Page 20 of Sawyer
“Oh, he knows my name.” She winks at me over her shoulder.Kill me now.
I stride over, slip an arm through Vanessa’s. “Let me show you the new garden lights before you start interrogating my employee.”
“Employee?” She snickers. “Sweetheart, if he weremyemployee I’d never get any work done.”
Sawyer clears his throat. “Riggs is at the south hedge, Cam. We’ll finish installing the west-gate camera, then circle back. Radios on channel three.” He barely glances at Vanessa, but she flushes like he declared his undying love.
We peel off toward the gazebo. Vanessa digs an elbow into my ribs. “I approve of the new décor—tall, broad, and intense. Does he come with a dimmer switch?”
“Vanessa.”
“What? A girl’s gotta ask.” We reach the koi pond where lily pads bob under fairy lights. She stops, turns serious. “Okay, flirtation aside, how are you really? News says you doubled security on the mural site. Something happen?”
I hesitate, and run my fingers over the tender bruise on my elbow. “Someone tried to scare me.”
Her eyes sharpen. “Cam…”
“I’m fine. Honestly.” I force a smile. “Sawyer’s taking it very seriously. Probably too seriously.”
“Too seriously is his job.” She studies me. “And judging by the way you’re watching him work, you don’t hate the view.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “He’s… professional.”
“Oh, honey, that man’s jawline is a war crime. And you keep licking your lips every time he bends to adjust a cable.”
“I do not!” The koi startle at my squeak.
Before Vanessa can roast me further, Riggs ambles over, beard bristling with zip-tie ends. “Ladies. Cabling’s done. Perimeter’s now a paparazzi-proof laser grid.”
Vanessa spins, zeroes in. “And who’s this? Lumberjack chic. I like.”
“Andrew Riggs, but everyone calls me Riggs,” he says, offering a calloused paw. “I operate power tools and occasionally diplomacy.”
“Vanessa Mercado. I operate social media and occasionally hearts.” She gives him a once-over so blatant I expect sparks. “Need a drink? Cam said I could raid the wine.”
“Wine’s above my pay grade on duty,” Riggs replies, but his grin saysask me again when the cameras stop rolling.
I groan. “Can we at least finish fortifying the fortress before you start speed-dating the security team?”
“Nobody said I can’t multitask.” Vanessa blows me a kiss and glides inside, Riggs in tow, launching into a tale about how she once turned a charity auction into a conga line. The man chuckles—deep and genuine. Traitor.
I turn, and collide with Sawyer’s chest. Somehow he’s materialized behind me without a sound. Almost ghostlike. His gaze tracks Vanessa and Riggs disappearing into the house. “Your friend is… energetic.”
“She collects phone numbers like charity tax receipts,” I mutter. “Sorry.”
“No apology needed.” But something flickers in his eyes—amusement, maybe. Or something tighter. He angles his body closer, subvocalizes into his mic: “Riggs, status?”
Riggs: “Client’s friend insists the wine cellar is haunted. We’re investigating.”
Sawyer’s mouth twitches. “Copy. Avoid spirits other than ghosts.”
“Funny guy,” I say. “Didn’t peg you for one.”
“Few do.” He steps back, and seems to remember himself. Professional. Always. But his gaze lingers a beat too long on my mouth, and the hummingbird under my ribs resumes kamikaze missions.
“Oh, Cam—one sec.” Vanessa bursts out of the French doors again, a bottle of rosé in each hand. “Do you have a corkscrew in the studio? The fancy one shaped like a man flexing?”
“I’ll grab it,” I sigh. Anything to remove myself before my face combusts. “Be right back.”
