Chapter 2
two
Sawyer
He's just a shadow at first, hovering in the doorway of my office before stepping into the light.
My eyes are drawn inexplicably to his feet—those tiny, almost delicate things trapped inside leather shoes.
There's something off-putting about the way they barely make a sound on the carpet. Why are they so small?
A chuckle escapes me as I lean back against the leather of my executive chair. Tiny Toes stands before me, a hint of triumph in his eyes, unaware that he and his client aren’t even on my radar. I'm not biting. Not at that price.
"In the condition that house is in," I begin, "it's worth no less than $800 thousand."
He shifts uncomfortably, the muscles in his jaw working as if he's chewing on what I just said and finding it bitter.
"Sawyer," he finally says, using my first name this time, in a way that almost makes me feel sorry for him.
Almost. "You don't understand the market right now.
You need to jump on these things, or at least counter with something reasonable.
Women can react with emotion instead of using their brain, and their clients suffer because of it. "
Amusement ripples through me, and it's all I can do not to laugh outright.
Reasonable? His blatant dig at women? The very audacity of his offer is a slap in the face.
Tiny Toes has balls, I'll give him that.
I let the silence stretch between us, savoring the subtle shift in power as he stands there, waiting for a response.
"I’ll consider countering when you bring me an offer that reflects the true value of that property. We've got a full week of showings scheduled. Bring me something my clients can actually consider, and we will make a decision with lack of emotion."
He opens his mouth, maybe hoping to change my mind, but then thinks better of it. His tiny feet carry him backward, retreating as he looks down at his phone. "Gotta take this," he murmurs, thumb swiping the screen. "Talk soon."
I turn my gaze to the skyline of Downtown Chicago—the traffic, the people, the bustling sounds that never seem to comfort me like I thought they would.
Life and ambition constantly pass by my window, while inside, I continue to live the corporate dream.
Except, it doesn’t always feel like a dream. Does any job?
My phone rings in my pocket and instinctively, I curl my fingers around it, but I don’t let it stop me from my city gawking.
"Knox," I answer, "glad to know you're alive."
My brother joined a bull riding team a few years ago—a top-ranked powerhouse in Pbr, according to him. I’ve never seen him ride. It’s not just because I haven’t been home in years—it’s because I’m a little terrified of watching him get hurt.
On the other end, a chuckle ripples through the line. "I train with the best. I'll always come out of that ring alive, baby sister."
"Is that so?" I muse, watching below as a woman desperately sprints before getting into a cab. "I hope your guardian angels are getting paid overtime."
I drum my fingers against my phone, knowing my brother is about to ignore the suggestion I am going to make.
"Why don't you ditch the bulls for a while?
Come see Chicago," I offer. "I could hook you up with a real estate job here.
It's a lot safer than spending your days around those hazardous animals. "
"Ah, Sawyer," he drawls as if he can picture me here in my sleek office—a world away from what he’s used to. "You know city life ain't for me. But hey, speakin' of real estate, that's actually why I called."
"Okay..." I wait patiently for him to continue.
"Listen," Knox's voice is a gritty whisper, snagging my full attention from the cityscape. "I think you need to come home for the summer."
The request hits at something I’ve spent years tucking beneath tailored dresses and skyline views. My grip on the phone tightens, and suddenly, it feels hot—like it knows exactly how I’m feeling.
"Talk to Dad about selling his land," he continues. "I'm doing everything I can, but I’m coming up short. It's bigger than me. He can't keep up with his property by himself anymore. Bills are piling up, and he won't talk to me about it."
He has a desperation in his words that makes my heart clench. I close my eyes as the city blurs into memories—the scent of fresh hay, the way a corn field calms you as you pass by it, and all the old responsibilities I thought I gave up the moment I left.
It's been years since I've allowed myself to even think of Weston, Tennessee as home. Now, all it takes is a phone call, and it's as if the city shrinks, the distance isn’t far enough, and I'm standing at the edge of my old front porch, squinting into the sunlit land that was once my world.
"I've got showings lined up all week, Knox. With real estate, you can’t just pick up and leave." Although that’s true, I know I'm reaching for excuses, avoiding any reason to ever go back.
"Please, Sawyer." There's a rustle on the other end of the line like he's running a hand through his hair, that gesture of his that I remember all too well.
I trace the edge of my desk with a polished fingernail. "You think I have any shot at changing his mind, anyway? We haven't spoken since I left for Chicago."
There's a pause on the line. "I know," Knox finally replies.
“But it's been enough time. I know he said some things he shouldn’t have.
But, used to be you were the only one Dad would listen to.
You don't have much time left to make things right with him.
He's getting older. Grumpier than a cornered honey badger, but. .."
My heart clenches again. I'm not ready for this conversation. Not ready to face the fact that the iron-willed man who raised us could be frail or fading, even if we aren’t on good terms.
"He always checks on you," Knox continues, breaking into my thoughts. "Makes me give him updates on you."
