Page 30 of Karma's Kiss

“Sawyer Garnett, you’re too sweet! I could just eat you up.”

She makes us redo our fireplace formal photos from our first date, this timewiththe sunflowers. I don’t even argue; it’ll just make it take longer if I do. I let Sawyer wrap his strong arms around my waist and I lean back against him, and for those few seconds my shield slips and real honest feelings creep up, an intense desire to stay right where I am, nestled against him.

When we walk outside, Sawyer opens the truck door for me, and we both shyly smile at each other as I climb in. “Feel like the pressure’s really on now,” he says. “I know my grandfather’s going to ask me about every little detail.”

“He’s actually asked me to write up a full review and rate our date on a scale of one to ten.”

My delivery is so deadpan I expect him to be confused (sometimes hot guys just aren’t that funny), but Sawyer gets it. He winks and bows deeply before closing my door and rounding the front of his truck. I fiddle with my hands on my lap, trying to dig deep for some vigilante hero determination.

Once we’re driving away from Queenie’s house, he asks, “And what music would the lady like?” with a formal tone, like he’s addressing the queen of England.

“Heavy metal.”

“Unfortunately, we’re in the middle of nowhere, Texas,” he says, affecting the same polished accent. “I can provide you with country orcountry.”

I hum like I’m really mulling it over. “I’ll takecountry.”

We lock eyes and laugh, and a surge of guilt rises up inside of me like a tsunami. I hate this. I frown out the window, trying to think of anything that could possibly get me back in the right headspace, but nothing works. I might not be cut out for this mission.

Sawyer takes me to The Black Door, Oak Hill’s most upscale restaurant. When it first opened a few years back, it was allanybody could talk about.Have you seen there’s a dress code? Is the foodreallythat good?!I’ve never been because Queenie called to get the prices once (fancy restaurants never have them listed online) and exclaimed, “HOT DAMN!” before slamming the phone down like it was on fire. “I hope they don’t charge me for that call. I can’t afford it.”

“I feel slightly underdressed,” I note as Sawyer ushers me inside the dimly lit restaurant.

“You look great,” he insists, and I’m pleased to find his conviction and confidence are contagious.

We’re seated at the chef’s table, which provides a view of the working kitchen and its entertaining drama.

“This issocool.”

Sawyer grins as he unfolds his napkin onto his lap. “I’ll admit it was my grandfather’s idea. He thought my picnic sounded ‘cheap’. Told me I had to up my game.”

I can’t help but laugh. “The picnic was sweet. Really. Tell him he’s being too hard on you.”

The Black Door has an extensive cocktail menu, and since we shared a bottle of wine on Saturday, we opt for cocktails tonight: a gin fizz for me and a spicy paloma for him. When they’re delivered, we swap and taste each other’s.

“I prefer yours,” I tell him with a shake of my head. “I’m always so bad at ordering cocktails.”

“Take it,” he says, keeping ahold of my gin fizz. “This one’s good too.”

There is no chance of me returning to the mental state I was in a few days ago. Forcing Sawyer to play the role of No-Good Womanizing Heartbreaker is impossible. That persona was originally based on old prejudices and high school memories. Since I’ve returned to town, he’s been nothing but nice to me and to everyone else around him. He didn’t have to let me keep his cocktail when we both know it wasmuchbetter than the oneI ordered. And even now, he’s going out of his way to be nice to our server. Sawyer addresses her as “ma’am” when he calls her over to ask if she wouldn’t mind bringing us more bread when she has a free second.

She responds with a wink. “Right away, sugar.”

My shifting opinion of him is making me sweat. Guilt is rising inside me like bad heartburn.

When it’s time for us to decide what we want to eat, Sawyer suggests we get a few things to share.

“I can never decide on just one thing, and inevitably, I’m going to want some of what you’re having.”

I smile, relieved, because that’s what I was hoping we’d do. “Okay, what about the roasted artichokes to start?”

“Now you’re speaking my language.” He grins.

“And at least one pasta dish?”

Then we say, “Fettuccini?” in tandem before laughing.

And because it feels like a magic trick we can’t repeat twice, we agree to look over the main entrees and say what we want to order on three.

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