“Just give him a chance to explain, sweetheart. Maybe, at the very least, you guys can move back toward friendship.”
“And at most?” I ask, almost afraid to be hopeful.
My mom smiles. “That’ll be the fun part, won’t it?”
With leftover soup and a tray of coffees in my hand, I make my way across the parking lot toward Sawyer’s shop. It’s well past six, so I know he’s shut down for the day, making him the only one inside. Which is perfect, just in case he tosses me to the curb as I did him the other day.
Nerves dance through my body, twisting in my gut, but I push through. Sawyer and I have been friends for a long time. I’m just trying to fix where everything went wrong. After my mom left, I sat for quite a while, trying to decide exactly what it was I wanted to do.
And I decided that, above all, I miss my friend.
If she’s right—and she almost always is—then maybe Sawyer is telling the truth. He really was just trying to give Jack and me distance. Which, in true Sawyer fashion, is completely unselfish.
Ugh, I can be such a jerk.
After setting the hot bag down, I raise my free hand and knock on the door of the shop. If he’s in his office, he’ll hear me. If not, then I’ll just go around and climb the steps to the studio apartment above his shop.
A light flicks on inside, and my pulse jumps as Sawyer comes into view through the window. He’s still wearing what he was earlier, his coveralls still folded and tied around his trim waist.
His tank top still smeared with motor oil. His baseball cap backward on top of his head. There’s even a bit of oil smeared on his cheek, right above the scruff covering his jaw.
He looks rugged, masculine, and far too gorgeous for my own good.
Oh boy.
I can’t even bring myself to smile as I lean down and lift the bag.
Sawyer pulls open the door and pulls the red sucker from his mouth. Which, of course, brings my attention straight to his lips. I have to force my gaze back up.
The smell of motor oil fills my lungs, a scent I shouldn’t have missed so much, but I did. Because, combined with the pine bodywash he uses, it’s so Sawyer.
“Hey,” he says.
“I brought peace offerings.” I hold up the tray of coffee and the hot bag with my mom’s soup.
His caramel gaze locks on mine, but there is no humor in his expression. No typical Sawyer sarcasm. No random quips about coffee with dinner.
Please tell me there wasn’t too much damage. Please, Lord, help me fix this. Emotion burns in my throat.
“Come in.” He takes the coffee and moves to the side so I can come through. I try to ignore my body’s reaction to his closeness when my shoulder brushes his chest on my way in.
Such a simple touch.
How many times have we touched in the past six years? How many casual brushes of our hands against each other? Did each one feel like this? As though we’re handling a bomb that could go off at any moment? How did I miss it?
“My mom made soup earlier, so I brought some just in case you were hungry.” I start to step into his office, but my gaze lands on his desk, and seeing it reminds me of the last time I was in here.
Six months ago, when I told him I missed him and everything that had already been strained between us snapped.
So instead of going into the place where what we had was broken, I head down the hall a little ways and walk into the break room like I own the place. I set the bag of soup down on the round plastic table, then grab two paper bowls from a shelf and two plastic spoons from the organizer on the counter.
Sawyer takes a seat at the table and removes the cups from the paper carrying tray. He sets his down in front of him—a black coffee with no cream or sugar. And mine—a hazelnut latte with cinnamon—he sets in front of my chair.
Still, he doesn’t say a word.
“Thanks for letting me in.”
“You’re always welcome here,” he says. His tone is sharp, his jaw set. It’s so unlike him. So alien when compared to the man who brought me a stray kitten in the rain. He’d tucked little Axel into his jacket and raced across the parking lot so the small animal wouldn’t be cold. “I miss you, too, Anastasia,” he says, tone defeated.
