Page 9 of Sawyer

“Cone or cup?”

“Cone.”

“Sugar or wafer?”

“Sugar.”

“You got it.”

I’d swayed toward the glass case a little, watching as she leaned over the buckets of frozen cream to roll my scoop. I saw a hint of white bra at the V of her T-shirt, and felt my cock hardeninside my jeans. I was getting a visible fucking erection, and it was too late to stop it now.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Without saying a word, I turned around and raced out of the shop, down the alley to the right of the Kozy Kone, and around to the back of the building. Standing against the hot pink painted clapboard, I leaned my head back and tried to concentrate on anything but Ivy Caswell’s perfect smile, gorgeous hair, and full breasts in a white cotton bra. It took a few minutes, but I finally got myself under control. The problem was, I’d made an idiot of myself by running away without a word, and I couldn’t face going back inside the Kozy Kone for the rest of that summer either. It wasn’t until we were sixteen that we finally—

“Hey!”

While I’ve been thinking about Ivy’s and my journey from childhood playmates to awkward teenagers, I’ve driven all the way home and parked my truck in front of the lodge. My little sister, Reeve, stands at my open window, hands on her hips.

“Earth to Sawyer!”

“Hey, Reeve.”

“Want some help getting the groceries inside?”

“Sure.”

I cut the engine and swing my body down from the cab, slamming the door shut behind me.

“Something got you in a bad mood?” asks Reeve, pulling down the tailgate.

“We need to do a grocery run up in Whitehorse. IGA’s thinning out.”

“That’s to be expected. Grocery barge is only coming once a week now.”

“Like I said.”

Reeve loops two bags of groceries on each arm, narrowing her eyes at me.

“Hey. What’s up with you?”

Ignoring her question, I take two bags on each of my arms and turn toward the lodge, trudging up the steps. Over my shoulder, I ask, “You ever readWuthering Heights?”

“Absolutely,” says Reeve, letting the screen doorthwack!shut behind us.

Of course she has. In an attempt to try to get to know the mother she can’t remember, Reeve spends every winter reading the collection of books on our mother’s bookshelf. It’s an annual ritual for her, and by tacit agreement, the rest of us don’t bother her about it. In fact, more often than not, Hunter, Tanner and I will build her a fire in the lodge’s great room and make sure it’s good and hot with plenty of extra firewood sitting beside it, so she can curl up comfortably all day long.

“Good story?”

“Define ‘good.’”

“Holds your attention?” I ask.

“Definitely.”

I push through the kitchen door to find Gran and Paw-Paw sharing coffee at a little table in the corner, and baby Wren sleeping in her car seat at their feet.

“Harper here?” I whisper to Gran.

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