I arrange the materials in logical order, then rearrange them again. Am I being too ambitious? Should I start with something simpler? What if he gets bored and gives up after ten minutes?

Ugh, why do I care so much? This is Sawyer we’re talking about, the guy who broke my carefully crafted exhibit and cost me the chance to be featured inHistoric Gems Quarterly.The guy who tracks mud everywhere and touches things he shouldn’t and… and who has those ridiculously blue eyes that seem to see right through me.

I shake my head.Nope. Not going there.

I glance at the clock. Six twenty-five. He should be here any minute, assuming he shows up. Part of me wonders if this was all some elaborate joke. What if he stands me up and I’m left here with my perfectly organized study materials? Panic starts to set in, but then I hear the familiar sound of boots on the wooden steps outside, and my heart does that annoying flutter thing again. The footsteps are deliberate and confident. Sawyer has arrived.

I take a deep breath and smooth down my sweater, reminding myself that I’m the teacher here. I’m in control. This ismyterritory, and he needsmyhelp. I have the upper hand.

At least, that’s what I think until the door opens. Sawyer steps inside, looking surprisingly attractive for this ungodly hour. He wipes his boots on the doormat like he promised he would, and all I can do is stare at how his biceps flex under his flannel shirt. His hair is slightly damp, and he’s carrying a white bakery bag that makes my stomach rumble. Yeah, I no longer have the upper hand. My treacherous body does.

“Morning, Sunshine,” he greets.

I roll my eyes at the nickname even though something warm unfurls in my chest against my will.

“Don’t call me that,” I mutter, pointing to the bag in his hands. “Please tell me those are actual cinnamon rolls and not some dry supermarket pastries you picked up on the way over.”

He grins and sets the bag down, carefully avoiding my study materials. “I may have had to call in a favor with Amelia to get these at this hour, but I’m a man of my word, Reese. Fresh cinnamon rolls from Summit Sweets, still warm.”

I peek into the bag and find four perfectly glazed cinnamon rolls, each one bigger than my fist. The smell of cinnamon and butter and that perfect yeasty sweetness makes my mouth water.

“You convinced Amelia to open early for you? What did you promise her? Your firstborn child?”

“Something like that,” he says with a grin. “Though I think she was more interested in hearing about why I needed cinnamon rolls at dawn for a certain museum curator.”

“You told her about me?” I ask, genuinely surprised.

“Relax, Sunshine. I just said I had a very demanding teacher who, luckily for me, accepts bribes.”

Wow. He made a real effort. Kept his promises. Even wiped his boots on the way in. Maybe there’s more to Sawyer than I give him credit for.

“You made an effort,” I say incredulously.

“I told you I would.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Besides, I figure if I’m going to torture you with my complete ignorance of local history, the least I can do is bring quality bribes.”

I take one of the cinnamon rolls and bite into it, closing my eyes briefly as the flavors hit my tongue. “Okay, this might make up for the early hour.”

“Might?”

“Don’t push it, Sawyer,” I say, smiling despite myself.

His gaze lands on the materials I’ve laid out, his expression shifting to something more serious. “Wow. You went all out, didn’t you?”

“I don’t do anything halfway. If this is too much for you, we can start simple if you want,” I say, suddenly self-conscious about my prep work.

What if he thinks my overachiever efforts mean I’m in love with him? What a nightmare that would be.

“No, this is perfect.” He pulls up one of the visitor chairs and settles in across from me. “I appreciate you taking this seriously. I know you didn’t have to help me after… well, after ruining that display and the chance at being featured in that magazine you love to read.”

There’s genuine gratitude in his voice. It’s not the teasing tone I’m used to from him, and it throws me slightly off balance. Not to mention the fact that he remembers I love readingHistoric Gems Quarterly.

“Well,” I clear my throat and pull the papers toward us, “let’s see what we’re working with. Tell me what you already know about the region’s history and artifacts.”

I half expect him to define a historic artifact as anything older than his Spotify playlist or get extra cocky and claim he already knows everything about our town’s history. Instead, he runs a hand through his thick hair and throws me a sheepish look. “Honestly? Not much beyond the basics. I know there was a gold rush in the 1860s, and Native Americans lived here first, but beyond that…” He shrugs. “See? This is exactly why I need your help.”

“Okay, that’s a decent starting point.” I point to the timeline. “The Blackfeet and Crow tribes were the primary inhabitants of this area for thousands of years before European settlers arrived. They had established hunting grounds and seasonal camps throughout these mountains.”

“Thousands of years, huh? That’s older than you,” he says with a grin.