Chapter 5 Sawyer
FIVE
SAWYER
By midnight, the power flickers. It shouldn’t take me by surprise that the generator is failing, especially with how harsh the wind is outside. And yet I hold my breath, eyes locked on the naked bulb lighting the kitchen, watching as it blinks.
What I don’t expect, though, is the bedroom door to open and a restless Skye to wander out wearing a pair of my sweatpants and my old volunteer firefighter t-shirt. It hugs her pregnant belly far too well; the material pulling taut over her bump and breasts.
I go stiff at the sight of her. Not just from the tension rolling through my body over the thought of the power shutting off, but my cock goes hard.
I don’t know what it is about seeing a woman in my clothes—not just any woman, but this woman—but it goes right to my dick, igniting a feeling inside me I don’t recognise.
One thing about me, I don’t get turned on easily. Maybe because of my past, my fear over the repercussions, or any number of things that keep me up at night. But seeing her has all that flying out the window.
“What’re you doing up?” I ask, worry crashing into me as she moves to the armchair and lowers herself into it slowly. “Is it the baby?”
Skye blinks tiredly but shakes her head.
“No, it’s the storm. I can’t sleep with how loud it is.
” The t-shirt rides up to reveal her stomach; soft pink skin, red stretch marks lining it like stripes, bruised in some areas from how swollen she looks.
I swear, just looking at her stomach I see something shift beneath the surface.
Her hand covers the area I’m looking at, face twisting with a grimace. For a moment, all logical thought completely flies out the window. I’m on my feet before I can stop myself, at her side in one step, and on my knees.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, voice low. “What can I do?”
Those striking blue eyes flicker to mine as she tugs her bottom lip between her teeth. “Keep talking,” she says, the corners of her lips pulling in a smile. “I think she likes the sound of your voice.”
My brain short-circuits. “What?”
I could understand the baby liking her voice; it’s soft in a melodic way, having an almost singsong tone about it. I’ve been told my tone is too rough, too grating.
Skye grabs my hand, her fingers soft and cold as they wrap around mine. She places my palm directly over her stomach. For a moment, I don’t feel anything, and yet I hold my breath as I wait.
But then…a bump against my palm. I follow the movements with my hand, running it over her stomach, which is softer than I expected.
The little flutter against my hand takes my breath away, making my heart swell with something I can only recognise as…
protective. I know it isn’t really an emotion, but there’s something about not just this baby, but Skye, that I need to protect.
It goes against every other instinct I have.
Skye covers my hand with hers gently, and it again short-circuits something in my brain with how…
nice it feels. “Every time you speak, she moves erratically. I’ve never felt it before,” she explains, her smile widening.
“I only noticed it after dinner. Once she got used to how you sounded, she realised how much she liked you.”
A lump forms in my throat, making me swallow hard. “You can’t know that.”
And yet, as soon as the words leave my mouth, the baby kicks at my hand—hard.
Skye giggles. “Oh, I’m more than certain.” And as if to prove that point, the baby barely moves. “Say something.”
“Uh.” I am not a man of many words. It’s why I don’t have many friends.
“I don’t think you have good survival instincts,” I say to her stomach, wincing at the harsh kick my hand receives.
Good God, doesn’t this hurt Skye? But instead of reacting in pain, the woman just pats my hand.
“I am not the kind of man you should get attached to, kid.”
Another kick—or maybe it’s a punch. But baby shifts, so I follow it with my hand. “As a matter of fact, I am bad news for you and your mom.”
Skye scoffs, wiggling further into the armchair like she can’t get comfortable. I should offer to move her to the sofa, but I’m locked at her feet, trapped by this unborn baby and its movements and by those bright blue eyes on me.
“You aren’t bad news,” Skye says, taking me by surprise. I look up, taking in the tilt of her lips, the flush of her cheeks. “I know bad news. You’re just grumpy.”
I quirk a brow, amused. “Grumpy?”
“Yes.” She gives a definite nod as she shifts again. “God, this chair is limper than a wet noodle.”
“Limper?” I frown, staring at her face, which is scrunched up in frustration, then at the armchair. “You mean it’s not plush anymore?”
Skye waves a dismissive hand before letting out a sigh.
“Yeah, whatever.” Her gaze meets mine, and I am once again struck by how beautiful she is.
With only the fire to illuminate her face, her features appear softer, but her hair looks like liquid night.
She’s every bad thing I know I shouldn’t want.
A small, hesitant smile pulls at her lips as she tries to sit forward again. “Any chance you could get me a pillow?”
I blink hard and nod. Without a word, I grab one of my pillows off the sofa, standing to wedge it behind her back. She makes a small sound in the back of her throat, one that has my stomach clenching in a way that makes me tense.