"You give him updates?"
"Come on, Sawyer," Knox presses, and I can almost see him leaning on our father's broken fence, squinting into the distance with those eyes that miss nothing. "I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important. I know you’ll be able to get through to him."
"Okay," I say, my words softer now. "I'll think about it."
I'm left alone in silence, the city buzzing below—cold, unfeeling, impersonal. It doesn’t compare to the sunrise or the night sky back home, the way a drive down a country road and a good song can ease the worst kind of day. But, that isn’t my life anymore. This is my life.
And because the universe clearly hates me, in he walks—my ex-boyfriend.
Also known as the managing broker of Windsor Real Estate.
Also known as the golden boy of nepotism, courtesy of his father Jerry Windsor.
I sigh, equal parts dread and annoyance.
Apparently, today can get worse. And it just did.
"Got news," he announces. "We got the new luxury apartments over on Wacker. You've seen the plans… Give me one good reason why I should hand them over to you instead of Claire."
I twist on my heel, facing him. "Maybe because you didn't cheat on Claire with your assistant," I say as calmly as I can.
I used to think Harrison Windsor was perfect—wealthy, successful, the kind of man who takes you to Paris for the fun of it.
Women at the company hated me for months, convinced I was getting special treatment.
But every sale I closed? That was all me.
All clients I found on my own. He never handed me a damn thing—until I walked in on him fucking his assistant in his office.
Now he’s desperate—wanting to bring me in on high-end projects, tripping over himself to make it up to me, swearing it was a big mistake.
I tried to leave the brokerage for good.
But oh, how he begged me to stay. Maybe deep down some part of me wants to believe him.
Wants to believe we are still possible. That we’d be equal partners in the real estate empire he swore we were building together.
And yeah… that’s a hard dream to let die.
"Are we still on this? I'm making it up to you, proving that I can be better next time."
"Next time?" I ask, leaning back against my desk, arms crossed.
He steps closer, forcing the puppy dog eyes.
"Sawyer," he purrs, and the way he says my name never sounds as good as it once did.
"It's only a matter of time before you officially take me back.
I mean… name a better duo. You walk around here like you're the Elle Woods of real estate, in your pink suit jackets that drive me crazy. "
I recoil, clutching my necklace, though I’ll happily take that as a compliment.
"And I"—he steps so close I can see the faintest stubble along his jaw—"quite literally get mistaken for that guy who plays Thor in those action movies. We're perfect together."
My breath hitches, equal parts disbelief and get the fuck out of here. “No one mistakes you for Chris Hemsworth,” I snap. “At best, maybe the stunt double they use for him when the others are on vacation?”
I fold my arms, nails pressing into my sleeves like a silent pep talk. Stay strong. No falling for his smooth talk or fancy gifts. I’ve learned the hard way—perfect is usually an illusion.
“I’m just saying… we’re meant to be, Sawyer. You’ll see. Especially after you close these next listings I give you, and we make a tiny fortune.”
I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. If we were really meant to be, he wouldn’t have cheated. Wouldn’t have shattered everything we built like it was nothing.
He leans in slightly, that same smug smile that used to work on me and adds, “Besides, you owe my dad and I for letting you have the commission split you do. He wasn’t happy about that.”
I fought tooth and nail for that, and it’s barely better than what everyone else gets after a year. But sure, let’s pretend it was a favor. Like I should be grateful for table scraps while he cheats, lies, and still expects loyalty.
He keeps talking about our future and what selling these luxury apartments will do for us, but his words eventually begin to blur.
All I can hear is the dull thud of my heart and the sudden, quiet voice in the back of my mind that's saying you don’t have to keep doing this—being numb to it all. You don’t owe him anything.
I blink, realizing I’m still standing here, still pretending I care about closing the deals he wants, the schedules, the mess he made. And suddenly, I don’t want to anymore.
Shit, am I really about to say this?
I straighten and look him dead in the eye. “You know what? Give them all to Claire.”
He blinks. “What did you say?”
I almost laugh because even I’m surprised that I said it out loud. “You heard me. I need to take a leave.”
His face twists, and there it is—the flicker of panic. Not the for-me kind of panic. It’s the how-will-we-function kind. And that just tells me I’m making the right call.
“A leave? For how long? What about your clients?”
I glance toward the stack of files on my desk. They used to make me feel important. Now I’m not so sure.
“I don’t know how long,” I say. “But I’m done fixing everything for everyone else. You can take care of it all for a while.”
“Wait—Sawyer, don’t be ridiculous. You’re just tired. You don’t mean that.”
I meet his eyes again. “No. For once, I do.”
He opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, but nothing comes out. Harrison at a loss for words? That’s new.
My hands snap my laptop shut before I shove it into my bag, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. I don’t have time for second thoughts.
As I reach the door, I toss over my shoulder, “You’ll be fine without me for a while.”
And this time, I don’t look back.