2. Addison
Addison
I was just about ready to call it a night when I saw her.
She was leaning against a wood beam like she was meant to be there. Like she was poured into the shadows just to look that cool.
Long legs in black jeans, combat boots planted on the floor.
A grey tank top that showed off perfect arms, the left one marked by a half-sleeve tattoo I’d noticed immediately.
Her skin was this warm, creamy brown that almost glowed beneath the dim bar lights, and her features were soft in a way that made my chest tighten: sharp cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, full lips.
She was fucking stunning.
One side of her head was shaved while the rest was left long, falling in soft dark brown waves over her shoulder, pastel rainbow colors threaded through the strands.
Her gaze moved slowly across the room before landing on me.
It wasn’t exactly a smile. It was something curious, amused, and sharp all at once. My breath caught.
“Who is that?” I asked under my breath.
“That’s Sawyer,” Blake said as they followed my gaze. “She works with your brother.”
Jesus she was a welder.
“She’s hot.” The words slipped out before I even realized I’d said them out loud.
“I can’t tell if this is a good idea or a terrible one.” Tiff laughed as she watched me.
I couldn’t stop looking. She was everything I wasn’t. Rough around the edges. Confident without performing. She looked completely unbothered by the room, like it wasn’t asking anything of her.
“Fuck, she looks like trouble,” I said softly.
“Yep,” Tiff replied, taking a slow sip of her drink.
And for the next half-hour, I tried very hard to act like I wasn’t staring.
I talked when people talked to me. Laughed when Tiff said something ridiculous.
I nodded through one of Benji’s friends telling a story about a fishing trip I had absolutely no interest in.
All the while my eyes kept drifting back across the room to her.
Sawyer hadn’t moved much. She leaned against that beam like she owned that patch of shadow, occasionally pushing off to play a round of darts or to talk to whoever came over to her.
She’d smile easily, the kind of smile that looked real and unpolished, and fuck if I didn’t notice. It made something in my chest pull tight. I took another sip of my drink and immediately regretted how warm it made my face feel.
“You’re staring, you know,” Tiff said quietly beside me.
“I am not,” I said, even as my eyes flicked back across the room again.
“You absolutely are!” Tiff laughed, bumping her shoulder into mine. “Just go talk to her.”
“I can’t just walk over there,” I said under my breath.
“Why not?” Tiff asked.
“Because,” I said, gesturing vaguely with my glass, “what would I even say?”
Tiff shrugged. “Hi is usually a strong opener.”
I huffed out a small laugh, but my stomach twisted anyway. There was no way I could talk to this girl, she was fucking gorgeous.
Across the room Sawyer shifted her weight and pushed her hand through her hair, the pastel strands catching the bar light in just the right way.
God.
Fifteen minutes and one more drink later, I finally set my glass down. “Okay,” I muttered to myself as I took off my jacket.
“What are you doing?” Tiff asked.
“I’m going to talk to her,” I said.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I crossed the room.
She was alone, sitting at a two-top now, a beer bottle in her hand. She looked up as I approached like she had been expecting me.
“Hi,” I said when I stopped in front of her, mustering up the confidence I had when I was at work.
“Hi, Sunshine,” Sawyer said. A slow smile curved across her mouth while she looked me over.
“Sunshine, hmm?” I asked as I tilted my head.
“You don’t look like you fit in here,” Sawyer said with a shrug as she lifted the bottle to her lips.
I ignored that. “My name’s Addison,” I told her.
“I know,” Sawyer replied easily. “Benji talks about you.”
“Oh?” I asked.
“Mostly good things,” Sawyer said. “You’re the sibling who has it all figured out.”
I laughed because I so didn’t. “I mean—I guess if you want to put it that way.” I nodded toward the dartboard behind her. “You any good at those?” I asked.
Sawyer glanced over her shoulder at the board and then back at me. “Good enough to make Benji mad,” she said.
“That sounds like a public service,” I said.
Sawyer huffed out a laugh.
I glanced at the tattoos along her arm. They were stunning—koi fish, peonies, and a full moon woven together across her skin.
Sawyer followed my gaze turning her arm, “You judging or admiring the ink?” she asked.
“Observing,” I said lightly. “It’s stunning.”
“You’re stunning,” Sawyer said simply.
Goosebumps spread up my arms as a shiver ran down the back of my neck. It sounded so cliché to say someone took your breath away, but she did.
“Thank you,” I said. I knew I was blushing and God, this woman.