When I look down, I find her eyes already on me, face tipped towards mine. It brings us impossibly close, inches apart. I can smell her shampoo clinging to her hair when I breathe in, the whisper of her vanilla perfume.
Skye’s lips part, and I can’t help but watch the motion. Her lips are plush, soft. This close, I notice the small, clear stud in her nose. It makes me wonder if she has anything else hidden beneath my clothing.
I pull back sharply and clear my throat. “Better?” I ask, forcing myself to take a step back.
Colour darkens her cheeks as she nods quickly. “Yes. Thank you.” She settles back and wraps her arms around herself, leaning her forearms against her stomach.
I make myself return to the sofa. “Any more…cramps? Signs you might give birth?”
Skye shakes her head. “No. Which is a good thing. And she’s moving around, so I’m not worried. I think we might just make it out of this storm.” The smile returns to her lips as she looks down at her stomach. “Little girl isn’t here yet.”
“You don’t want to have her this close to Christmas?” I ask, sitting back.
“God, no,” she scoffs, shaking her head.
“You have no idea how hard I worked to make sure she wasn’t a Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, or soon after baby.
And don’t get me started on New Year’s Eve or Day.
I want her to have a day that’s all her own.
I refuse to let her share a birthday with corporate America. ”
The corners of my own lips twitch in a smile. “That so?”
“Yes,” she huffs, looking at me. “When’s your birthday?”
The question takes me by surprise, and I take a moment to come up with an answer, despite it being so fucking easy. “December twenty-fifth.”
Skye looks at me like I’m joking for a moment before coughing up a laugh, eyes widening. “Serious?”
I nod once. “Yes.”
“You’re a Christmas baby!” She covers her mouth with her hand. “I am so sorry.”
I shrug. “What for?”
“I was making fun of…” She trails off, dropping her hand. It gives me a full view of the colour darkening her cheeks. “Oh, I am sorry.”
Again, I shrug and lean forward. “It means literally nothing to me,” I reply honestly. “Never mattered.”
“Why?” she asks softly.
“Because I never really had much of a birthday to celebrate, and when you jump from foster home to foster home, Christmas means sweet fuck all.”
I’ve always been blunt about my upbringing. Never minced my words about being in foster care or my past as a whole. I’ve never gone out of my way to tell my story, but it’s not something I hide. It happened, and it was bad, but I can’t go back and change it.
But I don’t know why telling Skye feels like a pressure has shifted within me. Watching her expression and not seeing pity or disgust makes me feel a little lighter somehow.
“My cousin, Millie, ended up in foster care for a brief stint when we were kids before getting placed with us,” she says quietly. “I can’t say I get it, but I understand it a little. And I’ve had my fair share of encounters with caseworkers.”
“Some of them shouldn’t have access to children,” I say.
She shakes her head. “No, they should not.” She shifts uncomfortably again, wincing.
“You want to trade places?” I ask, already rising. “The sofa might be more comfortable.”
Skye shakes her head and grimaces. “No, I should let you get some sleep.”
“I wasn’t sleeping anyway,” I reply, “and I don’t mind keeping you company if you can’t.”
She stops moving, gaze locking on mine. Something shifts in the depths of her blue eyes, something that steals my breath. Again, I can’t help but admire just how beautiful she is with the glowing firelight dancing across her skin and highlighting her gorgeous, soft features.
There are some things you just can’t help; like throwing yourself in the way of danger to help someone in need because you should, or keeping to your own self-made isolation because you just don’t know any better.
I’ve done both things. With Skye, neither feels right. I don’t think I need to put myself in the way of danger for her—despite our meeting disproving that. And there’s something about her that makes me not want to hide away anymore.
It doesn’t make sense. Especially because I shouldn’t feel safe around her. My earlier statements to the baby slam into me as a dark reminder of what I really am.
Broken. Unsafe. Unworthy.
Skye lifts her hand, and without thinking, I take it, helping her out of the armchair. She lets out a small grunt as she rises, but the movement brings us almost flush—or as close as we can get with her belly pressed against mine.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, her cheeks taking on another soft, rosy flush.
I swallow hard, unable to make any words form. But Skye rises onto her toes, bringing her free arm around the back of my neck. For some stupid reason, I let her guide my face to hers.
I should put a stop to this.
I should stop her.
Instead, I inhale sharply at the soft brush of her lips. The gentle touch is like the quick strike of a match on a dry autumn day. The second she pulls back feels like the moment it falls into dry grass and ignites everything in its path.
I thought I’d be able to escape this woman after the storm ended.
But this only proves I’m no better than the other assholes littering the mountain.
Because I want this woman to be mine.