Chapter 13
brIE
It’s Saturday evening, I borrowed what my little sister Mara calls her “booby shirt,” and I watched a tutorial on how to do a soft smoky eye.
When I sashay downstairs, Gia is reading on the couch in the living room while Lizzie is spread out at the table in the kitchen painting runny watercolor hearts.
Lizzie looks up, mouth open wide. “You look beautiful, Aunt Brie.”
“You are beautiful,” I tell her, smoothing my hand over her hair and kissing the top of her head. “And smart, and curious, and creative, and very hard working.”
She grins. “Do you have a date?”
I hesitate, glancing at Gia before I answer. Is Lizzie even aware what a date is, or has she just heard the term around school? At her age, it could go either way, and as far as I know, Gia doesn’t date.
Unless that’s why Lizzie asked in the first place. Maybe Gia goes on dates all the time.
I look at my big sister.
She shrugs in that kids be crazy way she does sometimes, even though Lizzie is the farthest thing from crazy.
“Yes,” I finally answer, “I have a date. With Dev.”
Even though the memory of him mentioning Angelica’s when we were out together is fuzzy, I’ve reread Dev’s text so many times I have it memorized. He used the word explicitly. Date.
I keep waffling between surprise that my oldest friend so brazenly asked me out, and confidence that this is a great idea.
My top priority is to avoid a repeat of the Christopher situation, which would never happen with Dev. We don’t work together, and I trust him.
“Are you going to get dessert?” Lizzie asks hopefully.
“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe tiramisu.” It was always my favorite of theirs.
Gia stands up and lays her book down on the sofa arm. The colorful illustrated cover catches me by surprise.
So no-nonsense Gia likes romance books.
“Angelica’s,” she says, walking over. “Great first-date spot.”
“Not a lot to choose from.” I take my keys from the hook by the door.
Though, to be fair, it is the right choice. The Square is no good for a first date, and Celine’s is too fancy.
Angelica’s is the perfect in-between. It’s the kind of place that has vinyl red checkered tablecloths, but also candles and fresh flowers on every table. They make their pasta in-house, but their menus are laminated.
Ignoring my small-town jab, my big sister looks me up and down. Her expression says, I know what shirt that is.
“I bet Dev loves dessert,” she says.
A bubble of laughter climbs out of my throat. “I’ll find out,” I say as I open the door. “Don’t wait up.”
“I won’t,” she says as she walks to the stove.
“Where did all these people come from?” I mutter to myself.
Since Dev lives walking distance to the restaurant, I volunteered to meet him there. But now, I can’t find any parking around downtown.
Then again, if I lived here for good, I’d do anything I could to get out of the house on a Saturday night, too.
At last, I find a spot all the way in front of Madam’s Hardware, its florescent internal lights flooding the sidewalk.
It was Adam’s Hardware when I was little, but Adam lost it in the divorce.
Ms. Agnes kept it out of spite and tacked on an M to the front.
The whole town supported her when it came out Adam cheated with a girl from the community college, and she’s been doing great business ever since.
Even the old loafers who walk down everyday just to sit in front of the wood stove sipping their coke with peanuts never missed a beat.
I park my car behind a red truck. It reminds me of a bigger, fancier red truck I got a ride home in once. Thank fuck it’s not the same. The last person I want to run into is its owner.
When I step out, two of the regular loafers, Gus and Walter, shuffle out of Madam’s Hardware, ready to go home to their respective wives.
“You’re back,” Gus grumbles at me.
I’m not back. The words are right there, already in my mouth, but I swallow them down. Wouldn’t want to give old Gus good news.
Instead, I give him a cloying smile. “Thanks, Gus.”
He bats his hand in the air, muttering to himself as he walks past.
With a genuine smile, I pull out my phone as I walk toward the town square. An early February breeze pebbles my skin, and I realize I left my coat in the car.
As I spin around to go back for it, my eyes are glued to my screen, texting Dev I’m here.
I jolt as I slam into a hard body, forcing me to stumble backward.
Then I freeze, and not from the chill in the air.
Sawyer’s eyes widen in horror. I’m no happier to see him.
