Chapter 18-Bit
Living with Sawyer DeWitt might just be the craziest thing I’ve ever done—and that’s saying something, considering I once hitchhiked across Europe for an entire summer with nothing but a backpack, a camera, and a questionable sense of direction.
But this?
This is different.
Every day here feels like walking a tightrope between falling in love and losing my mind.
Sawyer’s steady and solid, the kind of man who builds fences by sunrise and fixes broken things just because he can’t stand to see them left undone.
I’m still the girl who’s never stayed anywhere long enough to hang a picture.
And yet, somehow, his house already feels a little bit like home.
Still, I don’t want anyone—especially Angie or any of the guys—to think I’m just freeloading off the boss.
So when I asked Angie about that unused sewing machine she mentioned, she showed me to the pantry where it was sitting under a layer of dust.
It took some tinkering, a bit of WD-40, and a few muttered prayers, but I got it running again.
Then I opened the trunk in the spare room—the one that looked like it hadn’t been touched since 1952—and nearly squealed out loud. Inside was a treasure trove of fabric.
Real vintage stuff—cottons and brocades, a few bits of lace, even some velvet in burnt orange and gold.
All my favorite fall colors.
October settled over Dry Creek like a painting—crisp mornings that smelled of frost and coffee, golden afternoons that made the pastures shimmer, and sunsets so deep and orange they looked like they’d been brushed on with a wide, lazy hand.
Everything glowed from within, the kind of glow that makes you forget summer ever existed and fall headfirst in love with fall.
I couldn’t help myself.
After that day with the magic trunk, I’d been itching to do something with all those fabrics.
So I ordered a few bits and pieces online—thread, needles, a rotary cutter, and some fabric stabilizer.
And can I just take a moment to thank free overnight delivery options? Seriously. Lifesaver.
Once everything arrived, I set up the sewing machine in the small spare room off the kitchen, and I made it my own.
It became my little corner of peace.
Every time the light hit just right, it felt like I was stitching sunshine straight into the fabric.
At first, it was just pillow covers for the couch—simple, warm colors that matched the season.
Then I made curtains for the living room, another set for the kitchen, and a pair of aprons fashioned out of old floral dresses from the trunk.
Angie’s going to lose her mind when she sees them. I even made a few tea towels with embroidered acorns along the edges.
And somewhere between threading bobbins and ironing seams, something in me shifted.
Before I knew it, I was piecing together a quilt—big enough to throw across the back of the sofa.
The kind of quilt that begs for lazy nights and warm cocoa.
The kind you can snuggle under with a certain cowboy while pretending to watch a movie.
Believe me, I’m just as surprised as you are, but I think I’m starting to love the idea of domestic bliss now that I’ve found my person.
My very own cowboy.
After that, I couldn’t stop.
I made a table runner with tiny applique leaves, matching placemats, even a decorative wall hanging for the far side of the living room where the paint looked a little too bare.
It’s been absolute hell keeping it a secret.
Every time Sawyer walks into the house, I have to shove something under a blanket or pretend I’m hemming napkins for no reason.
But now everything’s finally done, and I can’t wait another second to show him.
It’s the middle of the week, and everyone is busy elsewhere, so I start on the big reveal.
After a few hours, I look around and realize I’ve transformed the whole front of the house.
Angie will be back any minute to start dinner, and I want to surprise her too, so I spent the last forty-five minutes hanging the kitchen curtains and putting the aprons on the hook she keeps by the back door.
Now, I’m just fussing, fluffing pillows, and straightening the table runner just so.
I take a step back, brushing hair from my face, and grin.
The place doesn’t look like a bachelor’s ranch house anymore—it looks like home.
And for the first time in my life, that word doesn’t scare me one bit.
I’m hardly aware of how much time has passed when I hear the heavy thud of boots at the door.
Sawyer.
When he steps into the living room, he freezes mid stride.
His gaze sweeps over everything—the new curtains fluttering in the open window, the bright quilt on the sofa, the burst of color where before it was all muted leather and wood.
And his face—oh God help me—looks hard. Unhappy.
My stomach drops.
“Oh no,” I blurt, standing up. “I went too far, didn’t I? I should’ve asked first.”
He doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking around, that unreadable expression on his face.
Panic flares, and I start yanking the new pillows off the couch.
“I-I’ll take them down, I can put everything back the way it was—”
“Bit.”
“No, I’m sorry, I just wanted to repay you for the shopping, and I know I’m essentially useless, but I can sew and I just wanted –shit,” I wipe my face, hating the fact that I’m falling apart right now.
“Bit,” he says my name again. Louder.
It’s not the word, it’s his tone that stops me.
“I’m sorry if I didn’t react the way you wanted. I’m not used to, well, to people. It’s hard for me,” he explains, and the breath just leaves my body.
His voice is low, steady, but there’s something in it that makes me ache.
He crosses the room in two long strides, catches my wrist, and pulls me gently toward him.
The heat of his hand, the calm weight of his touch—it undoes me.
“I wasn’t expecting this. Thank you, Honey,” he says simply.
I blink up at him, startled.
“W-what? You’re not mad?”
“Mad? Woman, this is incredible. Thank you,” he repeats.
“For what?” I ask, eyes swimming in unshed tears.
“For this,” he says, and his eyes roam over the room again, softer now. “For makin’ this place look and feel like someone actually lives here.”
Something warm unfurls in my chest, chasing away the embarrassment.
“Oh, you mean someone other than the guy who works fifteen hour days and makes me so happy I forget my own name?”
He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
“Exactly. And for the record, you make me happy, too.”
And when he looks at me again, it’s with that same electric intensity that makes my knees go weak.
I smile up at him.
“Well then, you’re welcome, cowboy.”
He leans down, brushes a kiss against my forehead, tightens his arms around me, and then, he whispers, “Feels like home now.”
And standing there in his arms, surrounded by the scent of cinnamon and sawdust and fresh fabric, I realize something simple and terrifying all over again—maybe it is our home now.