Karma’s Kiss

Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

This is totally absurd. I can’t talk to Sawyer. Not in front of his grandfather! Not at all! This is what I get for not leaping out of that speeding car earlier when I had the chance. What’s some light road rash compared to this awkwardness?

I can’t look at Sawyer. With the sun shining overhead, he’s lit up like a golden statue, too handsome for words. The backward baseball hat is also throwing me for a loop. If I give in to the urge to check him out, I’ll forget Kendra’s plan and accidentally demand he take me out on a second date just so I can have the pleasure of enjoying his company for a little while longer.

“Hate to break it to you, Sawyer, but this poor girl was avoiding you like the plague while y’all were in the tasting room. I figured there might be a juicy reason why.” Crawford volunteers this information with unabashed amusement.

Oh my god. I squeeze my eyes closed and pray for an earthquake.

“Is that right?” Sawyer asks with a curious lilt. “Maybe it has to do with the fact that I took her on a date Saturday night.”

My eyes ping open.

Crawford chuckles. His eyes narrow as he crosses his arms and looks at me for an explanation. “ A DATE? See, she left that part off.” He looks back to Sawyer, asking, “How’d you screw it up? Forget to hold the door for her or something? Maybe that pissed her off.”

“Not that I recall,” he says with a laugh.

“Hope you cleaned up beforehand. Didn’t try to wear your work clothes, did you?”

“I dressed nicely,” Sawyer assures his grandfather while looking curiously at me.

“It was a perfectly fine date,” I insist with a snippy tone, hating every minute of this.

Crawford grimaces. “That don’t sound too good, son.” He shakes his head at the sad prognosis. “I doubt you’ll be getting a second date.”

“No! He won’t!” I say in a rush.

Sawyer’s eyebrows hit his hairline. “ No? ”

Crawford howls with laughter, but Sawyer doesn’t blush with embarrassment. He’s too cocky for that. “That’s a shame. I got your number from David this morning. I was planning to call you after work to see if you wanted to get together tomorrow night.”

Would I have answered if he’d called me out of the blue?

No. Absolutely not, but I would have wanted to.

How pitiful.

“Sorry you went through the trouble…”

“Maybe you should give him one more chance,” Crawford says to me. Then he pauses before continuing, “On the other hand, Sawyer, you had your chance, and if you blew it, you blew it.”

Sawyer frowns at his grandfather. “Whose side are you on, old man?”

Crawford holds up his hands in innocence. “All right, I’ll stay out of it. But between me and you, you’d be a fool not to beg her for a second chance.”

“He’s right,” Sawyer says with an endearing grin. “One more date, Madison?”

Of course he’s confident enough to insist in front of an audience. Am I the first woman who’s dared to turn him down for a date?

I have no idea how to proceed here. Going out a second time wasn’t in the cards for us, but I just want this awkward exchange to be over with, so I hurry and answer. “Fine. Whatever.”

I’ll just…ghost him or something. There’s no way I’m going on a second date!

“A SECOND DATE?!” Kendra sounds beyond enthused by the news when I call her after work.

“Yes. No. ” I’m still confused. “It was a verbal agreement, nothing binding. I’ll get out of it.”

“Oh no you won’t. One more date will really seal the deal.”

“Seal what deal, Kendra? This is silly! One date is all I agreed to, and it would have ended there had his grandfather not meddled. He was the one to convince Sawyer to ask me out again even after I made it clear that the answer would be no!”

This doesn’t surprise Kendra. “Of course his grandpa loved you! Are you kidding? Did you flutter those long eyelashes? Did you flash him that winning smile of yours? I swear you would have killed in the pageant scene when you were young.”

“No, I didn’t do any of that. I insulted his grandson within a few minutes of meeting him, actually.”

“You what?!”

She’s shocked because insulting family members isn’t my usual MO; I would have never behaved like this in my last relationship.

Matthew Mason is technically Matthew Mason IV, the youngest in a long line of Alabama politicians with far-reaching influence and money so old they can trace it back to the Stone Age. The first time I was invited to join him for a formal family dinner, we’d been dating for ten months and I knew him well enough to realize Matthew was extremely nervous about introducing me to his family.

