Page 62 of Hooked on Trouble

“But you talk to Lily, and Lily’s still wearing my ring around her neck instead of on her finger, so…” His words aren’t laced with his usual confidence, and he shoves his hands in his front pockets. He focuses on the carpet between our feet.

Is he digging for information? “Are you digging for information?”

“Is there information I should know?”

This is my first conversation with Insecure Sawyer. He’s usually the first to crack a joke or put on a costume and parade around for the amusement of others. He dressed as a magician for his nieces’ birthday and has sent Nico pictures of the Iron Man outfit he’s ordered for Halloween. At his recent office karaoke party, he sang a Beyoncé song complete with choreography. This new, insecure Sawyer is adorable.

“I have no intel,” I say. “Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. Lily will put the ring on when she’s ready.”

He drags a hand through his hair. “I guess.”

Seriously adorable.

“What about you?” He smirks, a gleam in his brown eyes. “Has the giant proposed yet?”

I match his smirk and raise him an eyebrow. “Your erectile dysfunction medication must be confusing you. You should take the pills with food.”

“Come on,” he says. “No need to play coy. I know my boy. He probably professed his love on date three. A ring can’t be far.”

My laughter catches in my throat. The guys joke about Nico’s tendency to fall quickly for women, the big guy a total softy. I’ve known that about him since day one. But I’ve never measured our relationship against those of his past, like he’s never judged me and my promiscuity. We exist as a clean slate. New city. New love. But hearing he’s looked other women in the eye and said I love you scrapes at my heart. He’s never shared those words with me.

Avoiding Sawyer’s comment, I say, “My money’s on you two tying the knot first.”

I hike my bag up my shoulder and move past him, but he places a hand on my arm. “Nico finally told Josh about the trial—that things aren’t looking good. I stopped by to make sure he was okay. He needs you right now.”

My stomach lurches. “I’ll do what I can.”

As I grab the handle, he adds, “If you guys want to cancel tomorrow night, let us know.”

I’d almost forgotten we’d made plans for all six of us to hang out. I miss my friends, but it’s up to Nico. Nodding, I push in. His apartment is larger than mine, airy with its minimal furniture, masculine with its dark colors; a dresser, night table, and king bed barely fill his bedroom. Like mine, the space isn’t special or particularly nice, except for the fact that it smells like him. Like man and muscle and comfort.

He’s sitting on his navy couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. When the door clicks shut, he glances up. “Hey.” His voice is scratchy, roughened with emotion.

“Sawyer told me. Are you okay?”

He answers with a shrug. “Josh had sent his portfolio to that school you showed him. He was excited. Talking about the future. I couldn’t keep lying.”

Dropping my bag, I walk over and stand between his legs. I run my hands over his buzzed head, wishing I had the power to absorb his pain. “How did he take it?”

“As you’d expect. He got mad. Took off for a run. I waited until he got back, and he apologized. Said he deserves whatever he gets. That he may not have stolen that car or bought the drugs, but he wasn’t a saint…” His voice trails off as his hands slide around my waist, pulling me to him.

Holding his head against my stomach, I feather my fingers over his scalp. “Do you want to talk about it?”

With his nose, he pushes up my shirt, kissing my belly button. “No.” Then, “I’ve missed you.”

But he doesn’t love me.

The thought startles me, Sawyer’s words still swimming through my mind. Maybe things aren’t as serious between us as I’d assumed. Maybe he’s not falling as hard as I am. Because right now, the only words I want to say are I love you so fucking much. It would be the first time I’ve ever whispered them to anyone, but his rejection after Aspen unraveled my life. If he doesn’t feel the same now, his admission would bury me under an avalanche of indifference.

“We don’t have to talk,” I say, pushing the thoughts away. Tonight is about him. Helping him the way he always cares for others. This I can do. This I can offer. Show him my love without words. Soothe him while guarding my heart.

He drags his hands up my sides, lifting my top with the movement—up my arms and over my head—then he tosses it on the floor. The air is cool, goose bumps spreading from his nearness, his touch. With a twist of his fingers, he unlatches my bra, and the fabric gathers at my feet. His calluses scratch my back, rough yet gentle. At the gym, he works his body hard, stretching his muscles, building his strength, only to treat me with such care. I arch as his lips skim my nipple, groaning with each pass. Then his hands are on me, caressing, squeezing.

His mouth is hot on my skin.

Suddenly, he picks me up and flips me on my back, splaying me on the couch below him. He doesn’t speak. Not with words. He traces my tattoos: the flowers on my chest, the stallions on my ribs. The choking chicken. Still silent, he leaves me on his couch and returns with a pillow for my head. Always sweet. Always making sure I’m comfortable. He drops a few condoms on the table and licks his lips. Taking his time, he kneels, lifts one of my legs, and unlaces my boot. Before he drags it off, he places a kiss between my thighs, over the thick denim. Heat gathers in my core, the material wet in seconds. God, this man.

Has he worshipped every woman he’s been with? Has he treated them like queens?