Page 2 of For the Record

Cindy would never truly understand, and that had always been the problem in their friendship. She and Lori were childless, and both had wonderful parents. Besides Bree, cooking in the restaurant she co-owned with Olivier had been the sole thing in Sawyer’s life she could always count on to nourish her emotional well-being. It was because of Sawyer’s dedication that Desmarais was currently sitting at number one for the best French/French Canadian Fusion restaurant in all of Vancouver. Desmarais had recently earned one of the few coveted Michelin stars in the province, evidence of many years of hard work. Now that she knew a Michelin star for her restaurant was possible, keeping it and earning a second one was all Sawyer could think about.

Cindy was right about one thing though. Now that Olivier was gone, Sawyer was adamant about taking back her life. The wayshewanted to.If only Cindy—and everyone else—could stop getting in my way.

An intoxicating whiff of smoke, pine, and rosewood was Sawyer’s only warning before Cindy’s chair was nudged to the side, and the woman she’d seen eyeing her a few minutes ago was squeezing into the now empty space. “Hey there, beautiful. Care for some company?” A cocky grin appeared as the younger woman looked down at Sawyer, her chiseled jawline and fresh,disconnected undercut up close and personal. Perspiration dotted her flushed cheeks and upper lip, bringing undue attention to the silver septum piercing above that perfectly curved mouth.

Sawyer opened her mouth, ready to tell the stranger to fuck off, and accidentally inhaled their cologne again. The scent was engulfing. It was dizzying, sexy even. Not sexy enough to sway Sawyer’s definitive plans to go home alone, but enough that it had her chancing a second look. Her gaze landed directly on the nametag pinned to the left side of the stranger’s floral dress shirt.McCoywas written on the top, along withshe/herpronouns directly below it.

“You are … mmmm,” McCoy began, an exaggerated gust of air leaving her lungs. “Nice outfit. I wish I could pull that off.” Sawyer scrunched up her face as McCoy continued to grin. The appraising once-over was so disgustingly obvious Sawyer considered throwing her drink.

Her gaze narrowed to slits. She glanced at the forgotten cider on the table, noting there wasn’t enoughtothrow at the obvious womanizer. Maybe she could suffer through flirting long enough for McCoy to buy her a drink, andthenshe could toss it? But that would be a waste of her precious time and a perfectly mediocre drink. What kind of name was McCoy, anyway? Was it a last name? Had she been given the wrong name at birth and chose McCoy after watching one too many Westerns?

“How does it feel to be the most gorgeous person here tonight?” McCoy continued, and Sawyer grimaced. She wasn’t a fan of the rehearsed bullshit some people used to get into another’s bed. She believed in stating intentions in the beginning.Say as you do and do as you say.

“I’m bored,” Sawyer said flatly becauseshepracticed what she preached. It wouldn’t be fair to either of them if she pretended otherwise. She turned back to her near-empty drink, raising thecup to her mouth only to have the melting ice cubes knock against her teeth.

Instead of leaving, however, McCoy pulled Cindy’s chair closer and took a seat. “I’m McCoy. And you are?” she tried again, peering up at Sawyer with a pair of captivating meadow-green eyes framed by a thin layer of eyeliner.

Sawyer swallowed. She should be turned off at the fact McCoy was like a dog with a bone, not silently cursing her half-starved libido for the pulsing response. “You’re still here?” she forced out, harsher than she meant to, but come on. Even playgirls got the hint eventually, right? “If you can think with your brain rather than your adolescent hormones for five seconds, then you’ll figure out exactly how uninterested I am.”

McCoy looked stunned for half a second before a chuckle rose from the fine column of her throat. “Noted, ma’am. My apologies. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

Sawyer watched her leave, allowing herself to briefly linger on McCoy’s backside and strong thighs as she disappeared into the crowd once again. She might not want sex with a stranger, but she wasn’t dead. Her eyes worked just fine, and McCoy was … well, she was something alright.

Sighing now, she checked her watch; almost 1 a.m. Late nights and early mornings were an everyday occurrence for Sawyer, but that didn’t mean she wanted, at forty-three years old, to be sitting alone at a club.One more drink, and then I’m leaving, she thought, glancing around their table for anything that might get stolen if she left it. She swiped Lori’s purse for safekeeping, acknowledging that there was also the risk of someone stealing their table, but she couldn’t sit there for a minute longer.

