Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 29299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 146(@200wpm)___ 117(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
Breakfasts become a thing.
He makes eggs. I make pancakes. Lacee decides which wins based on vibes alone.
“I like yours better,” she tells me one morning, syrup dripping down her wrist. “Dad burns things when he’s distracted.”
Sawyer shoots her a look. “You’re on thin ice, kid.”
She grins. “You’re always on thin ice.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
Sawyer notices.
He always notices.
Afternoons stretch long and warm. Lacee paints at the table while I sit with her, the windows open, the mountains breathing in slow and steady. Sometimes Sawyer is home, sometimes he’s not. When he is, he pretends not to watch us.
He fails.
I can feel his gaze on my back when I reach for a glass, when I tuck my leg beneath me on the couch, when Lacee leans into my side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
It doesn’t scare him.
That’s the problem.
Evenings are the worst.
The porch becomes our neutral ground. A place where everything is quiet enough to hear what we’re not saying. Lacee curls up with a book, feet tucked under Sawyer’s thigh. I sit across from him, knees pulled to my chest, the air between us heavy with unsaid things.
“You’re spoiling her,” he says one night, voice low.
“I’m enriching her,” I shoot back. “There’s a difference.”
He smirks. “She asked for dessert after dinner three nights in a row.”
“She’s ten. That’s her job.”
His laugh is brief. Rough. It hits something in my chest I didn’t know was exposed.
Later, when Lacee goes to bed, the silence stretches. Sawyer doesn’t retreat like he used to. He stays. Sits. Talks.
About nothing.
About everything.
“You always this patient?” he asks once.
“With kids,” I say. “Yes.”
“And with men?”
I arch a brow. “Depends on the man.”
His gaze sharpens. Darkens.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “You’re walking a line.”
I meet his eyes. Hold them. “You drew the line, Sawyer. I’m just standing near it.”
The tension snaps tight. He doesn’t touch me.
That restraint feels intentional.
It unnerves me.
Because Sawyer Rivers doesn’t lack control.
He’s drowning in it.
One night, after Lacee falls asleep on the couch, Sawyer lifts her without a word. Carries her inside like she weighs nothing. I follow, quiet, heart pounding at the intimacy of watching him in this space—soft, careful, devoted.
He tucks her in. Adjusts the blanket. Brushes a kiss over her hair.
My chest aches.
When he comes back out, he stops short, like he’s surprised to find me still there.
“You don’t have to stay up with me–I’m a night owl,” he says.
“I know but I like to.”
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. Watching me like I’m something that might bolt if he blinks.
“You’re good for her,” he says again.
The words land differently this time.
“And for you?” I ask quietly.
His jaw tightens. “That’s where it gets complicated.”
“Because of your wife?” I ask.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. “Among other things.”
“And because I’m younger,” I add. “Thirteen years, right?”
His mouth curves, sharp and humorless. “You did the math.”
“I’m not naïve,” I say. “And I’m not reckless.”
His eyes flick over me, slow and deliberate. “Could’ve fooled me.”
Heat floods my face. “Excuse me?”
“You walk into my house,” he says, voice dropping, “turn it upside down, and look at me like you know exactly what you’re doing.”
My pulse jumps.
“Do you think I don’t feel it?” he continues. “Do you think I don’t want you?”
The air crackles.
I stand. Slowly. Step closer. Stop just out of reach.
“Then why don’t you?” I ask.
His breath changes. Deepens.
“Because wanting you isn’t the same as deserving you,” he says. “And because you deserve more than a man still learning how to breathe again.”
The honesty cuts deeper than any touch.
I swallow. “I didn’t come here to save you.”
“I know,” he says. “That’s why it scares the hell out of me.”
We stand there, the space between us vibrating.
Then Lacee coughs in her sleep.
The moment breaks.
Sawyer steps back. Runs a hand through his hair. “You should get some rest.”
I nod. Turn. Pause at the hallway.
“Goodnight, Sawyer.”
“Goodnight, Tessa.”
In my room, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, my body buzzing with things I’m not supposed to want.
Summer routines have locked us into each other’s orbit.
And I’m starting to realize I don’t want to escape it.
Chapter 5
Sawyer
Pulling back is easy.
It’s the one thing I’ve trained myself to do well.
Structure. Distance. Control.
The morning after that porch conversation, I rebuild the walls before the sun even crests the snow-capped ridge.
I’m already dressed when Tessa comes into the kitchen. Boots laced. Shirt tucked. Firehouse ready.
Professional.
Neutral.
She pauses in the doorway when she sees me.
The hesitation is small.
But I notice it.
“You’re up early,” she says.
“Always am.”
Her eyes flicker over me like they’re looking for something. Warmth. Weakness. The man who stood too close to her in the dark and admitted he wanted her? He’s gone.
I keep my voice clipped. “Lacee’s schedule today?”
“Library at ten. Swim lessons at two.”
“Good.” Silence stretches. She waits for more. I don’t give it.
“Coffee?” she asks.