Chapter 9 Sawyer #2
I drag my gaze up to her eyes, forcing myself to look anywhere but at those pink, pillowy lips, like if I hold eye contact long enough her mouth will simply cease to exist. Spoiler: it does not.
She’s still watching me, head tilted slightly, the corner of her mouth twitching like she’s onto me—or at least aware that something just went sideways.
I clear my throat. Once. Then again, because apparently, I’ve forgotten how my body works.
“You, uh…you’ve got a little—”
I gesture vaguely at my own mouth, which somehow feels worse than pointing directly, and immediately regret every decision that led me to this exact moment in time. I should have just said lip. Or face. Or literally anything else.
Her eyes widen as she blinks at me, then she glances around, clearly searching for a napkin that does not exist. When she comes up empty, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, quick and practical, then looks back at me like she’s bracing for a verdict.
“Better?”
“Yeah,” I say, a little too quickly, though some irrational part of me is disappointed now that the sugar’s gone. “Much.”
Which is ridiculous. I am a grown man. A professional athlete. I can handle the absence of powdered sugar on another person’s face.
Still.
All I know is that I want to keep being the guy who shows up with donuts.
“Did Charlie tell you how busy we were this weekend?” she asks again, softer this time, like she’s making sure I actually heard her and wasn’t just standing there thinking deeply inappropriate thoughts about baked goods.
“Yeah,” I say. “He did. Sounds like it was kind of amazing. Those posts took off.”
Her mouth curves, slow and almost disbelieving. “They really did. It’s funny. I spent so long assuming everything that could go wrong would. Then suddenly…” She gestures vaguely, like she doesn’t quite trust the words yet. “I don’t know. It feels like someone turned on a light.”
I nod, because I get that feeling more than I should. “Yeah, lights,” I echo, wanting to contribute something useful instead of just standing here admiring her problem-solving face.
“I wasn’t sure about any of this at first,” she goes on, warming to the idea now, “but I got an email from your PR team this morning. They liked the video, too. They think we should do more.” Her eyes flick up to mine, bright with possibility.
“It got me thinking maybe we could do a workshop here. Something special with you at first, but then I can roll it over into something regular.”
She’s talking logistics. Scheduling. Sustainability. Me? I’m watching the way her hands move as she talks, the way she lights up when an idea clicks into place, the quiet confidence underneath it all.
“I’m in,” I say immediately. No hesitation.
No strategy. Just truth, because if she asked me to show up early, stay late, move furniture, water plants, explain hockey to a roomful of strangers, or help with something that didn’t exist yet but mattered to her?
I’d say yes to all of it. I’d be in for anything she offered.
Her mouth curves in a small, pleased smile before she looks down at the counter, riffling through a stack of papers like she’s suddenly aware of her own enthusiasm. A flyer catches my eye before she realizes what she’s doing.
Block letters. A school logo. Something about a Father-Son Breakfast.
Her fingers freeze, and she moves quickly. Like lightning, really, and she flips it over. Smooth. Very smooth, but I saw.
“And your weekend was good?” she asks, suddenly. More deflection. I’m starting to see a pattern. “The away games?”
I can’t help it—I laugh. “You care?”
“No.” She lifts her chin, fighting a losing battle with a grin. “But Theo does. Talked about it all weekend.”
“Well, then.” Something in my chest gives a small, traitorous ache and I smile. “We won one. Lost one. The win was great. The loss…” I shrug. “I hate losing.”
“Theo does, too,” she says. “Says he feels panicky and like he’s failed. I always have to remind him it’s not the end of the world if he loses, but we do try to find a positive takeaway when we can.”
“My cousin, Campbell,” I say. “He’s the team captain and also good at reminding me I’m not actually dying.”
“Didn’t realize it was a family affair for you.” She smiles. “What about your parents?”
I hesitate, just a fraction. “Before my dad passed away, I would talk to him about hockey all the time.”
Her gaze softens. Not with pity, but with understanding, the kind that doesn’t rush in to smooth the edges or make it smaller than it is.
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly.
“Yeah,” I say. “Me, too.”
The words sit between us for a second. I should probably stop there. Keep it light. Keep it moving. But something about this moment feels steady. Like the floor isn’t going to drop out if I take one more step.
“I know it probably sounds stupid,” I add, rubbing the back of my neck, “but I still talk to him.”
I pull my phone from my pocket and open the text thread that never closes, the one with messages sent into the void. Then I hand it to her.
Juliette takes it carefully, like she understands she’s holding something fragile. Her eyes move over the screen—dates, short updates, dumb little thoughts, things that don’t need answers to matter. She doesn’t comment. She doesn’t rush. She just reads.
When she looks back up at me, her expression is gentle but sure, like she’s already decided something important.
“That doesn’t sound stupid,” she says. “It sounds like love.”
The shop seems too quiet around us then. The background noise outside dulls. The soft rustle of leaves quells. Even the space between us feels smaller somehow. Safer, almost as if something steady has bridged the distance.
And standing here with her, talking about the thing that still aches, hurts less than it did a minute ago.
She turns the phone back toward me, holding it out carefully, like she’s returning something precious rather than just a device.
Our fingers brush as I take it—barely there, the lightest contact—and it still feels like a jolt straight through my chest. Electric.
Immediate. Entirely unexpected and deeply wanted.
“Thank you for showing me,” she says softly, like she understands that I didn’t have to.
I nod, because words are suddenly unreliable. My thumb curls around the phone, but I don’t pull back right away. Neither does she. Her fingers linger against mine—warm, steady, real. The kind of touch that doesn’t ask for anything but somehow offers everything.
My breath stutters. Just once. Enough that I notice it.
She does, too.
Her gaze lifts to mine, searching. It’s not prying, not worried. There’s no rush in her expression. No expectation, just something gentle opening between us.
I swallow, acutely aware of how close we are now. Of how easily I could tip forward. Of how my body seems to recognize her in a way my brain is still scrambling to catch up with.
For a second, I think about stepping back. Giving us both room and breaking the intimacy of this moment. Doing the smart thing.
Instead, I stay exactly where I am, because I do not want to move.
Her hand falls away first, slow and unhurried, like she trusts that I won’t disappear the second the contact ends. Her quiet confidence settles into me, steadying instead of rattling. Which is funny to me, how the table has turned and I feel as if she’s suddenly taking care of me.
The shop drifts back into focus around us, but the moment stays. It’s quiet, steady, and tucked somewhere just behind my ribs.
I slip my phone back into my pocket, grounding myself in the motion, then look at her again.
“Talking about it, sharing with you about it,” I say, my voice low but even. “It helps.”
“I’m glad.” Her smile is small and sincere, the kind that doesn’t ask for anything back. Like she understands what that cost and respects it.
She exhales, then straightens just a little, that gentle shift from intimacy back into the rhythm of the day. “Now,” she says, almost apologetic, “I hate to change the subject, but before the week starts, we need Sawyer’s Plant Pick.”
My lips curve despite myself.
“Ready to find your next horticultural victim?”
As I follow her down around the shop, listening to Juliette as she waxes poetic about philodendrons and Peace Lillies, I realize whatever this is between us doesn’t feel fleeting or accidental.
I’ve only known this woman a week, and I can already sense something happening that might quietly change the shape of my days. Something worth showing up for.
And something I could keep coming back to…again and again.