Page 4 of Sawyer
“And stubborn?”
“Stubborn keeps me busy.”
Her smile—equal parts gratitude and challenge—fills the corridor with warm light. “Busy isn’t always bad.”
We resume our trek to the kitchen, but the dynamic has shifted. She lets me walk half a step ahead, yet her presence feels like a current licking my shoulders. This job just morphed from routine to personal, and my instincts buzz with more than protective zeal.
Cam sidles up as we reach the archway. “One more rule, Sawyer.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“No calling me Miss Kingsley unless you’re mad at me. It’sCam.”
“Cam,” I repeat, tasting the single syllable, how it hums between us like a live wire.
She pats my chest—right over my heart—and the pink paint smear transfers to my shirt. “Good boy.” She winks. “Now about that lemonade…”
I watch her disappear into sun-drenched tiles, and the slap of her bare feet echoes against my ribs. Paint on my shirt, adrenaline in my veins, a mystery envelope in my pocket. This case is going to be hell on my composure—and I’m not entirely sure I mind.
After all, I did promise Dean I don’t rattle.
But standing in Camille Kingsley’s wake, heartbeat drumming double-time, I realize something else: bombs are simple.It’s masterpieces that are unpredictable—and infinitely more dangerous.
And I’m already in the splash zone.
2
Camille
I sip lemonade slowly, savoring the tart-sweet burst on my tongue, trying not to notice how my heartbeat hasn’t quite settled since Sawyer Maddox walked into my life with his rugged charm and bulletproof everything. Sawyer’s presence fills the entire kitchen. The man is a solid wall of muscle, dressed in dark tactical gear that outlines every broad, chiseled plane of his body.
He stands at the kitchen island, examining that cursed envelope he confiscated in the hallway. His brow is furrowed in concentration, the deep lines emphasizing his seriousness. I can't help but find his intensity fascinating, even if it represents everything I’ve fought to escape—control, limitations, rules.
“You’re staring,” he says without looking up, his voice smooth with just enough gravel to make my skin prickle.
“I’m observing,” I correct lightly. “There’s a difference.”
He lifts his gaze, and the intensity in his eyes momentarily steals my breath. “And what have you observed so far?”
“You don’t trust easily,” I answer, setting my glass down carefully. “And you take yourself very seriously.”
A slow smirk tilts his lips, transforming his stoic expression into something mischievous and surprisingly enticing. “Is that a bad thing?”
“Depends on the context,” I say, matching his playful tone. “Are you this serious all the time, or only when you’re saving damsels in distress?”
“You don’t strike me as a damsel,” he replies smoothly, his gaze dipping just a fraction, enough to send warmth skimming along my skin. “More like trouble wrapped in paint-splattered denim.”
I chuckle, leaning against the counter, my fingers tracing idle patterns through a scattering of spilled sugar granules. “Maybe you’re smarter than you look, Mr. Maddox.”
“Careful,” he warns, eyes sparkling. “Underestimating me would be a mistake.”
“I’d never.” I shake my head dramatically, enjoying our little banter more than I should. “Underestimating you sounds like a dangerous game.”
“Yet you don’t seem scared,” he points out softly, stepping closer, his voice lowering to an almost intimate level. The air between us grows heavy, electric, charged with possibilities I shouldn’t even be considering.
“I don’t scare easily,” I whisper, chin lifted defiantly.
He leans slightly closer, the scent of cedar and clean linen wrapping around me. “Maybe you should.”