“Is that the nicest dress you have?” he asked as we were about to head out the door.

I looked down at my white eyelet midi dress, belted snugly around my waist and accented with adorable cap sleeves. I’d agonized over it inside a little boutique on North College Street. It’d cost a pretty penny (more than I had to spend at the time), but I thought it looked exactly like what a dutiful southern woman should wear to meet her boyfriend’s conservative parents. In fact, it looked like what I could wear to accompany Matthew and his parents on the campaign trail.

“Maybe button it all the way to the top?” he suggested.

“Like a pilgrim?” I teased, trying to get him to loosen up. The dress was more than demure enough already. If I buttoned it up any further I wouldn’t be able to turn my neck.

“Fine, at least grab a sweater or something.”

Matthew’s parents live in the Old Cloverdale neighborhood near the state capitol, which was an hour’s trek for us getting there from Auburn’s campus on a Sunday afternoon, but Matthew didn’t think much of it. He did it every week as was expected of him and his three younger siblings.

At the door of their stately mansion, we were greeted by a woman wearing a black shift dress, her brown hair tugged back into a severe bun.

“Mr. Matthew, it’s so good to see you,” she said kindly. “Your family is gathered in the blue salon.”

I returned the smile she aimed at me, glad to see a friendly face. I stepped toward her, hand outstretched. “Hi, I’m—”

But Matthew cut me off before I could fully introduce myself.

“That’s Birdie,” he hissed like I was supposed to know exactly what that meant.

“Okay…”

“The maid .”

I remember feeling nauseous as I walked away from Birdie knowing she’d overheard him chastise me for trying to be nice to her. But then a commanding voice boomed from down the hall, drawing my full attention.

“Matthew!”

Matthew Mason III—Matthew’s father—greeted us wearing a crisp button-down beneath a cashmere sweater vest, pressed slacks, and Ferragamo loafers. An orange Auburn A was embroidered on his left breast.

He focused his forceful gaze on me as I swallowed past my nerves. “You must be Madison McCall. Wonderful to have you join us.”

His dad was gracious and welcoming, ushering us into the blue salon and introducing me to the rest of the family. All of the women were blonde. All of the men held glasses of dark liquor. An adorable golden retriever sniffed my ankles; I knew he was Matthew’s childhood pet named after Auburn’s mascot, Aubie. I scratched behind the dog’s ears, and this earned me a subtle thumbs-up from Matthew. Then a whispered reminder to “ Button your cardigan higher. ”

The references to Auburn didn’t end with the family dog. The blue salon—as this room was so dramatically named—was entirely dedicated to navy and orange memorabilia from the university: a vintage pennant pinned in a heavy gold frame, a signed football helmet from Ralph “Thug” Jordan, a pedestal displaying a 2010 championship ring nestled in navy velvet.

I smiled at everyone, spoke when spoken to, and used the exact right fork at the exact right time. In other words, I passed my first family dinner test with flying colors—Matthew’s mother even complimented my dress!—and I knew from discussing it with Matthew afterward that his parents absolutely loved me, and how could they not? I was playing my part to a T. I was being the perfect version of myself.

That girl is long gone, so dead in fact I don’t think I could dredge her up if I tried.

Unfortunately, I don’t come up with a lie to get out of my second date with Sawyer, and I’m too chicken to stand him up. My only option—if I’m going to go through with this—is to completely keep feelings out of it. If he says something sweet, I’ll shield myself against it. If he tips his head to the side and gives me a boyish grin, I’ll remind myself that vigilante heroes don’t have feelings, they have Batmobiles, overloaded utility belts, skintight spandex pants.

This resolve is tested the moment I open my front door to see Sawyer has brought me and Queenie bouquets of freshly cut sunflowers from his grandmother’s garden. Standing on the doorstep, he looks like a dreamboat dressed in dark jeans and a white button-down, clean-shaven and smelling divine.

