Page 65 of Sawyer

“Don’t ask me questions you already know the answer to,” I reply.

“And you like the backward baseball hat. Noted.”

My heart hiccups. He’s not asking me out. But the idea that he’s noticing what I like and doing more of it?—

That has to mean something, right?

“I’m relatively certain almost every woman with a pulse likes guys in backward baseball hats.”

Reaching behind his head, he adjusts his hat again. “But not all guys in backward hats are created equal.”

“You’re really jonesin’ for an ego boost this morning, aren’t you?”

“Nah.” He’s grinning. “Well, okay, maybe a little bit. But really, I just wanna make you smile.”

A hot press of tears hits the back of my eyes. I blink. “Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Being hotandnice.”

His expression softens. “I won’t stop. Not ever. Especially not the hot part.”

I laugh, and I feel myself slipping. Floating, more like it. Like all my vital organs are rising up into the air, weightless, immune to gravity. It’s the way your body feels when you crest a hill on a roller coaster and it plunges downward.

I’m so turned on that I could scream.

“C’mon, let’s get some caffeine.” He nods at the house.

I climb the front steps with unsteady legs, the smell of fresh paint and new lumber filling my head. Sawyer opens the door—of course he doesn’t lock it, I bet no one in Hartsville does—and gestures me inside.

“After you.”

Shoving my hands in the pockets of my jacket, I smile. “Thanks.”

I’m hit by a gust of warmth as I step inside, along with the sugary sweet smell of—yep, I bet that’s pancakes.

“I’ll take your coat,” Sawyer says, holding out his hand.

Taking it off, I watch him hang it on the nearby rack. Then he shoulders off his vest and hangs it beside mine. I notice the tiny fleece jacket that’s covered in cute red-and-white mushrooms that hangs on the rack’s bottom branch. There’s something that looks like a life vest, or maybe a dog jacket, hanging there too.

Right on cue, a deliciously droopy dog ambles into the hallway.

Sawyer drops down to give the dog a pet. “Hey, Mule.”

“Mule?” I chuckle, dropping down beside Sawyer. “That’s actually a perfect name for him.”

“That’s the name he came with. I think it stuck because Ella was able to say it, even at one and a half years old. He’s some kind of Lab basset hound mix we can’t quite figure out.”

Mule noses my outstretched hand. “You got a dog with a one-and-a-half-year-old in the house?”

Sawyer’s shoulder brushes against mine when he shrugs. “Felt like Ella needed a playmate. Couldn’t give her a sibling, so …”

Not for the first time, I wonder what Sawyer’s story is. He hasn’t mentioned Ella’s mom. Feels weird not knowing if he’s a widower, divorced, estranged, or what.

Then again, I don’t exactly love talking about my relationship with Dan. I imagine Sawyer will tell me about his past if—when—he’s ready.

Mule lets me pet him, even leaning in to give my cheek a nice, slobbery lick.

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