Page 23 of For the Record
The drill went off in the garage this time, and Sawyer’s thoughts raced to the woman wielding it. McCoy had shown up in the same overalls and work boots she wore every day while working, but a teensy part of Sawyer was dying to see what was underneath. A T-shirt or a sports bra? Was her skin slick with sweat?
Mm-hmm. Sawyer’s teeth sunk into her lower lip at the tantalizing image of how McCoy had looked the first time she’d worked on the McLaren. She had stripped her overalls down to her waist, and the black sleeveless shirt she’d worn had shown off defined muscles and tattoos.
“Yoo-hoo. Sawyer, are you listening?”
Not even a little.
“Sorry, can you repeat that?” Sawyer gave her head a shake, focusing on Cindy and her food once again.
“I was wondering if you’d given any more thought to dinner this Sunday?”
“Oh …” Sawyer hesitated.
“You completely forgot about it, didn’t you? C’mon, how long has it been since you went anywhere other than Desmarais? Not including the warehouse a month ago or a doctor’s appointment.”
“A while, I suppose,” Sawyer reluctantly admitted. It’d been a year or more since she’d even stepped foot in a grocery store. That was what DoorDash and curb pickup were for.
“I suppose it could work. Unless I get bogged down planning the new menu.”
Cindy chuckled. “Finding reasons to bail already, I see.”
“Excuse me? I’m too fucking busy to ‘find’ reasons, Cindy,” Sawyer said tightly. She turned the burners off, her movements jerky. She shoulddefinitelyhang up now.
“I’m just playing with you, Sawyer. No need to bite my head off. Honestly,” Cindy grumbled, “No sense of humor.”
Sawyer bit down on her tongue, hating how defensive she was. She sighed. “I’m … sorry. I’ve got a lot going on right now. I’ll just … Call me tomorrow, will you?” She clicked off before Cindy could reply, tossing the phone onto the island. Closing her eyes, Sawyer took several long breaths to loosen the tightness in her chest. The pulse in her temple was throbbing with a vengeance.
“Why do I bother?” she groused, feeling her appetite evaporate as she looked at her breakfast on the stove. She’d been ravenous only a few moments ago, but Cindy had a special way of getting under her skin in the simplest of ways.
“Tabarnak, Cindy.” She carried the frying pan to the garbage and was about to toss the eggs when the sound of a saw coming from the garage slowly registered. McCoy. Rather than waste thefood, Sawyer could ask the mechanic if she was hungry. But what message would that send? Sawyer certainly wouldn’t be offering breakfast each time McCoy was here to work.
It had been almost a week since McCoy had admitted she liked Sawyer. A week of unspoken tension between them and too much of saying one thing and meaning another. At least on her part, and that wasn’t like Sawyer at all. Her body responded differently when she argued with McCoy than when she would argue with Olivier. Her heart raced with excitement, not her usual fight or flight response. She felt desirable, not at all like the woman she’d been for the last fifteen years.
Sawyer could admit her dislike of McCoy might not be as authentic as she’d initially thought. Their banter felt explosive and sexual and completely out of control. The annoying throbbing between her legs and hardened nipples when she thought of the other woman attested to that fact.
Sawyer eyed the frying pan with a sigh.Itwouldbe a shame to waste.
Deciding, she plated the bacon and scrambled eggs she’d intended for herself, along with a fresh cinnamon roll she’d baked earlier, grabbed utensils, and carried the plate down the long hallway to the garage. Through the window of the door, she spotted McCoy immediately. She was once again dressed down to a ribbed men’s tank top, her coveralls bunched and tied around her strong waist. Everything about her was strong, Sawyer was reluctantly coming to realize. It was always warm inside the garage, and as Sawyer entered, she tried not to focus on the trickle of sweat drizzling down the younger woman’s temple. Her powerful, tattooed biceps flexed as McCoy cut off pieces of the McLaren’s front frame. What was left of the fender sat a few feet away on a pallet.
“Sawyer, hey,” McCoy greeted her, abruptly shutting off the grinder. She grinned—which, much to Sawyer’s dismay, she wasable to do with her eyes as well as her lips. Every time she didthatto Sawyer, the pit of Sawyer’s stomach dropped out a little more.
With indignation, to be sure.
“Here,” she announced, thrusting the breakfast plate into McCoy’s hands. Staring at the oil creasing her fingertips, Sawyer instantly regretted not putting it on a disposable dish.
“Wow, thank you. I’m starving, thanks,” McCoy sputtered, her cheeks flushing almost immediately.
Perhaps McCoy isn’t much of a Casanova after all.
Sawyer nodded in response, her gaze wandering over McCoy’s stocky form as she took a seat on the nearest rolling stool. She didn’t like the awareness she had of McCoy. She didn’t like McCoy, period. Not really. The younger woman was obnoxious, arrogant, grinned way more than was healthy, and—
And speaks sweetly to her nana. And has impeccable manners. And likes you.
“Is that for me, too?”
Sawyer’s eyes narrowed, irritated that her brain once again went on a tangent. It was one thing to do so when she was alone but another entirely if the object of her fascination was in touching distance. Embarrassed, she glared at McCoy, who was now moaning over the cinnamon roll Sawyer had made, then down at the coffee she hadn’t realized she’d carried out to the garage with her. “No.”
“Erm, okay.”