Page 67 of Sawyer

“Are you?”

She nods. “I think I always was.”

“I love you,” I whisper for the first time ever, staring up into her beautiful green eyes. “I think I always have.”

She smiles, brushing her lips tenderly against mine. “Then take me to bed, Sawyer Stewart.”

“My pleasure.”

***

Ivy

We didn’t spend much time at the Stewarts’ place the summer we were together. I remember one time, we stopped by to pick up something—a jacket, an extra pair of boots, I don’t remember—but I waited in the truck. I’ve never really had a chance to check out the small building that Sawyer calls home, and I’m eager to see if the home matches the man.

I step into the little vacation cottage, which is warm and sparkling clean. To my right is a tidy kitchen with a tiny table for two, and to my left, a sitting room with a loveseat. Though it faces a TV, there’s dust on the screen. Scattered all over the small room—in the bookshelves under the windows, on the coffee table, and on the floor—are books.

“I like to read,” says Sawyer with a little shrug. “I’d probably rather read most nights than do anything else.” His gaze flicks to my breasts then back to my face. “Almostanything else.”

“I love that,” I tell him, thinking of how different he is from Clark. What a wonder that he prefers quiet evenings readingat home to carousing in town and coming home drunk. “I love reading, too.”

“Yeah,” he says, grinning at me. I get the feeling he’s pleased to see me in his space. “I know.”

Just beyond the sitting room, there’s a door that opens to his bedroom, with warm, soft light spilling over the threshold. I step inside his sanctuary and sigh. I can imagine someone thinking it’s Spartan, but really, it’s not. It’s simple, yes. But it’s also warm and comfortable and has everything he needs.

His full-sized bed takes up most of the room, so he’s built a shelf over the bed that holds a lamp, a phone charger, a fan, and a glass of water. Overhead, hanging between exposed rafters is an antler-style chandelier with flame bulbs. Across from the bed, there’s a bureau with a mirror over it, and more books on top. On either side of the bureau there are doors. One, I assume, goes to a closet, and the other to a bathroom.

I sit down on the bed, look up at him, and smile.

“So, this is your place.”

“This is my place. I swapped out the two twins for a full bed when Hunter moved out. I know it isn’t much.”

“It’s perfect,” I tell him. “What else do you need?”

“I feel the same way,” he says, sitting down beside me. “I have my bed and my shower, a little kitchen to make snacks, and a warm place to read. But mostly, I have Alaska right outside my door—fresh air and mountains, a river out back with more salmon than you could ever eat, and the moon and stars at night.” He nudges me gently with his elbow. “You’re a born and bred Alaskan. You know what I’m saying.”

“I know what you’re saying,” I say softly.

Sitting on his bed, side by side, fully dressed right down to our shoes, I remember that we were friends first—before we ever kissed, or made love, or fell in love, we were friends. And stayingfriends, throughout our lives, is important to me. I didn’t like it when I almost lost him.

I turn to him, taking in the strong, handsome lines of his profile. My heart squeezes with love for him.

“Sawyer…do you think…if we get together—like, for real, this time—that we’ll lose our friendship?”

“Nah,” he says, kicking off his shoes and lying back on the bed. I do the same, rolling to my side, and laying my cheek on his chest. He strokes my back, plants a kiss on my head. “If anything, I think the best relationships are built on a strong friendship. People get old. They get hurt. They get sick. Fireworks fade. But if you love someone—truly love them—you might just find a way to last forever.”

I lean up on my elbow and look down at him. For someone who’s never really known the stability of forever, his words touch something deep inside of me. They water it. Cast sunshine on it. And it begins to grow.

“That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard,” I whisper, lowering my lips to his.

I roll on top of him, straddling him as we kiss. His cock swells between us, pushing against my pussy, hoping for entrance. I feel his fingers in the waistband of my jeans, tugging at my shirt and sweater. I lean up, reaching for both and pulling them over my head. He reaches behind his head, grabs the collars of his T-shirt and flannel, and throws them to the floor.

I still have my bra on, but Sawyer’s chest is…bare.

It’s been fifteen months since I saw Sawyer Stewart’s naked chest, since I ran my fingers over the ripples of muscle, since I touched my lips to the sensitive skin of his nipples. He’s kept busy in the time between. He’s hard and cut and more beautiful than ever.

When I slide my eyes to his face, he’s waiting for my gaze.

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