At the bar, Sawyer gripped her purse and Lori’s to her chest, scowling at quite a few people who bumped into her, one who smelled faintly like vomit. She had to yell her order three times before the bartender heard it, and she was contemplatingslipping behind the counter to pour the cider herself when, through a swarm of sweaty bodies, a couple off to the side of the dance floor caught her eye. The first thing Sawyer noticed was the floral dress shirt, as not too many there tonight were dressed like they were on a Hawaiian cruise. And then she saw that smooth undercut that Sawyer’s fingers had itched to feel only thirty minutes before. She narrowed her gaze on the scene, a sour taste in her mouth now as she watched McCoy make out with someone else. Sawyer must have been one in a long lineup of potential lovers for the night. Disgusting. But what did Sawyer expect from a twenty-something womanizer?

As she turned her attention back to the bar, she was supremely glad she’d dodgedthatbullet.

Mornings were not what they used to be for Sawyer.

She remembered getting up at 5 a.m., five days out of the week, to go running before Olivier woke. On the rare nights Sawyer got home at a decent hour with Bree in tow or to relieve the sitter, she’d still have to wait up for Olivier to come home. She’d found she couldn’t sleep until he was safely in bed, passed out from too much drink or sex. The thought of Olivier waking the neighbors if he forgot his key or him roaming the house in the middle of the night with Bree unaware had always given Sawyer anxiety. So, she’d waited. God, she’d resented him for that. Every morning, she would go for her run and then, like a good little housewife, still have breakfast laid out by the time Olivier woke for work.

Now, on Sundays, Sawyer ran for exactly eighty minutes before beginning her day. After so many years, she had a trailshe liked. She’d leave her house located in the gorgeous Dunbar-Southlands, a neighboring suburban community that rested just outside Vancouver, and head further west until she reached Musqueam Park. She’d run the two-and-a-half-kilometer loop before heading home again.

“Not fucking now, body,” Sawyer gasped as a wave of dizziness came upon her just as she was clearing the end of the trail. She bent over, rested her hands on her thighs to support some of her weight, and waited for the nausea to pass. Her breathing was ragged, and as Sawyer struggled to draw air into her lungs, she cursed her chronic high blood pressure. From undue stress and overworking herself, her doctor liked to remind her when she squeezed an appointment into her hectic week. “Relaxation is key”, he’d say.

Sawyer scoffed. It was difficult for her to relax, even while running. Relaxing was thelastthing her brain needed. No, all that would do is get her lost in memories, and who needed to be stuck inside that fucked up carousel ride?

“Not today,” she repeated, straightening to her full height. She tilted her face toward the sky, her eyes shutting of their own accord as the early morning rain cooled her heated cheeks. There was nothing like running in the rain. On mornings like this, she forwent her usual Spotify playlist in exchange for the soothing raindrops splattering against her windbreaker. Theslapslapof her sneakers against wet pavement, the air’s moisture creating visible puffs each time she exhaled, was the calming conclusion to Sawyer’s long week.

Sawyer continued jogging rather than running the five blocks to her house. She slowed to a walk once she reached her street, dropping her hands on her hips as she fought for another lungful of much-needed air.

Her smartwatch chirped with an incoming notification as Sawyer trudged up her laneway a few minutes later. She enjoyedthe burn in her thighs and calves with each step, and a satisfied smirk left her as she checked her watch.

Bree:Good morning, Maman! I’m just up for a pee break but will look forward to you sending pictures of everything you’re doing today. Absolutely no work!

“Good grief, they’re conspiring against me,” Sawyer dropped her arm away and let it slap against her thigh as she reached her doorstep. Per the urging from her family doctor during her last checkup, Sawyer tried like hell now to take Sundays off. Dr. Cooper claimed she needed a rest day, and apparently, Bree agreed. Unfortunately, avoiding work when the restaurant was such an integral part of her life was harder than it looked for someone who thrived on structure.

“Good morning, Chef Lavoie!”

Sawyer looked up from where she had the key in the front door to see her elderly neighbor waving. It wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last, that she rolled her eyes at Dr. Chen’s refusal to call Sawyer by her first name. “What brings you out so early, Dr. Chen? Making house calls?”

The old woman laughed, taking Sawyer’s question as a friendly jab. “You know I’m retired. Came out here because I’d forgotten to put up the car window last night. The front seat was soaked through.”

“I’m surprised they still let you drive.”

Even pushing eighty, Dr. Chen had excellent hearing, and she scoffed good-naturedly. “Enjoy your Sunday, Cranky! Don’t call me if you cut yourself later.”

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