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I reach up to touch her forehead. “I don’t think she has a fever.”
“She’s probably just tired.” Sawyer gives me a warm smile I feel in my lady bits. “How’s it going?”
A knot is in my throat, and I don’t hug him… because I want to kiss him. Hell, watching him cuddle and soothe his little niece makes my ovaries ache for his babies.
“You’re always so good with her.” I put my hand on her back and rub.
Ma appears beside me at the door. “Does she need to lie down? Mindy, take her to your room.”
“Yes, ma’am. Right this way…”
Sawyer follows me up the stairs, carrying Dove. The lamp is lit on my bedside table, and he tucks her into my small bed. My insides are racing thinking of the times he crept through my window… the times I crept through his. All the times we made love.
Turning away, I fight to regain control. Am I ready for this? Have I decided?
A box I need to take to my apartment is on my desk. It doesn’t have a lid, and a framed photograph of Noel and me in eighth grade with Sawyer and Leon standing beside us is on top.
Naturally, it catches Sawyer’s eye. “What’s this?”
“Old school photo.” I reach forward and carefully take it from his hand.
It’s a cute picture of my bestie and me, but the reason I framed it and kept it on my dresser for so long was because he was in it, looking so gorgeous in profile. Square jaw, broad shoulders, dark hair, brooding expression…
“I remember these.” He picks up the pictures I printed last summer—the selfie he took of us sitting on the pier together, the picture I took of him in the groves with the golden sunlight making him look like a god.
Both were the basis for the festival poster. Both conjure visions of the life I want to have, a life in a grove with him as my home, holding me. The anchor surrounded by the garland.
“They’re my favorite photographs,” I confess.
“This is the poster.” He looks at me with satisfaction in his hazel eyes.
He’s so open now. I think I’m ready to dive into his arms… I think I’m ready to sever the invisible rope holding me back. “You’re right.”
His brow furrows, and he reaches into the box again. “Dear Sawyer?”
My heart stops when I see the spiral-bound notebook missing the back cover. The curved lines of my handwriting are clear to read.
“You wrote this to me?” His eyes move down the page quickly. “Why didn’t you send it?”
I lunge forward, but it’s too late. He’s reading my letter.
“Sawyer… don’t…” My heart thunders in my ears. My chest squeezes, and I want to die.
Without a word, he lowers the notebook into the box. He goes to the bed and pats Dove’s back then leaves the room.
Confusion twists in my stomach as I listen to the thump of his boots receding down the stairs. Snatching up the notebook, I sit on the side of my bed beside Dove, who is now little-girl snoring.
No one could talk me out of loving you. Not even you.
I love you, Sawyer LaGrange.
Forever…
“Melinda Claire!” Ma calls up the stairs. “We’re waiting on you!”
There’s no way I’m going down for dinner. I can’t possibly sit across from him knowing he read this. Silly Deacon and writing things down. I want to strangle him.
Ma calls again, and I stand slowly, going to the door, descending the stairs like a prisoner being called out for sentencing.
