Chapter 28 Sawyer
SAWYER
I look up from making breakfast when I hear Brie’s loud yawn.
She stretches, starfishing beneath the comforter.
I like her here. I want to climb into bed and make her moan my name again.
See what other sounds I can coax out of her.
But I have to remind myself that’s not what she wants.
She got what she needed, and I’m just happy I was a part of it.
It’s obvious the moment she realizes where she is.
She freezes, then looks down at her body beneath the cover, presumably noticing the flannel shirt I helped her sleepy self into last night.
When she finds me standing at the kitchen island, she gives me a shy finger wave.
It’s so fucking adorable, I have to look back down at the eggs.
I ask, “Sleep well?”
“Like the dead.”
A fluttering sensation enters my chest, but I tamp it down. “How’s your hip?”
She looks down, like she’d forgotten until now. “Feels a little bruised, but it looks good.”
Nodding, I point to the door by the headboard. “Bathroom’s there. Laid a toothbrush out for you, towels in the closet. And some clothes that might fit are on the counter. Use anything you want. Holler if you can’t find what you need.”
She sits up and opens her mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. “You shaved.”
Does she not like it?
Instinctively, I rub my jaw. “Yeah.”
Her lips press together in an unreadable expression. But she doesn’t say anything else as she slips out of bed and heads to the bathroom, glancing over her shoulder before shutting the door.
Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting at the kitchen island when I hear the bathroom door open. I don’t look up as she pads over because I want to finish the last few stitches.
Her feet—clad in my gray wool socks, bunched at her ankles, come into view in my periphery. “Are you . . . mending my favorite pants?”
Shit. I couldn’t decide if this was a nice gesture, given I was the one who ripped them, or if this was the opposite of staying detached.
“No big deal,” I grunt. “Would’ve done it last night, but . . .” Finishing that sentence with I licked you until you came instead feels like a breach of her one-time only rule. Any reference to what happened last night probably is.
“I’ll throw your clothes in the wash after breakfast.” I tie off the thread, look up, and do a double take.
She shrugs. “The sweatpants were too big.” Her hair is damp and she’s wearing the flannel shirt I laid out.
It comes down to mid-thigh. I can’t tell if she’s wearing the boxers I left for her, but if the pants were too big, those probably were, too.
I wish she’d sit on my lap again so I could find out.
The only other thing she’s wearing are the socks.
Fuck.
I should have gone for a third round in the shower.
“Smells good,” she says.
That kickstarts my brain. “You must be starving.”
I stand up and put the pants on the counter, carefully placing the needle back in my sewing kit. When I look up, she’s squinting at me like I’m one of those Magic Eye pictures.
Don’t be curious. Don’t engage. Stay detached. She doesn’t want me.
“Coffee?” I ask, rounding the island.
“Yes, please.” She sits at the counter while I start the kettle for the French press. An awkward beat passes when neither of us seems to know where to look.
I follow her eyes as they roam curiously around my place.
The large fireplace before the too-small couch.
The bedroom furniture I bought on sale a few months ago taking up too much space behind it.
The small square dining table that seats four below a chandelier meant for a table at least twice as wide.
And this kitchen. Right now, it’s the best looking spot in here, uncluttered and spacious.
“This all looks brand new.” She nods at the appliances as her hands smooth over the shiny countertop.
“That’s because it is.”
She nods.
I nod.
Another beat of silence that has me wondering about those boxers again.
“It’s nice. I . . . I kind of love the whole style.”
Don’t break out into song.
“Thanks.” I remember what I’m doing here, and pick up the spatula, pointing it at her as I take the lid off the warm pan. “Veggie frittata okay?”
“Sounds good.”
I slide a plate toward her, and watch as she makes a bite with her fork. She pauses before eating it.
“There aren’t any peppers in it,” I say.
Her eyes snap up. “What?”
My hand goes to the back of my neck, rubbing. “I thought you might be wondering since you don’t like them . . .”
She shakes her head, and quickly takes the bite, eyes closing momentarily. “This is really good.” She says, sounding impressed, then swallows. “But, um . . . I wanted to thank you. For . . . finding me.”
