Page 11

Chapter 11

Sawyer

Sawyer: Comment ca va, mon amour? I’m about to bake your favorite dish this morning.

Sawyer smiled softly, rereading the SMS before pressing Send. Her hand fluttered to her chest as she thought of her daughter so far away. She’d been in San Francisco for over a year, and Sawyer hadn’t made the time to visit.

I need to change that. There had to be a way to have the restaurant succeed and still take a week off to fly to California.

Without sacrificing those stars you want so much? Doubtful, a voice niggled at her.

Sighing, Sawyer set her phone down and picked up her cooling mug of coffee instead. As she took a sip, she glanced around the empty kitchen. It was peaceful here this early at Desmarais. It would be another hour until Kelly arrived, and Sawyer enjoyed the solitude. Now that she was short a pastry chef, there was an extra workload, but it was nothing Sawyer hadn’t dealt with before. After twenty-three years, she’d seen more than enough Dustins of the world that firing one didn’t faze her one bit. Running a respectable restaurant was crucial, not just for the restaurant’s long-term success, but to her personally. It had always been a sign that, over the years, no matter what awful thing was happening in Sawyer’s life, hearing how wonderful Desmarais was always made her feel better.

Sawyer washed her hands and set about baking Bree’s beloved pouding ch?meur, a simple, maple-based cake anyone could make. It was all about the quality of the ingredients that went into it and the delicate balance of slowly combining and alternating the dry mix and the milk with the rest of the wet ingredients. As biased as it might be, Sawyer refused to use anything other than real Québec maple syrup in her recipe. Come to think of it, perhaps that was why Bree had so much trouble making it. She was missing a touch of home.

Once the batter was well mixed, Sawyer used a heavy ladle to pour it all into waiting pans. When most of it was out, she picked up the oversized mixing bowl and scraped the remaining batter into the pans as well, smoothing everything out before putting each one in the oven.

Sawyer heaved a sigh, blowing a strand of her dark hair free from her vision. Her chest rose and fell harder than it usually did after carrying the trays and lugging the flour bin around.

“Certainly not in your twenties anymore, are you?” she muttered, taking a long drink from her stainless-steel water bottle. Her eyes drifted closed as the cool liquid trickled down her throat. She sighed again, this time in contentment. She wasn’t in her thirties anymore either, she mused. What was a young thing like McCoy Miller doing chasing her? Sawyer shook her head, her gaze landing on the edge of the island where she’d left her phone. It didn’t make a lick of sense.

Their strange interaction Saturday before Sawyer had gone to work had been at the forefront of her mind. The things McCoy had said, the odd tingle of anticipation and longing Sawyer felt at hearing them. It was … peculiar. What’s more, when she’d finally fallen asleep the last two nights, it hadn’t been her usual nightmares. It had been of McCoy—or more specifically, McCoy’s mouth on Sawyer’s, her strong hands parting Sawyer’s thighs … Sawyer had woken that morning slick with arousal, the memory of McCoy’s lustful green gaze staring up at her while her lips and tongue were buried in her sex.

Sawyer flushed with the reminder. Oral pleasure wasn’t something she had a lot of experience with. And she’d never once climaxed from it. Sex with her husband had been an uncomfortable experience at the best of times, and earlier in their marriage, Olivier had made it abundantly clear he had never enjoyed giving oral.

How do I know my next partner won’t think the same? Or that I won’t feel just as uncomfortable?

It was one of many worries Sawyer had. Not dating took care of the issue easily enough.

Curious about how McCoy was doing alone in her garage, Sawyer pulled up the surveillance feed on her phone. It was closing in on eight thirty, so it was possible the younger woman had already left for her day job. To Sawyer’s surprise, McCoy was leaning against Olivier’s old workbench with the phone pressed close to her ear. Sawyer glanced at the McLaren. McCoy had got several parts off in just the six or so hours she’d been there over the last two days. The work area appeared clean now, as if McCoy was getting ready to leave her house.

“Who is so important that she’d risk being late for work?” Sawyer mused aloud. Glancing around her spacious kitchen at Desmarais to make sure she was still alone, curiosity got the best of her, and she unmuted the video.

McCoy’s smooth lilt immediately floated over Sawyer, doing weird things to her insides. “Stop that,” she scolded her traitorous body and scowled into her phone.

“Aww, you know I’m never too busy to talk to my favorite woman,” McCoy practically cooed into her phone.

Sawyer’s hackles rose with the obvious affection in McCoy’s voice, and she had to release the tight grip she had on her cell. Who was McCoy talking to? Just how many women did she have?

“I’m sorry I haven’t been over. How about I come Saturday after work? I could stay the night,” McCoy continued into the phone, now toying with her car keys as she talked. Not an ounce of stress or impatience emanated from her body.

“She works for her father. No wonder she’s not worried about being late,” Sawyer huffed, unsure if she was more annoyed at that fact or watching—and hearing—McCoy sweet talk some naive woman right in front of her.

Sawyer’s throat flushed as realization kicked in. She was the one invading McCoy’s privacy. God, I’m spying on a private conversation. What is wrong with me?

