Page 56 of Infinite as They Come (Sinful Trilogy #3)

It was good to see Sawyer so relaxed. For the first time in his life, it seemed like he could do just that.

He painted every day. No more working on cars, no more on his feet all day.

Instead, he had turned one of the bedrooms in the house into a studio and spent his time in there.

It was perfect: the country sun would pour in and give him that perfect lighting and he’d paint the most beautiful things.

The house—our home. The mountains in the distance.

The nearby lakes and streams where he’d take me with him, set his stuff up, and we’d sit there in silence while he brought the scenery around us to life.

It always gave me so much comfort to just sit there with him while he worked his magic.

He painted things for people, stuff no one else but Sawyer Westbrook would be able to pull off.

He’d paint me, again and again, always surprising me with something new at the end of the week.

Me sleeping, me in some new dress I bought, me cooking, me on the couch with a book in my hand.

I had always been so sure he’d get bored of doing that, but no, the paintings kept rolling in, his studio stacked with canvases of me against the walls while others hung around him on every wall in that room.

It always felt a little conceited walking in there and seeing my face left, right, and center, but Sawyer said it helped him work better and faster.

It lets me see your pretty face when you’re stuck in your office , he always said.

By office, he meant one of the rooms that had been turned into a space for me to do my writing.

It was for a little publication in Moody, a magazine that let me write about small town life, or rather, the people who lived in it.

Small towns had a long list of small town people with big time stories, so I knew I’d never run out.

It gave me the freedom New York was never going to offer me, the chance to meet interesting people, and the space I had always craved.

Sometimes I’d spend my days in Sawyer’s studio writing while he painted.

There was something about watching him work that would always fascinate me.

The way his eyes would narrow in concentration, the sleeves of his flannel shirt pushed up to show me strong, sturdy forearms streaked with color against his pale skin, the way he’d shove a hand up and into his locks, making a perfectly tussled mess.

I loved his studio. I loved the bright yellow walls and how his stuff was everywhere.

Easel, tubes of paint, drop cloths, brushes.

Small canvases, giant ones, ones that stretched on forever and ever.

He got to work slowly and particularly, in his own space and in his own time, making sure every last stroke of his brush resulted in perfection.

Whether it was for a new addition to his website or for some commission he was doing, he always worked so thoughtfully.

It was no surprise the orders for more of his work came rolling in week after week.

I had to hold back a smile, because even with the countless requests he got, he would always say the same thing to me: I really just wanna paint you .

The glow of the sun disappeared as day turned into night, and then it was just darkness and a blanket of stars. Being away from the city meant I got to see the stars properly, and it was one of my favorite parts of being in the countryside.

The later it got, the more people that left. First my parents, then Linda and Kurt and Spencer, then Annie and Brodie who’d be sharing a ride. The people slowly filtered out one by one, and soon, it was just me and my husband.

“What a day,” Sawyer said as he shut the door, leaning up against it. Reaching a hand up, he tugged off the party hat and tossed it to the table nearby.

Smiling, I moved over to him, and when I got close enough, he grabbed my hand and reeled me right in.

A giggle left my lips as I felt his lips brush against mine, soft and slow, one of his hands reaching up to pull off my own hat.

I wasn’t sure what he did with it, because my eyes were too busy fluttering closed.

Instead, I was getting lost in the feeling of him.

Strong hands, warm lips, broad chest. My favorite person. My fairytale.

“You wanna sit outside?” he asked. “It’s nice out. I want some alone time with you. And it’s my birthday, right?”

I nodded, our lips still just barely grazing together. “You’re right. And I gotta give the birthday boy what he wants.”

Humming, he pressed his lips to mine for a quick, little kiss. “And all he wants is you.”

Hands there on his chest, I opened my eyes back up. “I can’t say no to that.”

“This is where I get my other gift, right?” he asked, his rough voice going a little low.

“Other gift?”

He raised his brows. “Rich girl underwear? You know it’s my favorite.”

I laughed, pressing my face into his chest. “That comes a little later, but I promise they’ll make an appearance tonight.”

“I love my birthday,” he said lowly.

“I love it too.” I took a slow step back. “I’ll be out soon, okay? I’ll meet you out the front?”

He nodded. “Yeah, baby. Will meet you out there.”

I spun on my heels, making my way down the hallway.

I was never going to get over the fact that this was our house.

That overwhelmingly warm feeling I got all over had still yet to leave.

It was all the photos of us on the walls, the pretty glass flower he made for me all those years ago that sat safely in a vase by my side every night we fell asleep together, the lemon tree in the backyard, and all our things jumbled together that made it all feel so special and perfect.

It wouldn’t have felt like home without Sawyer.

Without waking up to him and falling asleep in his arms.

I opened the nearby drawer and pulled out the napkin Sawyer had given me earlier before slipping into the bedroom and opening up the closet door.

There on the hanger was exactly what Sawyer had been not so subtly hinting at earlier: a matching bustier and panties set with pretty floral embroidery, all pink and lacey with just enough sheerness to it to tease.

I’d put it on in a little while. For now, there was something else I wanted to look at.

Pushing my hands right through to the back of the closet, I found the familiar smooth box and pulled it out, bringing it over to the bed with me as I sat down.

My heart warmed the second I took the lid off. There they sat, all the moments I had collected over the years, all the things that were far too important for me to ever say goodbye to.

At the top sat several photo strips. Some older, some new, some from way back when Sawyer first asked me to be his.

My eyes zeroed in on one of the strips. It was from one of our dates back in high school, when he had come to my house dressed up a little neater than he had to for a trip to the movies, but I knew he was trying to impress more than one person back then.

I could remember that night clearly: a warm Friday night, me and my dad getting to the door at the same time, him swinging it open and rolling his eyes when he saw Sawyer standing there with a bouquet of flowers.

I had practically yanked Sawyer inside that night, my hands on his shirt collar, pulling him to me for a kiss while he chuckled against my mouth and my dad mumbled something about “grocery store flowers” and “have her back by eleven or I’m calling the cops” before leaving us alone .

I could still remember what movie we watched.

And the way Sawyer’s fingers threaded with mine as we walked into the cinema.

And him buying the tickets and our popcorn and candy and soda, because Sawyer Westbrook was a gentleman through and through.

That all burned so clearly there in my head.

I took a long look at the strip of photos we had taken in the booth.

My lips pressed to his cheek, his grin all big and crooked and perfect.

My hands pushing through his hair as we smiled at each other.

Me on his lap, his head on my shoulder. My fingers traced along them, soft and careful, before putting them back in the box.

My eyes darted left and right. Where to look next? There was so much to see, so much to take in and remember and feel all over again like it was the first time. There were the notes from high school, his messy handwriting scrawled across bits of ripped paper.

We should ditch and make out in my truck.

You look extra pretty today, Pom Poms.

You’re gonna make me fail this quiz. Can’t stop looking at you. I was gonna fail anyway but still. Give a guy a chance.

There were some random drawings. Some silly, like the one of me in my cheer uniform and my pom poms tight in my hands.

Some where it was obvious he had put in more effort, like the one where I had been resting my chin in my hand, eyes fused to whatever quiz or book I had been forced to focus on that week.

It was all careful, soft lines. Texture, shading, lighting.

He had probably spent that whole class—English, I was pretty sure—just looking at me and drawing.

There was the rock he bought me back in Saratoga Springs. The love letter he had written me that one disastrous Christmas. The ticket from the first county fair he had taken me to.