He’s wearing another flannel shirt beneath his unzipped jacket. It’s unbuttoned at the top, revealing tan skin beneath, a smattering of dark hair peeking out from the edges.
Aside from his terse reply after the assembly, he hasn’t spoken to me since that night at the bar, when I ran into him just like this. Every time we cross paths in the hallways at school, he gives me a curt nod and looks straight ahead.
Even though it’s my best case scenario, having Sawyer avoid me for a change, something about it eats at me.
And of course it’s just my luck to run into him now. It’s like this town is actively trying to get me to leave it. Just when I think I might have a decent night, it throws Sawyer into my path, reminding me I don’t belong here.
Irritation brews in my stomach, and I very maturely, thank you very much, ignore him as I start to walk around him. At the same time, he tries to do the same, but miscalculates and steps right in front of me. We do this dance two more times before I stop.
I glare up at him.
His body is tense. The strong muscles in his neck are taut. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. Thick, dark stubble has grown in since the assembly a few days ago.
That assembly. The way he said can I help you, Ms. Casey? in that robotic monotone replays in my mind.
And suddenly, I’m not cold anymore.
Indignation heats me.
I glance down at the box of screws in his hand. So this is what the Prince of Blue Ridge is doing on a Saturday night?
And I have a date.
Well well well, how the turntables, Michael Scott’s voice in my head says.
“Fun night planned?” I try keeping my tone light, but when his eyes narrow, and the corner of his mouth quirks halfway to his evil playful smirk, I know I’ve failed.
This is the Sawyer I remember, not the frosty principal at school.
My pulse ratchets up.
“Ran out of hardware,” he says, unapologetic. His eyes drop, running over me. When they land on my booby shirt, his smirk widens, showing off his perfect teeth. “Who’re you trying to impress?”
The fucking nerve of this man.
I step toward him, squaring my shoulders, thrusting the assets my shirt is so good at showing off and only wishing a little they were as good as Mara’s. “I’m not trying to impress anyone.”
He lowers his eyes again, not even bothering to hide what he’s looking at. Red stains his cheeks.
Eat your fucking heart out, Sawyer. You will never have this. I jut my chest out even more.
Just as I register the intense burning in his eyes, the lights at Madam’s Hardware flicker off, casting the right side of Sawyer’s face in shadow.
“Not trying to impress anyone?” he chides, suddenly close enough for me to feel the heat radiating off him. “It’s the middle of winter and you don’t even have on a coat.”
The gravel in his voice leaves me suddenly parched. I lick my lips, and his eyes track the movement.
“It was sixty degrees today,” I say, as if I wasn’t on my way to grab my coat just a minute ago.
He leans in, almost crowding me. “And you used to wear a jacket anytime it dipped below seventy.” His eyes flicker down again. “It’s forty now.”
That explains why my nipples have pebbled into hard peaks. Definitely the cold.
“You need a coat,” he says in that cocksure tone of his.
I take a step forward and glower up at him. “You aren’t the boss of me.” It’s out of my mouth before I realize . . . he is indeed the boss of me.
His eyes glint and that familiar smirk is back. “You sure about that?”
Gesturing to the sidewalk, I add, “You’re not the principal of the sidewalk.”
Weak, Brie.
He leans in until his mouth is by my ear, and I forget about details and arguments. All I can do is hold my breath.
“Where are you going, looking like that?”
His breath trails over the shell of my ear. I shiver. Goosebumps erupt down my neck. All the air vacuums out of my lungs as time stands still.
My eyes dart down. His chest hair looks soft, but the muscle beneath looks firm. And it’s so warm here, inside Sawyer’s personal space.
Sawyer.
I blink, coming back to my senses.
The fucking audacity of Sawyer Strong. I hold back from shoving him away and telling him it’s none of his business.
Instead, I give my shoulders a little shimmy. “I have a date.”
His smirk dies, replaced by drawn lips and narrowed eyes.
Ha! I raise my chin, daring him to take his next shot. It’s a goddamn thrill being the one to throw Sawyer off for a change.
He opens his mouth to respond. My eyes are immediately drawn to his lips. It’s in this moment that I realize our faces are inches apart. We’re toe to toe. Breathing the same air. Sharing body heat.
