“Lucky us,” Riley said, tapping at the register. “Back to the mothership for the holidays.”
Sawyer’s gaze slid past her, doing that soft-focus scan real estate people did when they looked at square footage. “Town looks good. New garland?”
“Indeed,” Riley said fondly. “There’s something about the holidays and Reckless. I just love decorating.”
Sawyer smiled. “Howweboth get, if memory serves.”
We.
My stomach did that tilt again, like a plane hitting air that wasn’t where the sky promised it would be.
“What can I get you?” Riley asked her.
“Americano,” Sawyer said, then added without looking at the menu, “and a cranberry-orange scone if you haven’t ruined them with gluten-free flour.”
“Rude,” Riley said, already reaching for the portafilter. “We ruined nothing. They’re perfect. And yes, there’s also real butter.”
Sawyer glanced around while Riley worked—past the window where snow freckled the glass, past the knit-hat trio in the corner parsing the merits of cinnamon versus star anise, pastthe shelf of bagged beans with their earnest fonts. Her attention snagged for a second on me, then slid away without recognition.
Good. I didn’t want to be recognized. Not as the woman who’d fallen into bed and possibly something else with a man whose history here had more roots than I did.
Riley slid the drink and scone across.
“On the house,” she said. “Consider it a welcome back and a bribe for gossip.”
Sawyer laughed as she dug in her purse for a tip anyway. “You always were the town crier.”
“Someone has to maintain cultural literacy,” Riley said, then added lightly, “Speaking of culture, have you seen Drew yet?”
The name landed sharply and surprisingly.
Sawyer’s smile did an interesting thing. It didn’t vanish; it… tailored itself.
“Not yet,” she said, casual as a cat. “I literally just got in.”
Riley’s brows did the mischievous dance. “Planning to?”
Sawyer pretended to consider, breaking off a corner of scone with manicured precision.
“We’re still friendly,” she said. “I’ll say hi. See how he’s doing. It’s been a while.”
Friendly. I wrapped both hands tighter around my mug.
Riley caught my eye, then flicked her gaze minutely away, like she was gently shooing the conversation elsewhere.
“Yeah, he’s good. Busy. You know how the Stag is this time of year. He and Callum are basically elves with a liquor license.”
Sawyer laughed. “Always said he had a type.”
“A type?” Riley leaned in. “Define.”
Sawyer took a sip of Americano, savoring. “Holidays, community, routine. He likes tradition. He should’ve been born in a Norman Rockwell painting.”
Riley hummed. “You never minded.”
The blonde lifted one shoulder. “No. I liked it here. But I also liked… other things.”
She didn’t have to say what: cities that stayed open past nine, flights that left every hour, jobs that required suits more than flannel.
