Page 14

Chapter 14

McCoy

After five weeks of working part-time and dodging Sawyer’s hot and cold moods, the McLaren was beginning to look like more than just a jaw-dropping widow maker. Like her father, there weren’t many things in life that made Coy happier than tinkering with cars. A rebuild was just like any restoration, whether it was on a house or antiques, and she loved the painstaking process of removing the McLaren’s broken pieces—and there were a lot.

She felt bad that Tegan had been cast off to her father mid-way through the disassembling process, but borrowing Greg’s truck had been a no-brainer. Coy was able to load the junk parts on each time and take them to the scrap yard rather than hooking up her trailer and taking up more of Sawyer’s driveway. She would have had something to say about it.

Coy looked up from where she was removing the driver's seat, pausing when she noticed Sawyer standing on the last step in the garage. Still sour over having to work the Sunday a week and a half earlier, Coy had been doing her best to avoid her helpless gaze lingering on Sawyer for too long. Still, she knew the woman enough to sense there was something seriously off. Uncertainty was coming off the older woman in waves, her face scrunched up in deep concentration as she made her way to Coy. She carried a Tupperware dish in one hand, a coffee thermos in the other, and wrapped utensils dangled from her fingertips.

Coy set the seat down beside the pallet with the parts she was keeping. She waited, wondering what Sawyer would do. Hell, she wondered if Sawyer knew. She seemed uncharacteristically lost. Finally, she turned to Coy, taking a deep breath as if to compose herself.

Coy reached up to remove her earbuds. “Sawyer? You alright?”

Sawyer blinked, staring down at Coy in a daze. She nodded slowly, holding out the ceramic Tupperware dish for her to take. “You probably ate already, but I was experimenting in the kitchen, so …” was all she said.

Coy checked the wall clock, one eyebrow lifting. “It’s early to be experimenting, but thank you. I’d never pass up one of your meals.” Accepting the container from Sawyer, Coy casually grazed her fingertips along the back of her hand during the swap. Sawyer inhaled sharply, pulling back, and Coy had to catch the dish before it fell. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

Sawyer turned on her heel to leave and then, as an afterthought, she set the thermos down on the bench beside Coy. “Coffee, cream and sugar. Just how you like it.”

Sawyer had paid attention to what was written on her takeout cups? Her stomach bottomed out seconds before butterflies took flight low in her belly. Coy cleared her throat, aware of her sweaty palms yet wishing she could reach for Sawyer. She wanted more than anything to touch her again. “I appreciate it. And the food. You’re gifted, Sawyer. I-in the kitchen, I mean. How long have you been a chef?”

Her back straightened, and when Coy was sure she wouldn’t get a response, Sawyer surprised her. “Twenty-three years.”

“Twenty-three?” Coy’s eyes widened as she looked Sawyer up and down more closely. “What did you do, drop out of school?”

Sawyer turned to frown at Coy. “Exactly how old do you think I am?”

Coy shrugged, her gaze roaming over Sawyer’s face, pausing on the partially disguised left side. There was a scar or something there that she tried to hide behind her hair and foundation, but if anything, it only made Sawyer more attractive in Coy’s eyes. In certain light, the salt and pepper strands of her black hair didn’t blend in as easily, but again, it only added to her character. Sawyer’s smoky eyes were flawlessly proportioned with her high cheekbones, angular jaw, perfect, pert nose, and lips that were made for hour-long make-out sessions.

“This is precisely why older women don’t talk about their age,” Sawyer snapped, breaking Coy out of her embarrassingly intense examination. She gave Sawyer a bashful grin, feeling the heat rising to her cheeks.

“Sorry. For a minute, your beauty made me lose my train of thought.”

Sawyer scoffed. “Is everything a joke to you?” Her piercing glare made Coy shrink back slightly. Confusion and hurt blanketed her anger, and in a momentary lapse of that iron-clad facade, Sawyer’s emotions were so raw Coy wished she could turn back time and rephrase her words. “What are you, McCoy, twenty-five? Esti , I could be your mother, for God’s sake. I had you sign the contract so we could avoid these deceptions.”

Any time Coy had seen her in the past few weeks, Sawyer carried herself with such confidence and grace. She’d never given Coy the impression she was anything but. Was it hard to believe Coy would find her attractive?

She swallowed hard. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I-I flirt when I’m nervous, but I wouldn’t bullshit you. Wait , please.”

Coy’s heart was pounding as she jumped from the workbench, catching Sawyer’s hand as she turned to leave. Her palm was soft in Coy’s, and for a millisecond, Coy didn’t do anything but marvel over how easily their fingers linked together. Like she was made for me.

