Page 1

Chapter 1

Sawyer

Eleven months, eight days, ten hours.

If she thought long and hard about it, Sawyer could likely pinpoint the night of her husband’s death down to the final second. Eleven months, eight days, ten hours, and thirty-eight minutes ago, Olivier was killed while taking a scenic route to the mountains with one of his many lovers. And eleven months, eight days, twelve hours ago, his hands had wrapped—

No. Sawyer picked up her plastic cup of on-tap hard cider and took a calculated sip, just enough to be seen drinking; there was no way she would let half of Vancouver witness her lose control tonight. She was sitting in a warehouse of all places, the flashing strobe lights streaking across the dance floor making her flinch and the blaring music inside the LGBTQ+ event competing with her friends for Sawyer’s attention. Even if her mind wasn’t already elsewhere, Sawyer doubted she could think clearly.

“Hey, Chef.” Cindy nudged Sawyer’s shoulder, and Sawyer caught her friend’s concerned smile. “Everything alright?”

Such a loaded question to ask, and for a lingering moment, Sawyer considered the half-truths and lies that came to mind. “Why wouldn’t it be?” she finally scoffed over the music, lowering her gaze once more to the flimsy cup in her hand. She usually preferred indulging in one of the finer shelved reds when she went out, such as the decadent 2007 Sassicaia from Italy or one of the reliable brands her husband had carried at the restaurant. Locally procured from the Okanagan Valley, Mission Hill’s 2018 Oculus was a thousand flavors superior to tonight’s forgettable cider. In fact, this entire evening out was proving to be one big blip in Sawyer’s tightly-wound, predictable life.

“Well, for one, you’ve been scowling into your drink for the past ten minutes or more,” Lori unhelpfully pointed out, smothering a grin as she lifted her cup to her lips.

An arm went around Sawyer’s shoulder, and seconds later Cindy was pulling Sawyer closer to call out, “It’s been close to a year, Sawyer. You deserve to be happy. You owe it to yourself to get back out there. Let’s dance and have fun.”

“I’m too old for this scene,” Sawyer admitted, briefly meeting her friend’s eyes before frowning at the makeshift dance floor. It was a miracle they had even snatched one of the handful of tables toward the back of the warehouse. Hordes of people in their early twenties danced to the thumping electro music drilling into Sawyer’s ears. The only good thing to come of the last two hours were the occasional Indigo Girls songs she’d heard, but then again, they were so heavily remixed they were barely reminiscent of the originals.

“You’re no older than me, and I’m here. C’mon Sawyer, let loose for once,” Cindy laughed, nudging her again, only grating more on Sawyer’s nerves. It’d been so long since she’d felt free enough to be out with the girls, let alone what it felt like to “let loose.”

How does one even achieve that?

“Mrs. Desmarais, is that you?”

Sawyer cringed at the overtly loud, alcohol-sweet-smelling slur entirely too close to her ear. Ugh, the drunk girl’s voice sounded like nails on a chalkboard, causing the hairs on the back of Sawyer’s neck to stand up. She swiveled in her seat, one of her infamous scowls appearing as she took in an all too familiar face.

You have got to be fucking kidding me .

An old school friend of Sawyer’s twenty-year-old daughter, Bree, stood behind them, her scantily clad dress burning a nightmarish image deep into Sawyer’s mind.

Talk about awkward .

“It’s Sawyer Lavoie now, Madison,” she confirmed, unable to mask the bite in her tone, but her statement fell on drunk, empty ears.

“Nice to see you, Mrs. Desmarais!” The younger woman’s parting smile was rife with desire and intent, and Sawyer sat in muted shock as Madison turned to her trio of friends and shouted, “Bree’s mom is a total fucking MILF!”

Sawyer inwardly groaned, wishing to all get out that the music had been loud enough to drown out that remark. Clearly, Gen Z lacked the manners and finesse of sexual? repression that had been so firmly instilled in Sawyer years ago.

She arched one finely sculpted brow at her friends, not bothering to speak. Her expression said it all. See what I mean?

“Honey, I don’t think that girl has an issue with your age,” Lori shouted, looking past Sawyer to where the group of friends had disappeared into the crowd. Her dark brown eyes held a hint of mischief to them.

