He doesn’t slow when we pass the only pickup left in the lot. “This way.” He jerks his head toward the road. “I usually walk to work.”
After we pause for me to tip the sand out of my loafers, I scurry beside him to keep up. “What about all your…stuff?” I can’t name a single piece of equipment he needs to catch lobsters, but surely he needs…things?
“Everything I need is on the boat.”
“What about lunch?”
“Cain’s wife packs it.”
“For both of you?”
“Yeah. She said somethin’ once about eternal gratitude.” Sawyer grins. “I introduced them.”
The walk is quiet. It isn’t an awkward silence where I panic about what I’ve done wrong or struggle to think of what to say next. It’s a snug sort of coziness. If I turn my head to peek at Sawyer, he responds by meeting my gaze with a smile. Only the occasional car passing us along the road interrupts the steady rhythm of our footsteps.
“This is me,” he says.
Wait just one second…
I whip a look over my shoulder. The wharf is hazy behind us, but the beach still hugs the road, and the deep blue of the ocean waits just beyond.
My jaw goes slack. “You live on the waterfront?”
“Not quite.” He points to the house on the corner.
It’s an outdated style you don’t see as much on the mainland anymore: split-level, timber on top, and whitewashed brick below. But the weatherboard is freshly painted—thankfully, not cream but a quiet shade of blue. I can see why he’s so conflicted about building an entertaining area now. The yard is enormous, but it’s all grass dotted with a few neatly pruned trees.
“She’s nothing fancy, but…” Sawyer glides an affectionate hand along the picket gate as he passes through.
“I didn’t realize you lived so close to the bay.”
“No point in me tryin’ to escape the ocean. Except, uh….” He sniffs the sleeve of his flannel shirt. “Maybe when it’s on me.”
I swat his shoulder. “You smell fine.”
“Would you forget your manners and tell me if I didn’t, Elsie Hoskins?”
“Um…”
“Take a whiff then.”
“Wh-what?”
His eyebrow arches. A challenge. Well, two can play his game. I accept. Hesitant, I lean forward, aiming for his shoulder, but my nose instinctively edges closer to his chest.
“O-oh…”
No hint of lobsters or fish or whatever otherworldly creatures swim beneath his boat. He smells like the ocean and fresh air…and… God, that cologne. He smells delicious. Better than musty old books. I want to bury my face in the middle of his chest and stay there forever.
“That bad, huh?” he says.
I jerk back. “S-sorry.” The checkered lines on his flannel sway until I blink enough times for the world to steady again.
“It won’t take me long to wash up,” he says.
Sawyer unlocks the front door and heads straight in. I step inside behind him. Downstairs is narrow, nothing much to look at, with two doors and a neat stack of boxes, most with labels that sayToolsbut one that saysChristmas lights. That’s the biggest box. How many lights can a man possibly need at Christmas?
“You comin’?” Sawyer calls back from halfway up the stairs.
