Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Once we’re driving away from Queenie’s house, he asks, “And what music would the lady like?” with a formal tone, like he’s addressing the queen of England.
“Heavy metal.”
“Unfortunately, we’re in the middle of nowhere, Texas,” he says, affecting the same polished accent. “I can provide you with country or country.”
I hum like I’m really mulling it over. “I’ll take country.”
We lock eyes and laugh, and a surge of guilt rises up inside of me like a tsunami. I hate this. I frown out the window, trying to think of anything that could possibly get me back in the right headspace, but nothing works. I might not be cut out for this mission.
Sawyer takes me to The Black Door, Oak Hill’s most upscale restaurant. When it first opened a few years back, it was all anybody could talk about. Have you seen there’s a dress code? Is the food really that good?! I’ve never been because Queenie called to get the prices once (fancy restaurants never have them listed online) and exclaimed, “HOT DAMN!” before slamming the phone down like it was on fire. “I hope they don’t charge me for that call. I can’t afford it.”
“I feel slightly underdressed,” I note as Sawyer ushers me inside the dimly lit restaurant.
“You look great,” he insists, and I’m pleased to find his conviction and confidence are contagious.
We’re seated at the chef’s table, which provides a view of the working kitchen and its entertaining drama.
“This is so cool.”
Sawyer grins as he unfolds his napkin onto his lap. “I’ll admit it was my grandfather’s idea. He thought my picnic sounded ‘cheap’. Told me I had to up my game.”
I can’t help but laugh. “The picnic was sweet. Really. Tell him he’s being too hard on you.”
The Black Door has an extensive cocktail menu, and since we shared a bottle of wine on Saturday, we opt for cocktails tonight: a gin fizz for me and a spicy paloma for him. When they’re delivered, we swap and taste each other’s.
“I prefer yours,” I tell him with a shake of my head. “I’m always so bad at ordering cocktails.”
“Take it,” he says, keeping ahold of my gin fizz. “This one’s good too.”
There is no chance of me returning to the mental state I was in a few days ago. Forcing Sawyer to play the role of No-Good Womanizing Heartbreaker is impossible. That persona was originally based on old prejudices and high school memories. Since I’ve returned to town, he’s been nothing but nice to me and to everyone else around him. He didn’t have to let me keep his cocktail when we both know it was much better than the one I ordered. And even now, he’s going out of his way to be nice to our server. Sawyer addresses her as “ma’am” when he calls her over to ask if she wouldn’t mind bringing us more bread when she has a free second.
She responds with a wink. “Right away, sugar.”
My shifting opinion of him is making me sweat. Guilt is rising inside me like bad heartburn.
When it’s time for us to decide what we want to eat, Sawyer suggests we get a few things to share.
“I can never decide on just one thing, and inevitably, I’m going to want some of what you’re having.”
I smile, relieved, because that’s what I was hoping we’d do. “Okay, what about the roasted artichokes to start?”
“Now you’re speaking my language.” He grins.
“And at least one pasta dish?”
Then we say, “Fettuccini?” in tandem before laughing.
And because it feels like a magic trick we can’t repeat twice, we agree to look over the main entrees and say what we want to order on three.
“One, two, three.”
“Chicken parmesan.”
“Chicken parm.”
It’s so silly, and yet our eyes lock and it’s like we’ve just cast a love spell. It’s the goofiest thing. Chicken breaded and fried, covered in tomato sauce. We’ll serve it at our wedding.
I screech my chair back and excuse myself, claiming I need to use the bathroom.
Kendra doesn’t answer the first time I call her, but I try again while I hover in a stall, repeating, “Pick up. Pick up. Pick up,” over and over again.
A toilet flushes beside me and someone walks out of a stall to wash their hands. The bathroom door opens and closes, and I’m left alone right as Kendra finally answers.
“Sorry! Was putting the kids to bed. What’s up?”
“This is a disaster!” I exclaim. “I’m developing feelings for him, Kendra!”
“Oh no.” She sounds deeply concerned. “We should have assumed that was a possibility. His dimples are impossible to resist. Like kryptonite to the entire female population.”
“It’s not even just the dimples. He’s charming! Funny!”
“No no no… Can’t you just remember how he stomped all over my heart in high school? Surely that’s enough to remind you of your mission?”