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’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.
“C’mon, dude, that’s not polite.” Sawyer gives the dog’s collar a gentle tug. “We wait until after coffee to lick people.”
“You have some interesting house rules.”
Sawyer stands and offers me his hand. “You’re tempting me to break them.”
“Is it because I’m hot?” I take his hand.
He pulls me to my feet. “Yes.”
Our eyes lock and we stand like that, hands clasped, for a beat too long. The tension between us—the heat—is back, and I can’t help but bask in it. The fear and the uncertainty that plagued my morning are still there in my head and chest. But Sawyer’s attention softens them. Makes them less immediate, less terrifying.
I have no idea if everything’s going to be okay. But being with Sawyer makes me feel like it’s okay to be myself at the very least. There’s comfort in that, a kind of ease I’ve never experienced with a guy.
“I’m glad you’re here.” His voice is low. Gruff.
I lick my lips. “I am too.”
Mule’s wagging tail hits our legs, waking us from our lust-induced stupor. I drop Sawyer’s hand and he clears his throat.
“So, uh. Coffee.” He puts his hands on his hips. “Right. This way.”
My suspicion about the pancakes is confirmed when I follow Sawyer into a small kitchen at the back of the house. A box of blueberry pancake mix sits beside the stove, and a frying pan, spatula, and glass measuring cup sit in the drying rack beside the massive farmhouse sink.
Guess Sawyer doesn’t leave dirty dishes in the sink to wash themselves.
Also. The man makes pancakes on a Monday morning. I gave myself kudos for throwing together some avocado toast earlier, which is much less involved.
He really just might be the most perfect man to ever exist.
The kitchen is lived in, but neat and very clean. A round table with four chairs is pushed up against the near wall, which is painted a pale shade of yellow. A bowl of fruit—bananas, oranges, pears—sits on the spotless countertop. I can just hear the hum of a dishwasher.
It’s cute and cozy, and I love it.
Sawyer grabs the carafe from the coffeepot on the counter. “You take yours with cream? Sugar?”
“Just cream, please. I can grab—”
“Nope.” Sawyer nods at the nearby living room that opens into the kitchen. “Go sit and relax. I’ll be right there.”
I wonder if it’s hot in here, or if I’m just about to combust. Being with a man who’s a doer—who not only notices when you’re tired and need a break, but gives you that break—is quite possibly the most arousing experience I’ve ever had.
I wander to the family room, which is just as cozy and inviting as the kitchen. A rust-colored sofa sits underneath a wall of windows. The limestone fireplace is massive, the mantel almost as tall as I am. I’d bet my life Sawyer split the logs that sit in a leather sling on the hearth himself.
But it’s the photos in silver frames that crowd the mantel that really catch my eye. There are dozens of them, some filled with photos blurry with age. Others feature close-up pictures of Ella as a baby, Ella dressed as a pumpkin, Ella in front of a Christmas tree.
Sawyer clearly treasures his people and the memories they’ve made together.
It’s clear Sawyer is a family man at heart. He may be the world’s best lay, and a cowboy, and a DILF to end all DILFs. But at his core, he loves his people, and he loves them fiercely.
I suddenly feel short of breath.
There are many, many pictures of Sawyer and his brothers on the mantel. I can tell by their blue eyes and crooked smiles that it’s the five of them as kids. My stomach dips when I see a photograph of a woman with Sawyer’s blue eyes alongside a man with his thick head of dark hair. I pick it up to get a better look.
“My mom and dad.”
I glance over my shoulder to see Sawyer standing behind me with two steaming mugs of coffee in his hands. One of the mugs says WORLD’S BEST DAD. The other has the Texas state flag painted on its side.
“I can see that. You take after them both.” I set the picture back on the mantel and turn to face him, taking the Texas mug out of his hand. “Your parents make a handsome couple.”