Page 10 of Sawyer
“Professionally gorgeous,” she mutters, returning to her seat.
I pretend concentration, though heat coils low in my belly. Yes, Sawyer is gorgeous. And yes, the way his eyes follow me—not possessive, but aware—is doing scandalous things to my focus.
Two hours flash by in a technicolor blur. Finished pieces dry on makeshift clotheslines, shivering like prayer flags. The teachers hug me, promising to use the techniques in class. Becca lingers.
“So, Sawyer,” she says coyly, extending a paint-stained hand. “Any chance you moonlight as a model?”
His lips twitch. “No ma’am. Strictly in the protection business.”
“Pity.” She winks at me. “Cam, guard that one. He’s lethal.”
I manage a laugh, nudging her toward the exit. “See you soon, Bec.”
Once the last teacher filters out, I start cleaning brushes. Sawyer appears at my elbow, rolling up his sleeves, andholy arm porn. His forearms should be illegal. “Let me.”
I watch muscles flex beneath tanned forearms as he swirls sable bristles through jar after jar. “Didn’t know bodyguards came with art-cleaning abilities.”
He glances sideways. “We adapt.”
“Always adapting,” I echo softly, aware how close his hip is to mine. Static arcs between us, a live wire just begging to be touched.
The custodian coughs from the doorway, breaking whatever spell forms over soap-suds. Sawyer stiffens, professionalism snapping back into place.
“Time to roll,” he murmurs.
The drive homecoils with thick silence. The sun beats on the windshield. Sawyer’s sunglasses hide his eyes, but I feel them anyway. Halfway across the Saint Pierce Bridge, I risk a look. His grip on the wheel is white-knuckled.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Thinking,” he replies.
“Dangerous habit.”
That earns a ghost of a smile. “Just replaying entry points. The school felt safe, but complacency?—”
“—is the real war zone. I remember.” I nudge his arm with mine, teasing. “Guess I should be flattered you stayed glued to my six.”
He shifts in the seat, tension crackling. “Wasn’t exactly a hardship.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning like a lovesick teen.
Back at the estate, late-afternoon light drapes the facade in rose-gold. Edgar greets us with news of fresh-baked focaccia. I intend to shower first, but Sawyer places a gentle hand on my elbow.
“Walk with me. Five minutes.”
I follow him through French doors onto the west terrace. The garden sprawls: wisteria, fountain, ivy climbing marble columns. He stops beneath a willow, where dappled shade paints stripes across his jaw.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing’s wrong.” His voice is low, sandpaper-soft. “Just needed a breath before we dive back into fortress mode.”
My pulse skitters. We stand inches apart—close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his chest.
“Cam,” he says, sweeping a stray hair from my face, fingers lingering at my temple, “today at the school… I realized I can’t guard you if I’m distracted.”
“Distracted how?” The question flutters from my lips like a dare.
“By this.” His hand slides to cradle my jaw, thumb tracing the bow of my mouth. Electricity detonates behind my ribs.
