine. I just thought I saw—”
Before I can finish convincing myself that it’s nothing, he shoves the bowl of popcorn in my hands and nudges me toward the couch. “Stay here with Ollie.”
Then he’s gone, disappearing out the front door.
“Mom?”
I shake myself, turn toward my kiddo, slapping a reassuring smile on my face. “Should we finish getting everything ready for the movie?”
He nods excitedly, and we spend the next couple of minutes pulling out blankets and pillows, getting everything comfy and set up just right.
Just as he’s crawling under his favorite dog-themed blanket, the front door opens and Sawyer comes back in.
Our gazes collide and he shakes his head.
Nothing was there?
Or he couldn’t find anything?
A flicker of worry knots in my belly, but I shove it down as Ollie says, “Movie time!”
Sawyer smiles and comes over, settling on the opposite end of the couch. Ollie gets him sorted with a blanket and I hit the remote, starting up the movie.
I don’t say anything when Sawyer slips out halfway through.
But I do relax when he comes back in again and softly says, “Nothing.”
Exhaling in relief, I nod, whisper, “Thanks.”
“Look, Mom!” Ollie says, tugging at my arm.
“I’m looking,” I tell him as the dogs complete a complicated water rescue.
“Isn’t it cool?”
“Super cool,” I agree.
He looks at Sawyer.
“Super duper cool,” he chimes in.
“Super duper cool!” Ollie shouts and our gazes connect again.
Only this time it’s amusement we share.
And awareness, stretching taut.
Heart skipping a beat, I turn back to the TV, forcing myself to watch the movie with rapt focus.
Which is a miracle in itself. Usually, I’m the one asleep before we make it to the halfway point.
Unfortunately, that same attention to detail hasn’t gripped Ollie.
Instead, he slowly slumps against me, the excitement of the day and last night’s sleepover drawing him into dreamland.
I don’t move as he snores softly, as Sawyer sits quietly on his other side, and there’s something about sitting here like this that feels—
I shoot to my feet, slamming the door on that thought too.
“Want me to carry him upstairs?” Sawyer asks as the credits roll, his expression showing absolutely no concern over my sudden lurch upright.
“No,” I say. “I’ve got him.”
And I do.
I always have.
Always will.
But it’s impossible to not notice that Ollie’s limp, sleepy body seems to grow heavier by the day.
I tuck him in, turn on his nightlight, and slip out, closing the door behind me. When I get downstairs, I half-expect to find Sawyer in the kitchen, doing the leftover dishes.
He’s not.
And the popcorn bowl and plates from the cinnamon rolls he and Ollie ate are still on the coffee table.
That reassures me like nothing else can.
That’s normal.
Not Sawyer being so sweet and wonderful and patient and neat and thoughtful and—
“Enough,” I whisper, snagging the dirty dishes and carrying them over to the sink.
But the moment I turn on the water, the back door opens and Sawyer comes in, his hair glistening with a few rain drops.
“Looks like it’s gonna dump soon,” he says, drying his shoes on the rug and coming directly over to the sink. A heartbeat later, I’m nudged out of the way and he’s rinsing the dishes, putting them away.
“I can wash a bowl and a couple of dishes.”
“I know you can, Pages,” he says easily. “But I’m guessing you’ve washed plenty of dishes in your time, so I’m happy to do a couple extra. Both the front and back yards were empty, by the way. No sign of anything out of the ordinary.”
I blink at him.
Then again.
Then blurt, “Why are you being so nice?”
He freezes for a second then starts moving again in that easy way he has—rinsing off the soap, loading them into the dishwasher, drying his hands on a towel. “I’m always nice,” he says as he turns to face me.
There’s something in his eyes…
Something that tells me it’s not that simple.
“Sawyer—”
“Do you know how fucking beautiful you are?”
Every cell in my body freezes. “What?”
“Your eyes. Your hair. The way your cheeks go pink”—a faint smile—“like they’re doing right now. It makes me want to kiss you, to see if you taste as sweet as you seem.”
“I’m…what?”
He tugs lightly at a strand of my hair, runs the backs of his knuckles over my cheek. “I should go home, Pages. Let you get some rest.”
Every woman has their limits.
Even a woman who’s slow to trust and doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing.
Especially one who doesn’t know what she’s doing when it comes to the beautiful, confusing man standing in her kitchen.
Except one thing…
One decidedly stupid thing.
One decidedly stupid thing I do anyway.
I close the distance between us…
And I slant my lips over his.
Then gasp as sensation explodes through me, hot sparks of pleasure coalescing into need that grips me in its talons and threatens to shake all sense of reason out of me.
Or maybe I’ve already lost it.
Because after a moment of stillness or maybe shock, he bands his arms around me and kisses me back.
And oh what a kiss it is.
Firm lips, a sleek tongue, that strong body of his pressed flush to mine.
I moan and he holds me closer, tighter, then groans, the sound vibrating through his chest and into mine, teasing my nipples, sending heat arrowing between my thighs.
“Christ,” he growls, breaking his lips from mine, dragging them down my throat.
I shiver, press closer.
Then gasp when he scoops me up and settles me on the counter, stepping between my legs and kissing me again.
Our tongues dance and our bodies rock together, and when he slips his hand beneath the bottom of my blouse, I press closer, loving the feel of his slightly roughened fingertips trailing over my skin.
Trailing up my skin.
Tracing lightly beneath the edge of my bra and, when I arch slightly, cupping my breast.
We both moan and for a second, I press myself into him.
Then a flash of Ben doing this same thing slams into me.
Another time.
Another life.
Another man.
I freeze and Sawyer immediately pulls back. “Too much?” he asks softly, his chest heaving, his eyes molten pools of sapphires.
I nod jerkily.
A slow, deep breath.
Then he retreats a pace.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “I shouldn’t have done that.”
Fingers trailing over my jaw, the corners of his lips twitching, “I’m really glad you did.”
I snort.
He grins.
Then sobers. “I’ll head out of here,” he says softly, helping me down from the counter.
I should let him leave.
But that same feeling from last night comes over me and I say, “You could also stay. There’s that new movie on streaming that everyone’s talking about.”
“You want me to stay, Pages?”
I suck in a breath.
Because it would be safer, smarter to say no.
But something in his eyes has me saying, “Yes.”
His chest rises on an inhale, his throat works, and he nods.
“Then I’ll stay.”