Page 22

Chapter 22

Sawyer

“McCoy?” Sawyer’s foot landed on the last step, and she waited for the younger woman to notice she’d entered the garage. In all the time she’d known McCoy, she’d never seen the woman with such a forlorn look about her.

It took a moment for Sawyer’s presence to register, but McCoy finally wiped a grease-stained arm frantically over her eyes, trying to disguise the fact she’d been crying. A low blush began on her cheeks as she jumped out of the newly installed driver’s seat of the McLaren. “S-Sawyer, I didn’t see you there.”

“I can see that,” Sawyer said slowly, descending the final step to the concrete floor. There was a twinge in her chest she hadn’t felt around McCoy before. Not a flutter, as she’d felt that as much as she tried not to. It felt almost like an ache, like the sadness emanating from McCoy was affecting her somehow. She had the strangest urge to close the distance between them and wrap her arms around the younger woman, to soothe any troubles McCoy might have once and for all.

Ridiculous. You need to pull yourself together.

Sawyer cleared her throat, searching for McCoy’s gaze under the glare of the garage’s fluorescent lights. She could be civil without turning to mush around her. Sawyer had never been the type to get heart eyes over someone, and she liked it that way. She’d lost enough of her control to risk losing that as well. “What happened to crack that notoriously optimistic personality you’re so adept in shielding yourself with?” she joked, but since she couldn’t quite lighten the edge to her voice or relax the muscles in her face, the question came out just slightly softer than her usual bite.

Whatever was bothering McCoy had to be significant, and a gut-clenching thought flashed in Sawyer’s mind. “Is it … Surely, your nana is …”

“Nana’s fine,” McCoy mumbled, and Sawyer watched as she yanked fingers through her loose hair, clearly forgetting about the grease marring her hands. She didn’t recall a time when McCoy hadn’t braided or wrapped it in a bandana before work, so that alone hinted at her current state.

The younger woman grimaced, her gaze still landing somewhere over Sawyer’s shoulder, and for once, Sawyer wished they could strike up an easy conversation. Since they’d met, McCoy had been a terrible flirt, consistently making her attraction known. Things had been different between them since the heart attack, at least for Sawyer. It was difficult to put a finger on, but it was almost like she and McCoy had … trauma bonded? It was ridiculous to think about, but why else were Sawyer’s defenses on the verge of crumbling whenever they were together now? McCoy had saved her life, helping to restart her heart and essentially witnessing Sawyer at her most vulnerable—surely that should ease some of McCoy’s trepidation around her?

Sawyer watched as she fidgeted with the screwdriver in her hands before shrugging. “I don’t … I can’t talk about it. Not yet. I’m sorry,” McCoy finished in a whisper, and for a fleeting second, her pained meadow green gaze clashed with Sawyer’s own storm gray.

Sawyer silently assessed her, closing the gap further so they were almost in touching distance. “How about a drive?” she asked, surprising them both. She gestured to McCoy’s vehicle, which wasn’t the truck she’d been borrowing from her father lately. “I’m a caged animal in here, McCoy. Besides, haven’t you been dying for an excuse to show off your Jeep?”

At the mention of her beloved steel pet on wheels, McCoy brightened a notch. “I’d be honored to introduce you to Tegan.” She hurried to set her tool down and head to the wash basin against the back wall, calling over her shoulder as she scrubbed, “But are you okay to go out now?”

“I didn’t have open heart surgery,” Sawyer tutted, folding her arms across her chest. It’d been two weeks since the heart attack, and in that time, she’d been forced out of her restaurant and practically force-fed a bland diet. She was going stir-crazy in her too-big house while Bree and Cindy took over her entire career. Her doctor’s appointment wasn’t for another three days, but Sawyer doubted Dr. Cooper would mind if she went on a short drive.

“So long as you’re sure,” McCoy replied, and then in a voice so soft Sawyer had to strain to hear, she finished with, “because I couldn’t bear it if you got hurt again.”

Sawyer softened at those words, not believing for one second that she was meant to hear them. McCoy’s personality was a continual, pleasing surprise to Sawyer. At first glance, she came off as a huge player with a singular focus: racking up the number of partners she slept with. Sawyer now knew how multi-faceted the younger woman was. How family-oriented and kind she was, how hardworking or silly she could be. In fact, if they hadn’t initially met with McCoy trying to take her home, Sawyer knew she wouldn’t have pegged the playgirl label to her so harshly.

McCoy opened the passenger side of the Jeep before taking one of Sawyer’s hands. “It’s higher up than what you’re used to,” she explained, pointing to the footrail.

“Thank you,” Sawyer murmured, and as McCoy placed her other hand lightly on her hip to help her into the seat, that unfamiliar fluttering began once more somewhere low in her diaphragm. It made her stomach tingle and her pulse pound. She cleared her throat, her smile unsure. “And who said chivalry was a thing of the past?”

“You shouldn’t strain yourself too soon.” McCoy’s voice was gruffer than usual. Her warm breath fanned Sawyer’s cheek, and they locked eyes as McCoy reached for the seatbelt, strapping it carefully across Sawyer’s chest. The act was completely unnecessary, meant solely for bringing their bodies closer, and a part of Sawyer—the teensy, needy part that hadn’t felt desire for another person in years—relished the rarity of McCoy’s boldness.

