Chapter 7-Bit
Why is this taking so long?
And why am I so damn worried?
It’s not like I’m his wife or girlfriend or even his anything. We kissed twice—okay, three times if you count the dream I had last night—but that’s it.
No promises, no declarations, no reason for my heart to be trying to punch through my ribs every time a truck passes on the highway outside.
Still, something about Sawyer DeWitt just clicks.
Like the moment we met, the gears of my world shifted, and suddenly everything lined up.
The noise in my head quieted. The ground felt solid.
And now he’s out there, somewhere past state lines, hauling frozen bull sperm through God-knows-what kind of danger while I’m pacing like a lunatic.
It’s useless to pretend I can sleep.
Angie and Diego turned in hours ago, their little house at the edge of the property dark and still. Alex went with them.
Which leaves me alone in this big ranch house with my distracted cousin. She has her own love life to deal with, and I won’t bug her with this.
The house smells like cedar, pine, and something spicy. Him.
I wander through the living room, running my hand over the back of the cool leather sofa.
Everything here is simple, masculine.
Browns, forest greens, heavy wood furniture built to last.
Functional. Unapologetically masculine.
It needs a little softening—a throw blanket, maybe a rug with color, curtains that don’t look like they came from a military surplus store.
Dangerous thoughts, Bit.
This place isn’t mine to dress up.
I drift toward the built-in bookshelf, trailing my fingers along the spines. It’s a strange mix—biographies, philosophy, a few weather-beaten thrillers.
And then, wedged between a dog-eared copy of Heart of Darkness and The Art of War, I spot a couple of romance paperbacks.
I grin. “Well, well, cowboy. Didn’t peg you for the hearts-and-flowers type.”
The image of Sawyer reading one of those in bed—propped against that massive headboard, shirtless, brow furrowed in concentration—hits me square in the chest.
Nothing is sexier than a man who reads. Especially if he reads romance.
My stomach flips, and I let out a shaky laugh just to cover the sound of my own pulse.
I keep moving, because if I don’t, I’m going to start imagining things I shouldn’t.
The laundry room’s next—warm and humming softly from the dryer.
Towels sit in a clean pile on the counter.
Perfect. Something mindless to keep my hands busy while my brain spirals.
I start folding.
One towel. Two. Three.
The smell of detergent and hay mixes in the air, comforting in a weird way.
“You’re losing it,” I mumble, matching corners like it’s a mission. “Falling for a man you barely know. Great job, Bit.”
But even as I say it, I know the truth.
This isn’t some crush I’ll shake off. It’s something deeper, scarier, like the ranch itself—quiet strength with danger under the surface.
And somewhere out there, under that same moon, Sawyer’s driving into whatever trouble’s waiting for him.
I press the last folded towel to my chest, close my eyes, and whisper into the empty room,
“Come back to me, cowboy.”
The house creaks like it’s listening.
And I swear, just for a second, the air shifts—like maybe it heard me.