On an inhalation, I smell him. Chlorine. Spicy soap. Him.
“Brie!” a voice calls from behind him.
I startle, stumbling away from Sawyer as I trip on my own feet, arms reaching for something solid.
Sawyer grabs my waist, steadying me against his body.
I clutch at his arm with one hand, the other pressed against his chest, the muscle just as firm as I predicted. His heart beats in a quick staccato.
“Brie?” Dev’s voice cuts in again, this time closer and less sure.
I jerk out of Sawyer’s arms. I’m instantly cold. Dev comes into view behind him, and my face brightens.
My date.
He’s bundled in a bright green puffer jacket, an authentic smile on his face. One gloved hand waves as . . . wait. Whose hand is he holding?
Sawyer shifts, and I see her, a woman I don’t recognize.
She wears a patchwork jacket, and bangs peek just below a purple cloche hat. Thick cat-eye glasses accentuate her dramatic eye makeup. Her red lips are perfectly lined.
I’m struck stupid by how insanely cool she looks. Then by the fact that they look like a couple. On a date.
What’s Dev doing with someone else when we’re going on a date?
I feel Sawyer’s eyes on me. I don’t look. His smugness would only add to my rapidly growing mortification as my confusion takes a backseat.
Dev gets closer. The moment he registers Sawyer, his expression turns bewildered, almost concerned.
They shake hands.
“Hey, man.” Dev’s usual affability is layered with caution as he keeps his attention on me.
That is, until he introduces us to Harvest, who lives over the mountain in Seneca Falls.
Harvest.
Her name is Harvest.
Oh hell. The name triggers a fuzzy memory from Jolly Jalapeno of Dev mentioning dinner at Angelica’s . . . and now I remember Dev mentioning something about a harvest in the same sentence.
My tipsy ass skipped over it and shouted, “I’d love to go with you!”
My eyes dart around as panic climbs up my chest. My skin itches.
I invited myself on Dev’s date tonight. It was never supposed to be him and me.
I visibly cringe.
Is there a manhole I can crawl into? I would happily live the rest of my days with giant sewer rats if I could escape this moment right now.
“You’re having dinner with us?” Dev asks Sawyer judiciously.
The words absolutely fucking not are in my throat when Sawyer says, “Yeah, I am.” He lifts up the box of screws. “Let me just take this to my truck.”
Oh, hell no.
I follow him to the red truck, barely registering that I misidentified it before.
He opens the door, and I step close to him.
“What are you doing?” I hiss. “No way you’re—”
His hand comes up, cupping my chin, effectively shutting me up.
Sawyer’s voice is a deep rasp with no hint of teasing. “I’m going to eat dinner with my old buddy, Dev.” His eyes drop to my lips for a second before rising. “I’m starving.”
When I regain my voice, I blurt out, “You had plans, though.” I point dumbly at his box of screws. “Or what about friends, you could go out with friends tonight. You have lots of those.” I swallow. “Or your dad. Be a good son, go to dinner with him.”
Any idiot could piece together that what I thought was a date between me and Dev is actually very much a date between Dev and Harvest, with a side of Brie. And Sawyer’s no idiot.
I’m already busy coming up with excuses to leave Dev to his date. I don’t have the energy to worry about whatever Sawyer has up his sleeve, too.
His eyes dim, and he drops his hand. “These are for tomorrow.” He tosses the screws onto the passenger seat. “I don’t have plans with any friends. And dinner with my dad is the last thing I want.”
A fist squeezes in my stomach. I don’t want him to come. My embarrassment is already heavy, but with Sawyer there, it’ll only get worse. He’ll do something to make me wish I could find a cannon that’ll shoot me into space.
He gently tugs me out of the way and shuts his door, underscoring the end of this discussion.
“I remembered your truck being bigger,” I say, resigned to my fate.
His brows knit together. “It’s not the same truck.”
Before I can process that information, Dev calls, “You guys coming?”
Sawyer calls back, “Coming,” and puts his hand on the small of my back to guide me back to the sidewalk.
There’s no way I come out of this with my dignity intact.