“So, you’re a real estate agent, right?” Sawyer asked.
“A Realtor,” I corrected.
Sawyer smirked. “Oh, is there a difference?”
“There is,” I said feeling more confident. “A real estate agent is anyone licensed to help buy or sell property. A Realtor is specifically someone who is a member of the National Association of Realtors.”
“Well, I had no idea.” she said, but it wasn’t sarcastic, it was genuine. “You look like someone who could walk into a million-dollar home and sell it before lunch.”
“I can, and I do,” I said with a quiet laugh.
She ended up buying me another drink, and what started as a quick conversation turned into something much more in-depth.
We sat talking and laughing while the bar moved around us.
Every time I thought the conversation might lull, one of us found something else to say.
Tiff shot me several suspicious looks from across the room, and at one point, Benji walked by and raised his eyebrows like he was filing the moment away to be talked about later.
Before I even realized it, nearly an hour had passed, and the music had shifted. The crowd thickened near the bar for last call.
“I should probably head out,” I told her.
Sawyer nodded easily, like she understood. “Good meeting you, Sunshine,” she said.
“You too,” I replied.
I found Benji and hugged him goodbye, waved to Tiff, and slipped out into the cool night air.
* * *
Once I got home and settled, buzzed and barefoot in my kitchen, I made myself some sparkling water in the SodaStream, poured it into a stemmed glass and collapsed onto the couch.
My phone was already in my hand before I even thought about it.
I opened Instagram and typed her name into the search bar.
Her profile popped up immediately.
@sawyer.wilson.welds
38
welder
loves to ride.
The profile photo was Sawyer leaning against a motorcycle, sunglasses pushed up into her hair and one eyebrow slightly raised like the camera had caught her mid-snark.
Her feed was full of photos of metalwork.
Close-ups of weld seams glowing orange. Sculptures made from scrap steel.
Half-finished projects clamped to worktables under harsh shop lights.
Mixed between those were bike pictures, bar nights, and candid shots that clearly looked like someone else had taken them.
Sawyer mid-laugh. Sawyer sitting on a tailgate with a beer.
Sawyer leaning over a workbench, sleeves pushed up, tattoos dark on display.
She looked ridiculously perfect in every frame. Real. Completely unbothered by the camera.
I kept scrolling.
There was a picture of a dog stretched across the passenger seat of a truck, with a caption that read: ‘Muddin’ with Jay and Bud.’ A blurry concert photo with colored lights streaking across the crowd. And another motorcycle shot taken on an empty stretch of highway at sunset.
I kept scrolling… before I knew it, I was thirty-six weeks deep. My thumb slowed.
I stopped on a photo Sawyer sat straddling her motorcycle, wearing ripped jeans and a black tank top, hair windblown like she’d just pulled off the road. Her posture alone radiated the kind of confidence people either spent years building or were simply born with.
I sat up, studying the details like that was somehow normal behavior. The curve of her shoulder. The tattoo along her arm. The careless ease in the way she sat on the bike.
I zoomed in slightly, my thumb hovering over the screen. Then, without thinking, I tapped the screen. The heart turned red.
For half a second my brain didn’t process what had just happened. Then it did.
“No!” I muttered under my breath, my stomach dropping. “No, no, no!”
I frantically tapped the heart again. It disappeared. Unlike. I stared at the screen, suddenly very aware of the quiet in my apartment.
“Goddammit,” I whispered.
Because unless Instagram had changed something recently, there was a very real chance Sawyer had just gotten a notification that Addison Hart had liked a thirty-six-week-old motorcycle photo at nearly three a.m. Which meant she knew that I had absolutely been insta-stalking her.
My phone started ringing. Jason. I let it buzz for a moment before silencing it.
Why the fuck is he calling me at three a.m.
It’s not that Jason wasn’t a good guy. He was. On paper, he was near perfect. But he was just sort of… boring.
A minute later a message appeared on Instagram.
Sawyer: Stalking me, Sunshine?
My pulse kicked as I stared at the screen for a moment before typing back.
Me: Just doing research.
Sawyer: Is that what they’re calling it now?
Me: I call it being thorough.
Sawyer: Cute. Dangerous, but cute.
I leaned my head back against the couch as my heart raced.
Me: I like danger.
Sawyer: Yeah. I get that vibe.
I set my phone face down beside me and sank deeper into the cushions, her face still lingering in my mind along with that voice. And somewhere between the warmth of the liquor and the quiet of my apartment, I drifted off to sleep.
* * *