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“Me either,” I wheeze, “but what a way to go.”
Sawyer kisses my neck and wraps his arms around my midsection. “That was pretty amazing. I might just decide to keep you here with me all the time, sweetheart.” He drags his lips down my back, but my sex-fogged brain is stuck on his comment.
My heart hammers in my chest at the thought of staying. It’s way too soon to think like that, but now that the seed is planted, it’s starting to take root. It’s not like I haven’t been caught up in the smoke and mirrors of smooth talkers before. Oh, I’ve definitely met my fair share of men who talk a big game and can’t follow through for shit. I’ve judged them so wrong before that I wonder if I’m able to actually tell the good ones from the rotten tomatoes.
Sawyer feels like a good one. Besides the fact that the sex is dynamite, there’s also the fact that I like spending time with him and talking. It’s not just about sex with him, and I don’t get the impression that it’s that way for him either. He’s attentive, supportive, and nothing like those other frogs I’ve kissed. I think I have a good one.
I just pray that I’m right.
* * *
When Sawyer hops in the shower, I head down to the kitchen for food. It’s nearly four in the afternoon, so breakfast is out. Hell, lunch is out too. It’s nearly dinnertime as I check his fridge for something I could make for a quick meal. I’m meeting everyone at the hospital at five thirty so that gives me just enough time to eat and freshen up before heading out.
Maybe Sawyer will want to go with me.
I’m smiling to myself as I pull chicken breasts and fresh broccoli from the refrigerator, and a pound of whole grain pasta from the pantry. It takes me a few moments to locate a large pan for the noodles and a skillet for the chicken. I’m just grabbing a large kitchen knife when the doorbell rings. I’m not really familiar with what protocol is for answering the guy you’re sleeping with’s door, but I don’t really have time to ask Siri.
The doorbell chimes a second time, which spurs me into action. I round the corner in the dining room and enter the foyer. I glance up and spy my panties hanging from the light–clear up on the second floor.
Awesome.
The doorbell rings a third time. Releasing the deadbolt, I swing open the door and stop dead in my tracks. There, standing on the front porch of the man I’m sleeping with is Carrie Doherty, all five foot ten inch, one-hundred pounds soaking wet, Victoria’s Secret model, and actress in the latest Chris Pine movie, Carrie.
And Sawyer’s ex-wife.
“Can I help you?” I ask when I find words.
“And you are?” she asks, looking me up and down from behind her designer sunglasses. I’m sure she notices my wrinkled clothes, my makeup-less face, and my recently sexed-up hair, and by the look of disdain pouring from her body, she clearly finds me lacking.
“AJ,” I say sweetly, though on the inside my tone is anything but.
“You must be another one of his girls.” The way she says it instantly grates on my nerves.
“I’m his only girl,” I grind out, probably also grinding down my molars.
She laughs–actually laughs in my face. “Oh, that’s cute. I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you’ll never be his only girl. Believe me, I thought the same thing once upon a time, and I had his ring on my finger.” Carrie makes a gesture with her hand, showing me her now-empty ring finger.
“Is there something I can help you with?” I ask.
“I need to speak with Sawyer,” she states bluntly.
“I’m sorry, he’s not available at the moment. Maybe if you had called first, we could have saved you a trip,” I reply, starting to close the door.
Her perfectly manicured eagle talon slams on the door. “Listen, sweetheart, I’m sure it’s all wine and roses at this point, but let me give you a piece of free advice. Sawyer Randall is a cheater and a liar. Unless you want to spend your nights at home, alone, while he’s out living the highlife with girls younger and much prettier than you, then I suggest you move along, because a man like Sawyer doesn’t change. He didn’t for me, and he surely won’t change for a measly school teacher who wears last year’s Target line and doesn’t know how to moisturize,” she spews, her perfume-laced venom flying in my direction and, sadly, hitting its mark.
I gape at the gorgeous woman in front of me, reeling from her words, and wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole.
“You don’t want to believe those rag magazines, fine. But believe the woman who was married to him for three years. Sawyer Randall will use you until he’s had his fill and then walk away without a care in the world. He’s completely–”
“Carrie?” His voice is like a salve to my soul and the nail driven straight into it, all at the same time. “What are you doing here?” he asks as he comes down the stairs and approaches the door.
“Sawyer,” she gushes, stepping around me and into his house, and straight into his arms. Well, actually, he’s just standing there, shocked by her appearance, maybe? Or maybe it’s the fact that he wasn’t expecting company and he’s only wearing a towel?
Fun times.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, stepping back and out of her reach.
“I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by,” she coos, touching her chest and smiling her blinding white smile at her ex.