“And she’s not the only one. Look for yourself,” Cindy remarked, a certain gleam in her eyes that told Sawyer she was just getting started. Her longtime friend pointed to the dance floor, directing Sawyer’s attention to a woman dressed in an androgynous style. Not counting the blinding effects of the strobe beams, the lighting was low in the warehouse, yet it was blatantly obvious to Sawyer she was being watched. She swallowed, narrowing her eyes at the same time Cindy clapped her back in excitement. “What about that one, huh? Ruggedly promising for a night of fun.”

Sawyer shot her friend an annoyed look. “I didn’t come here to pick up anyone.” She wouldn’t have come at all, except that she hadn’t wanted tonight to be yet another occasion where she let her friend down. But why did Cindy need to make a hobby of trying to match-make? Her love life had been Cindy’s focus for longer than her cheating husband had been in the ground, and that was only with the minuscule contact they’d still had while Olivier was alive.

“You didn’t come here to dance and celebrate my birthday either, apparently, even after I practically had to get on my knees and beg. Really makes me regret surprising you with a ticket,” Cindy decided, getting to her feet and tugging Lori’s hand to follow. “Too bad; we were hoping to enjoy a rare night out with our workaholic friend.”

“I am not a workaholic.”

“Come again?” Cindy leaned closer in disbelief. “Must be all the noise, because I’m sure I heard you wrong. Sawyer, honey, you clock in twelve to fourteen hour shifts day in and day out at the restaurant! I had to book you three weeks in advance to even try to show up tonight!”

The truth of Cindy’s words had a pang of guilt niggling in the shadows of Sawyer’s chest, but she pushed the feeling back down. If she got sentimental over every little thing her friend had said over the years, then she’d not have the backbone she did.

Cindy pressed a kiss to Sawyer’s hair. “I know you love to cook, and I also know running the kitchen saved you in so many ways over the years. But Olivier is gone now, and you’re here. Revel in your newfound freedom.”

Sawyer’s jaw locked, and she forced herself not to engage further. Not only was it the wrong time and place, but frankly, young Madison wasn’t the only one crossing boundaries with Sawyer tonight. Cindy desperately needed to learn how to leave things be. Sawyer glared at her friend’s back as Cindy guided her wife out to the dance floor.

Cindy would never truly understand, and that had always been the problem in their friendship. She and Lori were childless, and both had wonderful parents. Besides Bree, cooking in the restaurant she co-owned with Olivier had been the sole thing in Sawyer’s life she could always count on to nourish her emotional well-being. It was because of Sawyer’s dedication that Desmarais was currently sitting at number one for the best French/French Canadian Fusion restaurant in all of Vancouver. Desmarais had recently earned one of the few coveted Michelin stars in the province, evidence of many years of hard work. Now that she knew a Michelin star for her restaurant was possible, keeping it and earning a second one was all Sawyer could think about.

Cindy was right about one thing though. Now that Olivier was gone, Sawyer was adamant about taking back her life. The way she wanted to. If only Cindy—and everyone else—could stop getting in my way.

An intoxicating whiff of smoke, pine, and rosewood was Sawyer’s only warning before Cindy’s chair was nudged to the side, and the woman she’d seen eyeing her a few minutes ago was squeezing into the now empty space. “Hey there, beautiful. Care for some company?” A cocky grin appeared as the younger woman looked down at Sawyer, her chiseled jawline and fresh, disconnected undercut up close and personal. Perspiration dotted her flushed cheeks and upper lip, bringing undue attention to the silver septum piercing above that perfectly curved mouth.

Sawyer opened her mouth, ready to tell the stranger to fuck off, and accidentally inhaled their cologne again. The scent was engulfing. It was dizzying, sexy even. Not sexy enough to sway Sawyer’s definitive plans to go home alone, but enough that it had her chancing a second look. Her gaze landed directly on the nametag pinned to the left side of the stranger’s floral dress shirt. McCoy was written on the top, along with she/her pronouns directly below it.

“You are … mmmm,” McCoy began, an exaggerated gust of air leaving her lungs. “Nice outfit. I wish I could pull that off.” Sawyer scrunched up her face as McCoy continued to grin. The appraising once-over was so disgustingly obvious Sawyer considered throwing her drink.