“Oh.” My muscles relax. I didn’t know I’d been tense. “I’m really glad I found you.” The words are quiet.
She holds my gaze for a moment before returning to her food.
Words rise and die in my throat until I finally look away and plate some breakfast for myself.
We eat and sip coffee in uncomfortable silence.
There’s so much I want to say to her, and I sense she has something on her mind, too.
The air is thick and icy as tension builds between us, but neither of us says a word as we watch the snow fall out the window.
When I collect our laundry, she follows me to the door that leads to the rest of the cabin. I look down at her. “Put on those slides,” I say, nodding at a pair of sandals by the door.
I shove my socked feet into my work boots and open the door.
She walks slow, as if unsure she should even be here.
But she takes in every detail of the unfinished space, poking her head into a bathroom where I just finished tiling the shower.
We walk into the small laundry room, the only space back here that’s completely done.
She meanders out, presumably to scope out the rest of the rooms, as I throw a load in the washer.
When I’m done, I find her in the largest bedroom.
Mine. She stands in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the creek, burbling beneath sheets of ice.
She looks so right standing here, and I can picture her still here once it’s all finished, I’ve swept the dust, and the furniture is in place.
“Look,” she says, pointing.
On a large patch of ice, dozens of mallards huddle together. One or two paddle around in the freezing water, dipping their head down before popping back up again.
“Looks cold.”
On cue, she shivers and folds her arms. “Cozy, I think. To have everyone work together to keep one another safe.”
“Maybe,” I say.
She looks up. “You don’t think that’s what they’re doing?”
“I think it’s a sweet thought. But I wonder if some of those ducks would rather be on their own, not part of the group.”
“They’d freeze,” she says. “Besides, no one really wants to be alone.”
We stand at the window for a couple more minutes.
“I thought you were some weird hoarder,” she says.
I turn to her. “What?”
“Because of all the stuff.” She gestures back toward the living room. “I didn’t realize these rooms were back here, empty.”
“Well, yeah. I’m fixing them up so I have more space for all the stacks of newspapers I plan to accumulate.”
I love the surprise on her face when she laughs.
“You’re fixing it up yourself?”
Is she impressed?
“Yeah. My brother helps a lot.”
She gestures to the room at large, and the view outside. “This is like a dream.”
Her head tilts up to watch the snow, but I watch her.
All she has to do is say the word, and I would sign over the deed to this place in a heartbeat, just give it to her, no questions asked.
I’d even finish it first. The words almost come out of their own volition: Take it.
It’s yours. But I swallow them down, fully aware she wants nothing from me.
Maybe I’m overcompensating, punishing myself for past behavior when I was a different person. But it’s not just my feelings about myself. It’s about Brie, too. I want her to be happy, want her to have everything she wants in life. Even if none of that includes me.
My throat squeezes tight before I pull myself together. I agree with her. This is like a dream.
I glance out the window. “You must have frigid dreams,” I tease.
She gives a one-shouldered shrug. “I like the cold.”
My brow drops as an involuntary smirk tugs on my mouth. “Didn’t you say you left your old school because you didn’t like the cold?”
Her eyes widen, and for a moment I think I’ve touched a sore spot. But then her mouth drops in mock-indignation, the edges curving upward playfully. It’s almost a smile. For me.
“I didn’t leave because I don’t like the cold,” she argues. “It’s because winter was endless up there. Last year, there were flurries in May. May! At that point, it isn’t cozy anymore, it’s hell.”
“Hell?” I raise my eyebrows.
“A frozen hell,” she amends. “Down here, May is shorts weather.” She pauses. “Then again, there was that one asshole who wore shorts even in the snow.”
“Chad Harris.”
“Oh my gosh!” She shoves my arm and I flex on instinct as the ice between us begins to thaw. “Yes! Exactly like him. Where is that guy now?”
“In jail.” Her eyes go wide. Keeping my tone grave, I add, “For public nudity. Eventually he thought even the shorts were too much.”
She cackles, and I’ve never been higher.
“Come on,” I say.
“Where?”
“If you like the cold so much, let’s go outside.”