Page 38 of Total Shutdown

“That would be impossible since I’ve already tried every other option.”

I’m partway back to my phone when I spin on my heel at the sound of Sawyer’s voice.

I race back over, my pulse kicking up a notch. “What are you doing here?”

There’s a short pause before he speaks again, his voice unsure. “Trust me, I’ve been asking myself the same question for the past ten minutes. Can we talk?”

My best guess is, he’s here about the photo album I caught him looking through when I took Ezra out on the bike or the way he posed as my boyfriend last Wednesday night.

I’m not as pissed about it as he maybe assumes—on both counts, that is. There are far worse pictures he could have found than a few motocross highlights.

And as for last Wednesday night … I push away the feeling that raced through my body and threatens to reappear at the memory of him claiming me in front of that overbearing blond guy.

With a shaky hand, I press the speaker, my heart still beating fast. “Is Ezra with you?”

“No. He’s at school.”

“You know, when I gave you my address, it wasn’t so you could show up at my place, unannounced.”

A heavy breath blows through the speaker. “Can I come in or not?”

On an involuntary grin, I press the button to buzz him in and unlock my door, pulling it open.

A few seconds later, Sawyer appears, dressed in a backward red Blades cap and training gear—which includes gray sweatpants—and white Nike sneakers.

Taking the stairs three at a time, he pauses when he reaches the top and finds me dressed in a long black Metallica T-shirt and sleep shorts, although he probably can’t tell I’m wearing anything since they’re basically hot pants.

Sawyer scratches at his temple. “I … ugh …” He trails off, eyes diverting to the floor.

“Assumed I’d be dressed?” I smirk, feeling exposed despite the fact that he’s literally had his face between my thighs.

With restless eyes and hands, his cheeks pinken, the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose more prominent.

He shifts his weight and scuffs the floor lightly. “I wanted to talk about what happened.”

I take a couple of steps back and hold my door open. “Are we talking about what happened in my garage or at the bar?”

“Both,” he drawls, his Southern accent doing things to me.

“Well, let’s discuss it inside, where half the building can’t hear us and my nipples aren’t in danger of cutting glass from the cold.”

He flushes again.

God, this is way too easy.

Once inside, I guide us toward my simple but more than serviceable kitchen. With a butcher’s block countertop and stainless steel shelving, it’s not your regular kind of kitchen—way different from Sawyer’s luxurious gray marble and polished cabinets.

He stops in the middle of the room and spins around to take my small open-plan space in. A black leather couch and TV sit in the only real living area I have, other than my bedroom and bathroom, which lead off to the left, although the doors to both rooms are closed.

He shoves his hands into his pockets, still unsure of what to do with them. He looks nervous, and I can’t help but wonder if this is really about him snooping through a few photos or saving me from an asshole.

Taking pity on him, I grab my robe from the back of a chair—which is tucked under my small dining table for two—and throw it on. Though I’m not about to break the tension and speak first, I want to hear what he has to say.

After a long moment, his eyes connect with mine, his face a multitude of emotions. I hold my breath, even more curious about what’s going through his mind.

“First, I wanted to say I’m sorry for going behind your back and looking through those pictures. I’m normally not the kind of person to …” He pulls off his cap, pushing a firm hand through his obviously unwashed hair before replacing it back on his head.

Why is that simple action so damn sexy?

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