Her gaze narrowed to slits. She glanced at the forgotten cider on the table, noting there wasn’t enough to throw at the obvious womanizer. Maybe she could suffer through flirting long enough for McCoy to buy her a drink, and then she could toss it? But that would be a waste of her precious time and a perfectly mediocre drink. What kind of name was McCoy, anyway? Was it a last name? Had she been given the wrong name at birth and chose McCoy after watching one too many Westerns?

“How does it feel to be the most gorgeous person here tonight?” McCoy continued, and Sawyer grimaced. She wasn’t a fan of the rehearsed bullshit some people used to get into another’s bed. She believed in stating intentions in the beginning. Say as you do and do as you say .

“I’m bored,” Sawyer said flatly because she practiced what she preached. It wouldn’t be fair to either of them if she pretended otherwise. She turned back to her near-empty drink, raising the cup to her mouth only to have the melting ice cubes knock against her teeth.

Instead of leaving, however, McCoy pulled Cindy’s chair closer and took a seat. “I’m McCoy. And you are?” she tried again, peering up at Sawyer with a pair of captivating meadow-green eyes framed by a thin layer of eyeliner.

Sawyer swallowed. She should be turned off at the fact McCoy was like a dog with a bone, not silently cursing her half-starved libido for the pulsing response. “You’re still here?” she forced out, harsher than she meant to, but come on. Even playgirls got the hint eventually, right? “If you can think with your brain rather than your adolescent hormones for five seconds, then you’ll figure out exactly how uninterested I am.”

McCoy looked stunned for half a second before a chuckle rose from the fine column of her throat. “Noted, ma’am. My apologies. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

Sawyer watched her leave, allowing herself to briefly linger on McCoy’s backside and strong thighs as she disappeared into the crowd once again. She might not want sex with a stranger, but she wasn’t dead. Her eyes worked just fine, and McCoy was … well, she was something alright.

Sighing now, she checked her watch; almost 1 a.m. Late nights and early mornings were an everyday occurrence for Sawyer, but that didn’t mean she wanted, at forty-three years old, to be sitting alone at a club. One more drink, and then I’m leaving , she thought, glancing around their table for anything that might get stolen if she left it. She swiped Lori’s purse for safekeeping, acknowledging that there was also the risk of someone stealing their table, but she couldn’t sit there for a minute longer.

At the bar, Sawyer gripped her purse and Lori’s to her chest, scowling at quite a few people who bumped into her, one who smelled faintly like vomit. She had to yell her order three times before the bartender heard it, and she was contemplating slipping behind the counter to pour the cider herself when, through a swarm of sweaty bodies, a couple off to the side of the dance floor caught her eye. The first thing Sawyer noticed was the floral dress shirt, as not too many there tonight were dressed like they were on a Hawaiian cruise. And then she saw that smooth undercut that Sawyer’s fingers had itched to feel only thirty minutes before. She narrowed her gaze on the scene, a sour taste in her mouth now as she watched McCoy make out with someone else. Sawyer must have been one in a long lineup of potential lovers for the night. Disgusting. But what did Sawyer expect from a twenty-something womanizer?

As she turned her attention back to the bar, she was supremely glad she’d dodged that bullet.

Mornings were not what they used to be for Sawyer.

She remembered getting up at 5 a.m., five days out of the week, to go running before Olivier woke. On the rare nights Sawyer got home at a decent hour with Bree in tow or to relieve the sitter, she’d still have to wait up for Olivier to come home. She’d found she couldn’t sleep until he was safely in bed, passed out from too much drink or sex. The thought of Olivier waking the neighbors if he forgot his key or him roaming the house in the middle of the night with Bree unaware had always given Sawyer anxiety. So, she’d waited. God, she’d resented him for that. Every morning, she would go for her run and then, like a good little housewife, still have breakfast laid out by the time Olivier woke for work.

Now, on Sundays, Sawyer ran for exactly eighty minutes before beginning her day. After so many years, she had a trail she liked. She’d leave her house located in the gorgeous Dunbar-Southlands, a neighboring suburban community that rested just outside Vancouver, and head further west until she reached Musqueam Park. She’d run the two-and-a-half-kilometer loop before heading home again.

