Page 55 of Sparks Fly

I blinked and found Mom watching me.

“Sorry. Long day.” I said.

“You look tired.” Mom told me.

“I am.”

Dad pointed his fork at me. “When was the last time you took a day off?”

I groaned. “Not this again.”

“I’m serious.”

“I took Sunday off.” I defended.

Mom snorted. “You answered emails all day.”

I shook my head. “That’s not the point.”

“It’s exactly the point.” Mom argued.

I rolled my eyes, but I smiled.

The conversation moved on. Mom talked about a gala. Dad complained about traffic. I nodded when I was supposed to, but my mind kept drifting to Sawyer.

Her couch. Her motorcycle. The way she looked at me without expecting me to be anyone else.

By the time dessert arrived, I was ready to leave. Not because dinner had been bad. I mean it wasn’t great, but…There was just somewhere else I wanted to be.

I made it home, answered a few emails I should have ignored, and fell asleep with a text from Sawyer waiting on my screen.

* * *

Tuesday wasn’t much better.

Meetings were stacked back-to-back, my assistant called in sick, and I spent most of the day putting out fires that weren’t technically mine. Sawyer and I texted when we could, short messages squeezed between appointments and conference calls, but by the time I got home that night I was too tired to do much more than shower and fall into bed.

By Wednesday morning, the date had been sitting in the back of my mind for nearly two days.

At eight o’clock I was dressed for work in a high-waisted skirt and silk blouse with an iced coffee sweating in my hand. My calendar was already packed, but Sawyer and I still managed to text through the morning. The messages were light and easy, small touches that made the day feel connected.

Sawyer: Hope your morning’s treating you well. You counting down the hours yet?

Me: Don’t make fun of me but… I might already have an outfit laid out.

Sawyer: Beautiful and prepared. Dangerous combo.

I tucked my phone back into my bag with a grin I couldn’t quite hide. The workday flew by faster than expected, though my focus was questionable by the late afternoon.

I had blocked my calendar and warned my assistant that I wasn’t taking calls after five-thirty, but telling myself not to obsess about the evening turned out to be pointless.

At exactly 5:30 I closed my laptop and stood up, smoothing my blouse like the gesture might steady the nervous excitement running through me. I was home by 5:45 and stepping into the shower by six.

My makeup stayed soft but intentional, warm bronze shadow and mascara thick enough to matter, my lips tinted just enough to look deliberate without screaming nerves. Tight black jeans and a champagne-toned cropped shirt felt right once I pulled them on, and for once I didn’t second-guess the outfit before grabbing my leather jacket.

At 6:25 the low rumble of a motorcycle rolled down the street outside. The sound slid under my skin in a way that felt electric, and I grabbed my bag before stepping outside. Sawyer leaned casually against her bike with her helmet tucked under one arm and her hair pulled back loosely.

She wore black boots, fitted jeans, and a gray T-shirt beneath an open jacket. Somehow she always looked like she’d thrown something on without trying and still gotten it right.