She glanced up at Sawyer, disappointed when her hand wrenched free from Coy’s once more. “I’m twenty-seven,” she admitted, shoving her hands in her pockets so she wouldn’t accidentally reach for Sawyer again. Their eyes met and held. “And age is just a number. You are … Sawyer, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

Coy expected her revelation to bring relief to Sawyer, but she was mistaken. The older woman just scowled and left the garage. Once again, Coy wondered what the hell she’d said wrong.

Coy wiped the sweat off her brow, bending to pick up the last of her tools from the concrete floor. She felt good about the progress she’d made so far. Finding the time and ordering parts was going to be a bigger challenge than the actual rebuild. She packed her screwdrivers and ratchet set off to the side of the McLaren and out of the way. Next, she carried her reciprocating saw and charger out to the truck, tucking them on the floor of the backseat. After, McCoy made sure the ratchet straps were secured in the bed. She wasn’t concerned about the junk parts getting wet, but it would be bad news to have a piece of the fender fly off while she was on the bridge.

She returned to the garage slowly, taking in the McLaren and appreciating the supercar for what it was. Even stripped down to the main frame and tub, its design was a masterpiece. At an impressive acceleration speed of zero to sixty in two point nine seconds, it could easily be a deathtrap for an inexperienced driver. Or a cocky one. Coy wondered which was the case for Sawyer’s husband.

Shaking her head, she headed over to the workbench to retrieve the Tupperware dish Sawyer had thoughtfully handed her earlier. She’d made a chicken stew but had added dumplings to the broth. It was an unexpected, delicious treat for her morning. It’d been a long time since Coy had eaten any that didn’t come deep-fried. She was resting the dish on the step leading into the house when thanking Sawyer came to mind. She hadn’t been very receptive to Coy entering her house on earlier occasions, but the guilt over their conversation was nagging at her. She’d said something to set Sawyer off. It seemed like she couldn’t get anything right around her. Coy was either making a fool of herself or inadvertently insulting Sawyer.

Pulling her lip between her teeth in thought, Coy climbed the three steps to the door. What was the worst thing to happen? Sawyer snarling and telling Coy off happened almost on the daily. It was like she had all these preconceived ideas about who Coy was as a person, and nothing she said or did could change her mind.

She rapped her knuckles on the door, and as she waited, she examined her hands, hoping they were clean enough. She’d tried wearing gloves before, but they ripped so easily, and it was hard handling small nuts and bolts with them on.

Knocking a second time, Coy waited, silently counting to ten before trying the doorknob. It was a big house, so it was entirely possible Sawyer couldn’t hear the knocking. It turned easily, proof that Sawyer hadn’t been in her right mind when they’d last spoken because Coy had watched her lock it time and time again. Maybe this isn’t a good idea.

She pushed the door open. “Hey, Sawyer? It’s only me. Whoa,” Coy said as she got her first look inside Sawyer’s massive home. Even in the long hallway, the ceilings must have been ten feet high. She scrambled to get her steel-toed boots off, setting them by the garage door before continuing further into the house. The hallway opened into the kind of kitchen even Gordon Ramsay would love. It was beautifully designed with large south-facing windows to capture most of the sun and a fancy stovetop with two built-in ovens. A medium-sized shelving system filled with herbs sat off to one side.

“Sawyer, just wanted to say thanks,” Coy called again, setting the Tupperware dish inside the sink. She didn’t want to break one of Sawyer’s hard-pressed rules by snooping. She was about to leave the way she came in when she heard the faint sound of a piano. Coy tiptoed into what appeared to be the living room, straining to hear it again.

The soft melody began once more, and when Sawyer came into view, all of McCoy’s breath left her in a whoosh . She was perched on a piano stool, hunched over the keys, the long, elegant fingers of one hand gliding effortlessly back and forth. Sawyer was dressed more casually than Coy had ever seen her, wearing just a lavender silk bathrobe. The gently crimped waves of her long hair draped over one side of her chest, exposing her toned shoulder where the robe had slipped off.

“When did you know you were gay?”

It took a moment to register that Sawyer had not only heard Coy enter the living room but that she was speaking. The softness in her voice had Coy’s knees wobbling, and she quickly grabbed the back of a nearby sofa. Clearing her throat, it took her a few tries before she could get her reply out. “I, um, prefer the term queer,” she admitted, her gaze on Sawyer’s back. She still hadn’t turned, but Coy got the feeling it was easier for her to talk this way.

“Is one term more acceptable than the other?”

Sawyer sounded genuinely curious. It was strange listening to her without her usual bite after each sentence. Coy rolled her shoulders, watching Sawyer’s hand on the piano keys and wishing she would play more. It was hard to concentrate when she was around Sawyer. “I guess gay is an umbrella term, but more in reference to those who identify as men. I use lesbian and queer interchangeably. Everyone is different. My sister is pansexual, but most of the time, it’s easier for her to say queer. Especially to people like my nana.”

