Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 110113 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 551(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110113 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 551(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
Sawyer adjusts his hat. “Thanks. It’s the house I grew up in. Was kind of a mess, but we fixed her up over the fall. Ella and I moved in about a month ago.”
“How cool that you live in your family’s house,” I say. “Bet Ella loves hearing stories about y’all growing up here.”
His dimples pop again. I wonder if I’m going to faint.
“She does, yeah. As a matter of fact, she keeps asking Wyatt to teach her how to play poker. I told her that my dad taught all of us how to play, but that Uncle Wyatt is the best bluffer. She says ‘fluffer,’ which has him howling every time.”
“Y’all are cute.”
“Cute?” He tilts his head, frowning. “Last I checked, you said I was ‘hot as fuck.’ ”
My blood thrums with a rush of heat. Sawyer’s flirting with me.
I love flirting with him, probably because I’m able to let loose and just say what’s on my mind.
At the same time, I need to be smart. But I guess my need to have fun supersedes that.
“If memory serves, you were the one who said we were hot,” I reply. “I said we were cute.”
“Why not both?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I think I like ‘hot’ better, too.”
His eyes flick down my body. It’s a quick perusal, but it’s intentional, shameless even, and very, very sexy. The spark between my legs flares into a full-blown fire.
Wow this is happening fast. In many ways, it feels like we’re picking up right where we left off that night in Austin.
In others, it feels like we’re starting from scratch. I found out two days ago that Sawyer is a dad. There’s clearly so much about him I don’t know.
I’m dying to do some digging.
I’m also doing my best to slow things down. I’ve been down this road before—Dan was great in the beginning too—and I have no desire to end up at a dead end all over again.
“You are hot, Ava.” Sawyer’s eyes meet mine, his lips twitching. “Now you say that I’m hot too.”
“That why you wore the backward baseball hat to drop-off? To tease us unsuspecting preschool moms with your hotness?”
“So you do think I’m hot.”
I laugh. This is why I love flirting with Sawyer. He doesn’t make me feel stupid or ashamed for being, well, me.
In fact, he very much seems to enjoy my less-than-appropriate side.
“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 hot and nice.”
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?”