“I like bumpin’ into you best of all, Elsie Hoskins.”
The heat of him melts against me, and there’s a flutter on my cheek. Minty breath. Hedefinitelywasn’t that close a second ago.
He’s going to kiss me.
My fingers twitch by my side, fighting the urge to cradle the back of his head and let my fingers disappear in his hair. I’m desperate for his lips to be on mine. I want to taste him.Everywhere. His gaze locks on my mouth, and so help me God, I know exactly what I’m doing when I dart my tongue out to wet my lips.
His breath hitches.
Did I push him too far? I can’t help it. Now that I’ve felt his body pressed against me, I can’t possibly let him stop there. I want more.
Hazel eyes lift, wide, but the moment our gazes lock, the invisible thread pulling us closer snaps.
“I better…” His cheeks puff out as he exhales. “That choppin’ board…”
“O-oh. Yes.” Flustered, I smooth my hair even though the side braid still hangs neatly over my shoulder. My fingers still tremble as I skitter back to the stove, fumble over the countertop to find the wooden spoon, and shove it back into the pot.
Stirring frantically, boiling water sloshing everywhere, I glance over my shoulder at Sawyer. My face is on fire. I only see his back. He braces both hands on the countertop, and his shoulders rise and fall as he sucks down air as if he sprinted halfway across town.
This—whatever this brief moment was—wasn’t meant to happen.
14
Storm warnings for the Sunday cookout
A cookout swallows thespace between Sawyer and me. People are crammed into the tiny backyard, shoulder to shoulder right up to the wire fence, and every one of them is in my way. I don’t care about the sausages sizzling on the grill or the beers being passed around. I want the fan of Sawyer’s minty breath on my cheek. I want to finish what we started.
I stand in a circle of women, their names already forgotten. I know the TV show Freya’s talking about, but there aren’t many pauses in the excited chatter for me to add anything. My contribution to the conversation is “That’s—” and “Oh, I like—” and “Next week—”
The other women around Freya are quicker to jump in and louder than I am. My voice is a squeak in a thunderstorm. I nod and smile. I desperately want them to like me, but distraction scatters my attention. I can’t focus. Not when Sawyer’s eyes keep finding me across the yard.
What is he thinking?
He’s barely said a word to me since we bumped into each other in his kitchen. The drive over passed in silence—all six torturous minutes of it. Conversation cards wouldn’t have saved us this time. Something’s shifted. Maybe forever.
“I’m going to grab another drink,” I announce.
Freya squeezes my arm as I leave.
My heart thumps too fast to fully catch my breath. I need a minute by myself. Leaving the cramped yard behind, I move through the shadows in an uneven stumble, searching for a new hiding spot beside the garage. But there’s no safety in the darkness. Dare Watson is standing next to the brick wall, his jeans bunched down around his knees. His head is tipped back, flinty eyes thankfully screwed shut, and his fingers tangled in the hair of the woman kneeling in front of him.
I yelp.
Dare’s lips curve up in amusement just as I slap my hand over my mouth.
“Join in or scurry away, little mouse,” he drawls.
I choose the second option. Instantly. No hesitation. I’m out of there.
But where can I hide?
I pause, gathering myself, before twisting around to scan the yard. The grill’s out. Sawyer nailed himself to it when we arrived. He’s forcing the appropriate reaction when the men around him demand one—a smile, a laugh—but his eyes seek me out when I weave through the crowd.
He frowns.
“God damn.” Cain nudges Sawyer away from the grill. “When I said the steaks should be well done, I didn’t mean to burn the damn things blacker than the pits of hell!” Cain passes him a beer. “Make yourself useful. Drink this and then go get your bloody guitar.”
“I, uh… didn’t bring it,” Sawyer says.
