7. Sawyer
SAWYER
“Do you think it’s a sign?” Sammie’s gushing voice echoes, making me regret putting her on speakerphone.
I should be safe, here in Boone’s bathroom—an ensuite was that once ours .
But I peek out the door anyway, just be sure he isn’t lingering in the bedroom eavesdropping instead of cooking a later dinner like he said.
The last thing that man needs is any more encouragement than I already gave him in the barn.
My entire body heats at the memory of that full-body orgasm.
At the way I made him come in his pants.
Has he really been celibate for five years?
“No, Sammie. I don’t think this is a sign.” It’s a bold-faced lie. But the last thing I need is my drunk-on-love little sister getting some crazy idea and meddling in my love life.
“Being stranded at the ranch all alone with your high school sweetheart? Yeah, I think it’s definitely a sign,” she says, sounding sure of herself.
“I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye last night,” I say for the third time, desperately hoping to change the subject.
“I’m just happy you came home for my birthday,” she says, sounding like she means it.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, relieved that she went so easily for the subject change.
Because the subject of Boone Montgomery is far too complicated to tackle. With anyone.
As I’m towel-drying my hair, I realize I don’t have a change of clothes.
I refuse to put my previous outfit back on for a third time.
Especially since most of it is smeared with mud.
Because it’s anyone’s guess how long it’ll be before the road out of here is open again, I decide to borrow some of Boone’s clothes.
“Well, it was certainly a birthday you’ll remember,” I say, tiptoeing into the bedroom. Thunder sits on the bed, glancing up at me but too lazy to move. Poor guy spent half the day under the bed cowering from the storm. Now that it’s just a steady rain, he can finally get some rest.
There’s an unexpected ache in my chest. The same one I felt when I learned Millie had passed. Thunder is older now, some of the hair on his face graying. If I leave…
That’s what I get for walking away.
“Sawyer?” Sammie says my name, her tone implying this isn’t the first time.
“Sorry, what was that?” I say, spinning around toward the dresser and pulling open the top drawer.
“When do you think you’d be free to go dress shopping?”
Oh right. Because I’m supposed to be her maid of honor.
“How soon are you wanting to go?” I ask, fishing for a pair of sweatpants with a string.
“Next week?” she asks, her tone hopeful. “I know you already took vacation time to come back for my birthday, but in my defense, I didn’t know I was getting engaged. If it’s easier, we can go dress shopping in Dallas. I already have a couple places picked out.”
The guilt trip works.
So does my desire to avoid going back to my soul-sucking corporate job any sooner than I have to. I have PTO to burn. My manager—one of the ass-kissing men who got the promotion I was better qualified for—will be irritated I’m not there to do his reports. But he can suck on a cactus for all I care.
If I never go back, it’ll be too soon.
You could stay .
I ignore the whispered voice in my head, pulling out a pair of gray sweatpants that might work.
“I’ll make it work.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m—” A small box rolls free from the folded sweatpants, dropping to the floor.
“Sawyer?”
“I have a lot of PTO. Just text me the dates. Got to go.” I hang up the phone, hoping my sister doesn’t get any more suspicious than she already probably is. I crotch down to pick up the navy blue felt box. Tears sting the corners of my eyes.
I know what’s inside that box.
He kept it .
My heart pounds violently in my ears.
How could I have been so stupid to walk away from this man? I want to believe this is a sign, but what if I’m too late?
You know it’s always been you. Only you.
“Sawyer?” Boone’s voice echoes down the hall.
Shit.
I shove the box back in the drawer, under a pile of boxers. In my desperate attempt to close the drawer and simultaneously pull on the pilfered sweatpants, my towel falls away. Thunder pounces to the floor, stealing it.
“Thunder!” I hiss.
The door swings open, and Boone stops one step inside the room.
“Fuck me,” he mumbles, scrubbing a hand through his unruly hair.
“I need to borrow some clothes,” I say, a sheepish grin on my face.
“Get dressed,” he says, turning on his heel. “Dinner’s ready.”