“I see.”

“Mm-hmm.” What a strange conversation to have with her crush. A part of Coy appreciated it, though. Sawyer opening up a little could only mean she was beginning to trust Coy, right?

Sawyer began playing again, a soft ballad echoing in the silent room. The notes were rusty, as if it’d been years since she’d done so. But not to Coy, who stood there absolutely mesmerized by Sawyer’s fingers fondly stroking each key.

A disappointed sigh left her when the music stopped. Then, “Are you going to make me ask twice?”

“Twice?” Coy echoed, racking her brain for snippets of their conversation because she’d be damned if she was the cause of it ending. The answer dawned on her, and she perked up. “You asked when I knew. And my answer is always. My sister was into all things girly, and I liked to follow my dad around everywhere. I know that alone doesn’t scream queer, but I felt different than the other girls. It took Sloane a lot longer to figure out her sexuality. Why do you ask? Are you … are you unsure? I’m sorry if I ever said something to—”

“No. I’ve always known, too,” Sawyer interrupted before turning back to the piano. She played, continuing to speak over the music. “That I was different. Not like other girls in my church. It wasn’t until I was old enough to understand the scriptures that it changed for me. That I learned homosexuality was a sin.”

Hearing the outdated, derogatory term was like a bitch slap to the face. Defensive replies were at the tip of Coy’s tongue until she realized Sawyer hadn’t meant it the way it sounded. She was talking about herself and how that twisted mentality affected her upbringing.

Coy crossed the room in long strides, uncaring anymore if she dirtied the furniture. Sawyer was sitting more to one end of the piano bench, so Coy straddled the opposite side, finally getting a look at Sawyer. Coy’s fingers tingled to reach for her, to swipe away the hair falling in her eye, to kiss away her doubt. “Sawyer, no matter how you identify, know that you’re incredible. It’s not a sin to live your truth. My nana has a whole spiel when it comes to inaccurate religious beliefs, but I won’t get into that. She’s as old school as they come, and she was the first one to know I was queer. Whatever you were taught, whatever bullshit politicians are still coming up with, they’re lies.”

“Such a Gen Z thing to say.” Sawyer’s voice was bitter. Her hands left the keys, and she slowly shifted on the bench. A slight gasp left Coy as she got her first unfiltered look at the scar tissue on Sawyer’s cheek. The full lighting in the living room left nothing to the imagination. Without makeup on, her eyes seemed paler, the fine lines above her top lip more noticeable, but it was the scar Coy’s eyes kept flickering to.

Sawyer looked away. “Not so beautiful now, am I?”

“You’re joking, right?” Coy sucked her teeth, having a battle of wills as she debated how to explain how responsive her body always was to Sawyer, scar or no scar. Launching herself at Sawyer seemed inappropriate for the mood, and besides, she had given Coy zero confirmation the attraction was mutual.

Despite her back and forth, Coy’s hand still found its way to Sawyer’s face. Instead of tugging her in for a kiss, she held Sawyer’s gaze, very slowly tracing the contours of the scar. Her fingers slipped over the leathery texture, dipping into the uneven ridges until finally landing on her parted lips. Coy’s thumb hovered there, in limbo, waiting for permission to do what she had wanted since the night they first met. Sawyer’s eyes drifted closed, and Coy’s gaze dropped to her chest, watching the quick rise and fall of her breasts beneath the robe. Coy’s tongue darted out to lick her lips as she leaned in closer.

She was inches away from kissing Sawyer when the spell broke. Sawyer’s eyes flew open, and she shoved Coy with such force Coy’s ass connected with the living room floor. “Get out.” Sawyer’s snap was back, and oddly enough, her accent was thicker when she was superbly pissed off. Her death glare had Coy wishing she could sink into the luxurious floorboards. “Get out, and don’t ever use your … your womanizing skills on me again!”

Coy clambered to her feet, her heart stuck halfway up her throat. When she bolted from the house moments later, confused tears blurred her vision. She ran to her father’s truck and jumped in. Her hands trembled as she shoved the keys into the ignition. She didn’t know why, but she felt dirty. Like Sawyer had mistaken their almost kiss for something truly nefarious. Is that how she saw Coy? She wasn’t a villain; Sawyer had had more than enough time to back away or say no.

God, her heart hurt. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d cried over a girl.

Coy shifted into gear, wiping runaway tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand as she left Sawyer’s. She was halfway home when she couldn’t deny the strange rawness seeping into her gut. Her thoughts on Sawyer, Coy’s stomach churned until her throat was raw, too. Ugh.

Was she falling for Sawyer?