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He was one of those people that didn’t talk a lot but when he did, it was worth genuinely listening to. He not only was concerned for Sawyer, but he was also giving Lane something else to focus his attention on besides guilt for something that was out of his control.

“Well. I don’t know all of her triggers, but I know one is unexpected touch, and another is loud sounds or anger.”

I went on to briefly explain what happened at the graveside. I could tell Lane all day everyday he wasn’t at fault, but I’d never forgive myself for the way I treated her that day. Both of them nodded where it was appropriate and asked clarifying questions from time to time. Shame was a rock in my stomach as I talked about my behavior, but they deserved to know I hadn’t been my best self either.

“Hell. I feel even worse,” Lane commented.

“Yeah.” I rubbed a hand down my face.

“Unless there’s something else, I think I might be up for a run.” I needed to burn off the tension of watching her hit the floor earlier. I rubbed my sternum to relieve the sensation that someone was squeezing my heart in a vise.

“Nah, I’m good,” Lane noted quietly.

“You’re going to take care of her, right?” Jonah asked in his deep voice. Ever the caretaker. His onyx eyes met mine.

“Yeah.” I nodded.

I rubbed at the tightness in my chest again. Why did I feel like I would do whatever it took to take care of her? I wanted to believe it was her connection to Abel that made me feel this tie between us, but I knew that couldn’t be it. It’d been this way before I knew about the past. Sawyer had a pull on me unlike anything I had ever experienced before.

“All right, let’s run,” Jonah announced. There was no way I’d last as long as him. No one else in town could. We grabbed what we needed, found parallel treadmills, and I ran seven miles before I called it quits and Jonah and Lane waved me on as I walked out the door.

Chapter

Twenty-Three

Sawyer

Greg was the literal worst. Worst coworker. Worst employee. Worst lunch eater, if that was even a thing.

I couldn’t prove it, but I was convinced he was stealing my lunch from the office fridge. I had made a series of check-ins around lunchtime. I would run to monitor the status of my lunchbox in the fridge as coworkers trickled in and out of the break room and narrowed it down to him. Sure, if he needed my lunch, I would share, but I knew that wasn’t the case, especially when he most likely made a higher salary than I did.

What caused a man to steal his coworker’s lunch? Laziness? Boredom? Did he seriously like my leftovers from dinner the night before that much? The whole thing was bizarre, but now that I had narrowed it down to him, I wasn’t sure how to confront it.

Did I blaze a trail and say, “Greg, why are you stealing my lunch?” That made me want to vomit.

Should I casually say in a conversation around him, “Hmmmm . . . I wonder who ate my lunch?”

But who was going to fess up to being the lunch thief? The leftover lunch thief at that.

I blew out a huff as I perused the fridge, the cold air doing little to combat my hangry temper. As I debated the hassle of going out to lunch after I had packed a perfectly good lunch, I glanced at the screen of my phone to check the time. I had an hour before I needed to be back, but what caught my attention was an unread text that came in four minutes ago. I hadn’t noticed it because my phone had been silenced from court that morning.

Soren:

In Lewis City unexpectedly. Can I buy you lunch?

Lunch sounded amazing. Maybe then I’d stop thinking about how I was going to force a confession out of the leftover lunch thief, Greg. The jerk! The idea of seeing Soren made me feel giddy, and I’d never experienced anything similar before. Weird. I was also anxious after what had happened the last time I’d seen him. At some point, he would stop wanting to spend time with me, but what could it hurt to spend a little time with him until he decided to move on?

Sawyer:

It just so happens that the lunch thief struck again and I’m lunchless.

My phone rang a minute later.

“Hello.”

“Hey, who do I need to set straight about taking my Pretty Girl’s lunch? Send me your location and I’ll be there ASAP.” My Pretty Girl. My belly fluttered again at his words, and I sent him my location as I gathered my sweater and purse.

“Apparently someone that enjoys leftover lasagna,” I whined.