“Crawford insisted on the flowers,” he says, holding out the bouquets. “Said I had to step up my game if I had any chance of winning you over.”

Queenie exclaims over the sunflowers, one of which is just about the size of her head.

“Sawyer Garnett, you’re too sweet! I could just eat you up.”

She makes us redo our fireplace formal photos from our first date, this time with the sunflowers. I don’t even argue; it’ll just make it take longer if I do. I let Sawyer wrap his strong arms around my waist and I lean back against him, and for those few seconds my shield slips and real honest feelings creep up, an intense desire to stay right where I am, nestled against him.

When we walk outside, Sawyer opens the truck door for me, and we both shyly smile at each other as I climb in. “Feel like the pressure’s really on now,” he says. “I know my grandfather’s going to ask me about every little detail.”

“He’s actually asked me to write up a full review and rate our date on a scale of one to ten.”

My delivery is so deadpan I expect him to be confused (sometimes hot guys just aren’t that funny), but Sawyer gets it. He winks and bows deeply before closing my door and rounding the front of his truck. I fiddle with my hands on my lap, trying to dig deep for some vigilante hero determination.

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?”

I rub my forehead in annoyance. “Yes. Maybe that will help. Remind me what happened between you two again? Start at the beginning. I know you were obsessed with him.”

“Yes, for years , and then we went out on that one date—”

“You only went out ONCE?!”

“Let me finish , will you?” She sounds exasperated (which makes two of us). “The first date was so sweet. We studied together in the library during lunch.”

Oh my god.

I feel the color drain from my face.

“Kendra,” I say slowly. “Did Sawyer know this was a date?”

“How could he not?! He let me borrow his pencil and highlighter. He helped me figure out this really tricky math problem and he leaned in so close while he did it. We almost kissed. It was so romantic.”

“I’m going to be sick.”

“And! And he walked me to class afterward.” She says this like it’s totally damning, the closing argument of The People vs. Sawyer Garnett.

“I remember. That was the day Mr. Garcel gave us both detention. You told me Sawyer asked you out.”

“No. I said he was going to ask me out.”

Is this true? Have I remembered it all wrong?

“But that’s when things took a turn.” She goes on, “After that day we studied together in the library, I followed him around school for a week straight, but he wouldn’t even give me the time of day. He acted like I didn’t exist. I overheard him saying, ‘Some freshman left a mixed CD in my locker,’ and then he gave it to Hunter! Like it meant nothing!”

“What did you expect him to do, Kendra?”

“Fall madly in love with me, of course! TO ME it was a date, okay?! That’s all that matters. I loved him—”

I roll my eyes. “No, you didn’t.”

“Okay, but I thought he was very hot, and to a teenager, that feels a lot like love.”

Truly this is so ridiculous I can’t help but laugh. “What does Jeff think about all this? Does he even know about this stupid plan you concocted?”

“Yes. He’s right here on the couch listening to us. Thinks it’s hilarious. Oh now he’s telling me to hurry it up. We recorded an episode of Dateline . It looks so good. It’s about this woman who disappears near the Everglades. Authorities assume it was a crocodile that got her but apparently—”

“Great. Listen—it ends, right now. I’m not doing your dirty work anymore. This Take Sawyer Down mission is officially over .”

“Oh fine. You’re no fun.”

“Enjoy your Dateline .”

“Enjoy your…whatever it is you’re doing.”

I hang up, look down at my phone, and feel so much relief I could cry. I, Madison McCall, am no one’s vigilante hero. I can go back into the dining room and finish dinner with Sawyer with a clear conscience.

Then I hear a toilet flush.

“Dang it,” the woman hisses quietly, like she’s annoyed she triggered the automatic toilet, like she was trying to be stealthy…

Oh god.

I panic and bend down to peer into the next stall to see a person wearing pink ballet flats. Those shoes and her nondescript calves are all I see, but they’re enough to almost give me a heart attack.

I’m not alone in here like I thought I was.

Whoever is standing there has heard my entire phone call.