“So, this is Tegan,” Sawyer said once they were driving away from her neighborhood. McCoy looked fetching behind the wheel, one strong arm extended and two of her fingers hooked into the oval opening in the steering wheel. Her other hand rested casually on the gearshift, although Sawyer had noticed how it hovered over her thigh before settling away from her. Something about Sawyer’s demeanor must have shied McCoy away from touching her, but she couldn’t put her finger on what . Is she still trying not to “do this with me” as she so eloquently put it at the mechanic shop? Sawyer thought she had been more than friendly since her heart attack.

“Yep. Isn’t she a beauty?” McCoy lovingly stroked Tegan’s dashboard and slipped a wry grin Sawyer’s way. “She’s the first vehicle I ever completely rebuilt. Took me two years and a lot of trial and error. My pops oversaw it all, but I’d wanted it to be something I completed myself, you know?”

“To prove you could?” Sawyer guessed, shifting in her seat to glance into the backseats. It was a beautiful, strong vehicle. She’d noticed that the moment McCoy had driven up alongside her in the rain to aid in her busted tire. It was obviously well-maintained, and if Sawyer had to guess, Tegan’s monthly bills were double what she spent on Patches's diabetic medication.

“Exactly.” McCoy nodded enthusiastically, looking at Sawyer like she was the only one who truly understood her. “I bet you had to do that often since owning Desmarais. Bree told me your restaurant earned its first Michelin star. Was that to prove yourself?”

An eyebrow shot up in disbelief. “You talk to Bree about me?”

McCoy looked properly chastised at the question, which plagued Sawyer with further questions. Just how often did the two of them talk?

“Er, yeah. I mean, we did a bit while you were in the hospital. You’d fallen asleep, so we chatted before I went home.”

“Oh. Alright, then,” Sawyer finally said, warming to the idea of Bree and McCoy becoming friends. She cleared her throat. “I only came into true management of Desmarais once Olivier passed,” she amended, surprising herself that she didn’t mind talking about it. “My name was on the deed, but I always knew my place was in the back, running the kitchen.”

“Your place?” McCoy echoed, her lips thinning in disapproval. “Sawyer, no offense but that sounds—”

“Controlling?” Sawyer cut in with a shrug. “That was my husband in a nutshell. He didn’t think I was business savvy enough to handle the restaurant by myself, so he managed the front, and I the back. It worked for us.”

“Really?”

Sawyer couldn’t blame McCoy for the doubt in her voice. Had it worked for them? Not for several years, she conceded. Olivier had used the management of the restaurant as a way to spy on Sawyer and criticize every single move she made. He’d had no qualms whatsoever with telling people that owning a business was a man's job. In the eyes of men like her father and Olivier, women were meant to be seen and rarely heard.

“Did you love him?”

The question was innocent enough, but the answer was … not so much. How could Sawyer explain how her feelings for Olivier went well beyond hatred? That there were nights she lay awake, listening to the loud snores coming from her husband after a rough grunt between the sheets where only he got off, when she considered suffocating him with her pillow? After years of abuse, there was a darkness inside of her. A twisted vulnerability she’d disguised with a chilly demeanor out of the need to further protect herself.

I’m the result of staying and surviving a failed, misogynistic marriage.

“No,” she admitted, deciding McCoy had earned at least a partial truth. She looked out the window, noting the Jeep turning toward the water. “Not for a second.”

“Once you’re healed, I’d love to take you off-roading sometime. If you’d like that,” McCoy told her later before taking a drink of her smoothie. After driving through Kitsilano and pointing out where her friend Abi lived, she’d guided them across the bridge and into downtown Vancouver. It had been so long since Sawyer had taken time out of her busy day to visit there that she found she could no longer cope with the hustle of the city as well as she used to. Wedged between cars during late afternoon rush hour was a lot different than the supper rush in the kitchen, and it wasn’t until they were heading toward Richmond that she breathed fully again.

Now they were parallel parked in front of McCoy’s apartment building, a simple six-unit structure that had likely been a boarding house several years ago, sipping fruit smoothies. The trip across the city had been nice with McCoy, and even when silence permeated the Jeep, it was comfortable and easy. Either McCoy had the longest game imaginable, or she was content to let their relationship develop organically. Sawyer hoped it was the latter because regardless of how attractive she found McCoy, she was in no way ready for sex with a woman.

“I guess I should get you home now, huh? You’re probably wiped from all the driving.” McCoy examined her, an unfettered yearning beneath her gentle expression.

Sawyer gnawed the inside of her cheek, ignoring the flutter of desire from the way this woman looked at her. She drew in a breath, McCoy’s addictive cologne and the smell of engine oil filling her. The scent was both comforting and arousing. The thought of going home to her large house, alone, or how the loneliness seemed to saturate every room unnerved her in ways it hadn’t before.

“No,” she reasoned after a moment. “We didn’t drive all the way here to merely park at the curb.” She sipped her own smoothie, peering out the window to the darkened apartment on the top floor before glancing back at McCoy. “At least show me your apartment.”

“My … apartment?” McCoy gaped.

“Mm-hmm,” Sawyer replied, amusement widening the slyness of her grin. The need to touch McCoy hit her, not for the first time today, and she crooked one finger under the younger woman’s chin, gently closing it. “Perhaps I’ll even cook you a meal.”