Clarity snapped her out of it, and Sawyer set the phone down on the counter to stretch. She was about to close the surveillance feed when McCoy said the last thing Sawyer expected.

“I love you too, Nana. I’ll see you Friday.”

Nana ?

A surprised bout of laughter bubbled up from Sawyer’s throat. McCoy was speaking to her nana ?

“You are just full of surprises, aren’t you?” Sawyer said softly, closing out the app. As she returned to the sink to rewash her hands, try as she might, she couldn’t fully erase the smile from her face.

This is precisely why I don’t bother making big breakfasts, Sawyer thought two days later as she juggled a bowl of beaten eggs under one arm. With her free hand, she grabbed the tongs to flip the bacon sizzling in the pan, cursing in both French and English when the fat spit out at her.

“Should have stuck to my usual,” she grumped aloud, setting the tongs down again before whisking the last of the eggs. Bach played on the Bluetooth speaker attached to the wall beside the kitchen’s entrance, and she hummed the low notes as she tossed freshly chopped chives into the eggs.

After her early morning run, Sawyer had felt better than she had in a long while. The nausea had been almost non-existent, and the idea of a home-cooked breakfast— with bacon —sounded too good to pass up. Unfortunately, having to defrost the package first was a time waste in her already carefully constructed routine. Now she was running behind, and her island was in a state of disarray with loaves of bread rising and fresh cinnamon rolls taking up residence.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

The faint sound of McCoy’s hammer had Sawyer pausing mid-stir. She’d let the younger woman in shortly after five, and every so often, she could hear the racket.

A shrill ring echoed in the kitchen, and it took Sawyer a minute to realize it was her landline jangling on the wall behind her. Huh, random. No one ever called her on that old thing. She let it ring, stirring her eggs around in the frying pan before she turned off the bacon.

Apprehension tickled the back of her neck as an image of a hurt and scared Bree flashed through her mind, and she snatched the phone from its cradle. “Hello, Bree?”

Melodic laughter floated through the line. “Not Bree, I’m afraid.”

Sawyer frowned at the familiar sound. “Cin? Why are you calling me on here?”

“Well, good morning to you too, crank. I wouldn’t have rung this number if you could stay attached to your mobile. Where is it this time? In the bathroom?”

“In my purse, ready to go to work,” Sawyer said in exasperation. Fetching her favorite aged cheddar from the fridge, she placed that and the grater on the counter. Then she stirred her eggs one last time before turning off the stove. She spied the time on the wall clock resting between the kitchen and living room. “I’m running late, Cin. What can I help you with?”

The drill went off in the garage this time, and Sawyer’s thoughts raced to the woman wielding it. McCoy had shown up in the same overalls and work boots she wore every day while working, but a teensy part of Sawyer was dying to see what was underneath. A T-shirt or a sports bra? Was her skin slick with sweat?

Mm-hmm. Sawyer’s teeth sunk into her lower lip at the tantalizing image of how McCoy had looked the first time she’d worked on the McLaren. She had stripped her overalls down to her waist, and the black sleeveless shirt she’d worn had shown off defined muscles and tattoos.

“Yoo-hoo. Sawyer, are you listening?”

Not even a little.

“Sorry, can you repeat that?” Sawyer gave her head a shake, focusing on Cindy and her food once again.

“I was wondering if you’d given any more thought to dinner this Sunday?”

“Oh …” Sawyer hesitated.

“You completely forgot about it, didn’t you? C’mon, how long has it been since you went anywhere other than Desmarais? Not including the warehouse a month ago or a doctor’s appointment.”

“A while, I suppose,” Sawyer reluctantly admitted. It’d been a year or more since she’d even stepped foot in a grocery store. That was what DoorDash and curb pickup were for.

“I suppose it could work. Unless I get bogged down planning the new menu.”

Cindy chuckled. “Finding reasons to bail already, I see.”

“Excuse me? I’m too fucking busy to ‘find’ reasons, Cindy,” Sawyer said tightly. She turned the burners off, her movements jerky. She should definitely hang up now.

“I’m just playing with you, Sawyer. No need to bite my head off. Honestly,” Cindy grumbled, “No sense of humor.”

Sawyer bit down on her tongue, hating how defensive she was. She sighed. “I’m … sorry. I’ve got a lot going on right now. I’ll just … Call me tomorrow, will you?” She clicked off before Cindy could reply, tossing the phone onto the island. Closing her eyes, Sawyer took several long breaths to loosen the tightness in her chest. The pulse in her temple was throbbing with a vengeance.

“Why do I bother?” she groused, feeling her appetite evaporate as she looked at her breakfast on the stove. She’d been ravenous only a few moments ago, but Cindy had a special way of getting under her skin in the simplest of ways.

“ Tabarnak , Cindy.” She carried the frying pan to the garbage and was about to toss the eggs when the sound of a saw coming from the garage slowly registered. McCoy. Rather than waste the food, Sawyer could ask the mechanic if she was hungry. But what message would that send? Sawyer certainly wouldn’t be offering breakfast each time McCoy was here to work.