“Not fucking now, body,” Sawyer gasped as a wave of dizziness came upon her just as she was clearing the end of the trail. She bent over, rested her hands on her thighs to support some of her weight, and waited for the nausea to pass. Her breathing was ragged, and as Sawyer struggled to draw air into her lungs, she cursed her chronic high blood pressure. From undue stress and overworking herself, her doctor liked to remind her when she squeezed an appointment into her hectic week. “Relaxation is key”, he’d say.

Sawyer scoffed. It was difficult for her to relax, even while running. Relaxing was the last thing her brain needed. No, all that would do is get her lost in memories, and who needed to be stuck inside that fucked up carousel ride?

“Not today,” she repeated, straightening to her full height. She tilted her face toward the sky, her eyes shutting of their own accord as the early morning rain cooled her heated cheeks. There was nothing like running in the rain. On mornings like this, she forwent her usual Spotify playlist in exchange for the soothing raindrops splattering against her windbreaker. The slap slap of her sneakers against wet pavement, the air’s moisture creating visible puffs each time she exhaled, was the calming conclusion to Sawyer’s long week.

Sawyer continued jogging rather than running the five blocks to her house. She slowed to a walk once she reached her street, dropping her hands on her hips as she fought for another lungful of much-needed air.

Her smartwatch chirped with an incoming notification as Sawyer trudged up her laneway a few minutes later. She enjoyed the burn in her thighs and calves with each step, and a satisfied smirk left her as she checked her watch.

Bree: Good morning, Maman! I’m just up for a pee break but will look forward to you sending pictures of everything you’re doing today. Absolutely no work!

“Good grief, they’re conspiring against me,” Sawyer dropped her arm away and let it slap against her thigh as she reached her doorstep. Per the urging from her family doctor during her last checkup, Sawyer tried like hell now to take Sundays off. Dr. Cooper claimed she needed a rest day, and apparently, Bree agreed. Unfortunately, avoiding work when the restaurant was such an integral part of her life was harder than it looked for someone who thrived on structure.

“Good morning, Chef Lavoie!”

Sawyer looked up from where she had the key in the front door to see her elderly neighbor waving. It wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last, that she rolled her eyes at Dr. Chen’s refusal to call Sawyer by her first name. “What brings you out so early, Dr. Chen? Making house calls?”

The old woman laughed, taking Sawyer’s question as a friendly jab. “You know I’m retired. Came out here because I’d forgotten to put up the car window last night. The front seat was soaked through.”

“I’m surprised they still let you drive.”

Even pushing eighty, Dr. Chen had excellent hearing, and she scoffed good-naturedly. “Enjoy your Sunday, Cranky! Don’t call me if you cut yourself later.”

“I won’t since you’re a retired gynecologist!” Sawyer hollered back, sniggering as she pushed into the house.

She was in the shower when a frustrating, albeit intriguing, image of the rugged woman from the night before came to mind. Turning McCoy away had clearly been for the best. Games were for children, not grown women. No matter how lonely she got in her big house with just Patches to keep her company, she’d never trade in her self-respect.

“Speak of the devil, and she appears,” Sawyer muttered when the long-haired calico rubbed her whiskers against Sawyer’s leg as she toweled off. “Hey, cutie.”

“Meow.” Patches stared up at Sawyer with an expectant look on her adorable bicolored face. One side was completely black, and the other orange, with thin strips of black above the eyebrow.

“This one, Maman. This is the one I want,” Bree had proclaimed years ago as they’d stood in front of the litter of kittens.

“And then she went off to college and left you here with me,” Sawyer murmured, bending down to stroke the soft, thick fur on the feline's chest. She tsked. “You poor thing.”

Drying down her torso, Sawyer pulled the material gently over the long scar a few inches from her belly button. Staring into the bathroom mirror, her gaze fell to where her fingertips were lightly tracing the thin red mark.

“Stop. It wasn’t meant to be.”

Sawyer inhaled, straightening her spine so her breasts jutted out. Her scars were there as a reminder, not for self-pity.