Page 22 of For the Record
Sawyer heaved a sigh, blowing a strand of her dark hair free from her vision. Her chest rose and fell harder than it usually did after carrying the trays and lugging the flour bin around.
“Certainly not in your twenties anymore, are you?” she muttered, taking a long drink from her stainless-steel water bottle. Her eyes drifted closed as the cool liquid trickled downher throat. She sighed again, this time in contentment. She wasn’t in her thirties anymore either, she mused. What was a young thing like McCoy Miller doing chasing her? Sawyer shook her head, her gaze landing on the edge of the island where she’d left her phone. It didn’t make a lick of sense.
Their strange interaction Saturday before Sawyer had gone to work had been at the forefront of her mind. The things McCoy had said, the odd tingle of anticipation and longing Sawyer felt at hearing them. It was … peculiar. What’s more, when she’d finally fallen asleep the last two nights, it hadn’t been her usual nightmares. It had been of McCoy—or more specifically, McCoy’s mouth on Sawyer’s, her strong hands parting Sawyer’s thighs … Sawyer had woken that morning slick with arousal, the memory of McCoy’s lustful green gaze staring up at her while her lips and tongue were buried in her sex.
Sawyer flushed with the reminder. Oral pleasure wasn’t something she had a lot of experience with. And she’d never once climaxed from it. Sex with her husband had been an uncomfortable experience at the best of times, and earlier in their marriage, Olivier had made it abundantly clear he had never enjoyed giving oral.
How do I know my next partner won’t think the same?Or that I won’t feel just as uncomfortable?
It was one of many worries Sawyer had. Not dating took care of the issue easily enough.
Curious about how McCoy was doing alone in her garage, Sawyer pulled up the surveillance feed on her phone. It was closing in on eight thirty, so it was possible the younger woman had already left for her day job. To Sawyer’s surprise, McCoy was leaning against Olivier’s old workbench with the phone pressed close to her ear. Sawyer glanced at the McLaren. McCoy had got several parts off in just the six or so hours she’d been thereover the last two days. The work area appeared clean now, as if McCoy was getting ready to leave her house.
“Who is so important that she’d risk being late for work?” Sawyer mused aloud. Glancing around her spacious kitchen at Desmarais to make sure she was still alone, curiosity got the best of her, and she unmuted the video.
McCoy’s smooth lilt immediately floated over Sawyer, doing weird things to her insides. “Stop that,” she scolded her traitorous body and scowled into her phone.
“Aww, you know I’m never too busy to talk to my favorite woman,” McCoy practically cooed into her phone.
Sawyer’s hackles rose with the obvious affection in McCoy’s voice, and she had to release the tight grip she had on her cell.Whowas McCoy talking to? Just how many women did she have?
“I’m sorry I haven’t been over. How about I come Saturday after work? I could stay the night,” McCoy continued into the phone, now toying with her car keys as she talked. Not an ounce of stress or impatience emanated from her body.
“She works for her father. No wonder she’s not worried about being late,” Sawyer huffed, unsure if she was more annoyed at that fact or watching—and hearing—McCoy sweet talk some naive woman right in front of her.
Sawyer’s throat flushed as realization kicked in.Shewas the one invading McCoy’s privacy.God, I’m spying on a private conversation. What is wrong with me?
Clarity snapped her out of it, and Sawyer set the phone down on the counter to stretch. She was about to close the surveillance feed when McCoy said the last thing Sawyer expected.
“I love you too, Nana. I’ll see you Friday.”
Nana?
A surprised bout of laughter bubbled up from Sawyer’s throat. McCoy was speaking to hernana?
“You are just full of surprises, aren’t you?” Sawyer said softly, closing out the app. As she returned to the sink to rewash her hands, try as she might, she couldn’t fully erase the smile from her face.
This is precisely why I don’t bother making big breakfasts,Sawyer thought two days later as she juggled a bowl of beaten eggs under one arm. With her free hand, she grabbed the tongs to flip the bacon sizzling in the pan, cursing in both French and English when the fat spit out at her.
“Should have stuck to my usual,” she grumped aloud, setting the tongs down again before whisking the last of the eggs. Bach played on the Bluetooth speaker attached to the wall beside the kitchen’s entrance, and she hummed the low notes as she tossed freshly chopped chives into the eggs.
After her early morning run, Sawyer had felt better than she had in a long while. The nausea had been almost non-existent, and the idea of a home-cooked breakfast—with bacon—sounded too good to pass up. Unfortunately, having to defrost the package first was a time waste in her already carefully constructed routine. Now she was running behind, and her island was in a state of disarray with loaves of bread rising and fresh cinnamon rolls taking up residence.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The faint sound of McCoy’s hammer had Sawyer pausing mid-stir. She’d let the younger woman in shortly after five, and every so often, she could hear the racket.
A shrill ring echoed in the kitchen, and it took Sawyer a minute to realize it was her landline jangling on the wall behind her.Huh, random. No one ever called her on that old thing. She let it ring, stirring her eggs around in the frying pan before she turned off the bacon.
Apprehension tickled the back of her neck as an image of a hurt and scared Bree flashed through her mind, and she snatched the phone from its cradle. “Hello, Bree?”
Melodic laughter floated through the line. “Not Bree, I’m afraid.”
Sawyer frowned at the familiar sound. “Cin? Why are you calling me on here?”
“Well, good morning to you too, crank. I wouldn’t have rung this number if you could stay attached to your mobile. Where is it this time? In the bathroom?”
“In my purse, ready to go to work,” Sawyer said in exasperation. Fetching her favorite aged cheddar from the fridge, she placed that and the grater on the counter. Then she stirred her eggs one last time before turning off the stove. She spied the time on the wall clock resting between the kitchen and living room. “I’m running late, Cin. What can I help you with?”