It had been almost a week since McCoy had admitted she liked Sawyer. A week of unspoken tension between them and too much of saying one thing and meaning another. At least on her part, and that wasn’t like Sawyer at all. Her body responded differently when she argued with McCoy than when she would argue with Olivier. Her heart raced with excitement, not her usual fight or flight response. She felt desirable, not at all like the woman she’d been for the last fifteen years.

Sawyer could admit her dislike of McCoy might not be as authentic as she’d initially thought. Their banter felt explosive and sexual and completely out of control. The annoying throbbing between her legs and hardened nipples when she thought of the other woman attested to that fact.

Sawyer eyed the frying pan with a sigh. It would be a shame to waste.

Deciding, she plated the bacon and scrambled eggs she’d intended for herself, along with a fresh cinnamon roll she’d baked earlier, grabbed utensils, and carried the plate down the long hallway to the garage. Through the window of the door, she spotted McCoy immediately. She was once again dressed down to a ribbed men’s tank top, her coveralls bunched and tied around her strong waist. Everything about her was strong, Sawyer was reluctantly coming to realize. It was always warm inside the garage, and as Sawyer entered, she tried not to focus on the trickle of sweat drizzling down the younger woman’s temple. Her powerful, tattooed biceps flexed as McCoy cut off pieces of the McLaren’s front frame. What was left of the fender sat a few feet away on a pallet.

“Sawyer, hey,” McCoy greeted her, abruptly shutting off the grinder. She grinned—which, much to Sawyer’s dismay, she was able to do with her eyes as well as her lips. Every time she did that to Sawyer, the pit of Sawyer’s stomach dropped out a little more.

With indignation, to be sure.

“Here,” she announced, thrusting the breakfast plate into McCoy’s hands. Staring at the oil creasing her fingertips, Sawyer instantly regretted not putting it on a disposable dish.

“Wow, thank you. I’m starving, thanks,” McCoy sputtered, her cheeks flushing almost immediately.

Perhaps McCoy isn’t much of a Casanova after all.

Sawyer nodded in response, her gaze wandering over McCoy’s stocky form as she took a seat on the nearest rolling stool. She didn’t like the awareness she had of McCoy. She didn’t like McCoy, period. Not really. The younger woman was obnoxious, arrogant, grinned way more than was healthy, and—

And speaks sweetly to her nana. And has impeccable manners. And likes you.

“Is that for me, too?”

Sawyer’s eyes narrowed, irritated that her brain once again went on a tangent. It was one thing to do so when she was alone but another entirely if the object of her fascination was in touching distance. Embarrassed, she glared at McCoy, who was now moaning over the cinnamon roll Sawyer had made, then down at the coffee she hadn’t realized she’d carried out to the garage with her. “No.”

“Erm, okay.”

“I’m going inside. Make sure the garage door is secured shut before you leave.”

“No problem. Oh, I meant to tell you I can’t make it here this weekend,” McCoy called after her.

“Oh?” Much to her dismay, Sawyer’s interest was piqued. Goddamn McCoy. And goddamn her jealousy. “Plans with, what was her name? Abs?” The words were out before she could stop them. Sawyer had been dying to know more about Abs since they’d come into her restaurant the Monday before.

“Abs?” McCoy looked confused at first, but then she wagged her head from side to side, her green eyes glittering with amusement. “Abi’s just a friend, I promise. I mean, there was one time I wanted more, but she didn’t, and anyway. I’m single and ready to mingle.” Her nervous chuckle was like a footnote in her drawn-out flurry of nonsense. The moment she realized she’d unintentionally flirted was almost comical.

“You’re like one of those cheap greeting cards at the dollar store,” Sawyer deadpanned, disguising her sudden desire to laugh with a cough instead. She refused to give McCoy the satisfaction.

“Sorry,” Coy blushed, which was a remarkable feat to witness under the grime and drying sweat on her face. She bowed her head. “And um, no. To your question,” she jumped to add. “My nana needs help around her place, so I’ll be there most of the time.”

A teensy part deep in Sawyer’s frozen heart softened with the easy admittance. When they’d first met, she’d have never in a million years pegged McCoy as the family type. She didn’t mind being wrong on this one … not that Sawyer planned to tell McCoy as much. She stood up straighter. “You said most of the time. What are you doing with the rest of it? Clubbing with friends? Working your charm again, perhaps? You agreed to commit six days a week on the McLaren if I recall correctly.”

McCoy’s lips parted, her jaw slack and her eyes filled with surprise as she looked up at Sawyer. The column of her throat bobbed up and down as she swallowed. Her nostrils flared. “I … are you serious? I literally just said I’d be helping my nana.” A frustrated laugh slipped out, and McCoy glanced from Sawyer to the McLaren before a scowl appeared. “Can you not make an exception? I didn’t realize there was a timeframe on the fucking blob of death sitting before us.”

“Clearly,” Sawyer agreed, lifting her coffee mug to her lips to hide her grin. Her stomach fluttered, but not from indigestion. Grumpy McCoy was pleasing to look at. And to tease. She turned away. “I’ll expect you Sunday evening and then Monday morning, per our original agreement. Bonne journée, McCoy.”