Karma’s Kiss

Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

I can’t work at the Wildflower Weddings office today. I mean, I could, it’s just we no longer have internet. Marge accidentally spilled her coffee on our modem this morning.

“How was I supposed to know that thing was hidden under all my magazines?”

Queenie reassured her it was “all good,” but when the internet guy showed up an hour later with a replacement modem, he took one look at our system and shook his head. “This won’t work. This whole setup must be pre-2005. We’ve got to get you going on a wireless router.”

“Wire-who-now?” Marge asked.

Not wanting to linger in the chaos, I promptly grabbed my laptop and sneaked away to the coffee shop next door. Golden Harvest is adorable and trendy; there are baristas with beanies and acoustic jams filtering through the speakers. We had nothing like this in Oak Hill while I was growing up. If my parents wanted to-go coffee, they’d have to swing by the Presbyterian church and hope there was a pot brewing in the front lobby. And if the minister happened to see them come in, game over. My brother and I would be stuck out in the car for fifteen, twenty minutes, bemoaning our circumstances and boredom. That man loves to yap.

I’m reveling in my plentiful megabits per second and my perfectly brewed chai latte when the bell over the door chimes and I spot brunette shining curls.

No!

Charlotte drinks coffee? Why? She seems plenty perky enough without it. Coffee is for people like me, morning trolls who need caffeine to give them something to live for between the hours of seven and nine AM.

She strolls in to take her place in line, and I do the only sensible thing: duck down so my face is squashed against my laptop’s keyboard and pray she doesn’t look over here. I’m still cowering a few minutes later—holding my breath as well—when I sense a presence looming over me. I suddenly feel like an innocent victim in a horror movie. Except when I peer up, it’s not a blood-thirsty murderer looming over me. It’s worse.

Charlotte beams like she’s overjoyed to have found me sitting here. Her hair is styled to perfection and she’s wearing a matching lavender workout set. She’s come to this coffee shop with her own reusable Stanley thermos in tow. Her name is etched onto the side along with a cascade of hearts. She doesn’t have the lid on it; it wouldn’t fit what with all the whipped cream, chocolate sprinkles, and pink-striped straw.

“Oh hi, Charlotte.”

“Hi, Madison! Are you busy?” She’s eyeing me like she’s not quite sure what I’m doing. After all, I’m still hunched over my computer at an awkward angle.

I think fast and keep my ear pressed against my keyboard, narrowing my eyes and acting like I’m listening for something. “Could have sworn it was making a funny noise…” Then I shrug. “Oh well, stupid technology. What do you need?”

She steps closer and pulls out the chair at my table. If she sees my eyes widen in panic before I rein in my reaction, she doesn’t let on. She tilts her head to the right and looks at me sadly. Her face is the watery-eyes emoji. “I just wanted to apologize for getting in the middle of you and Sawyer. I feel so bad.”

Sawyer told her about our fight?! Are they really that close?

Then she continues, “I could sense the tension at Cruz’s party, and I just hate that I might have caused any problems.”

Oh. So maybe Sawyer didn’t tell her…she’s just thoughtful enough to pick up on the awkwardness. A bit of my annoyance with her slips away. Up until this moment, I had a bone to pick with this woman, but now I realize maybe she’s not the enemy I thought she was. She seems nice enough, pink and bubbly. Could a person who orders eight parts whipped cream to one part coffee really be that conniving? I’ve never seen an adult consume so many sprinkles in one sitting.

She shrugs apologetically, continuing on, “It’s just that I thought Sawyer deserved to know all the horrible things you were doing behind his back.”

WHOA. Somehow while delivering this bomb she keeps her expression sympathetic. It’s like she wants me to know she’s on my side, really, I just need to understand her point of view.

“It wasn’t like that,” I insist with a defensive laugh. “I know you were listening to my conversation in the bathroom at the restaurant and it was inappropriate of me to carry on in a public place like that, but I really wish you had come to me first before taking the tale to Sawyer. It’s actually really silly that it’s blown up into such a big thing.”

She laughs and shakes her head like, Silly me. “Oh, so you didn’t accept a date with Sawyer just to toy with him?”

I swear her usual happy-go-lucky expression has hardened with the accusation. But then she sips innocently from her pink straw and it throws me off.

“No.” I frown. “Not exactly…”

“But you did have a plan with Kendra, right? I mean, I have pretty good ears. I know what I heard.”

Okay, I’m not making this up. There’s definitely a layer of snark underneath her chipper tone.

“I’m sorry, are you his lawyer or something?”

This gets a big, vivacious laugh. Then her hand touches my arm. “ No. Madison. It’s all good. I just wanted Sawyer to have all the facts. He’s such a special guy, and I don’t want to see him hurt by somebody like you.” Okay, ouch. “Anyway, I better run.” She stands, taking her jug of whipped cream with her. “I’m making lunch for the firefighters down at the station—it’s so important to give back to our community—and I don’t want to be late. Bye!”

I stare dumbfounded as she walks out of the coffee shop, tossing a little wave to the barista as she goes. Her lavender skirt twirls around her. She’s a fairy, a princess—NO. She’s a deceitful little shrew!

Back at the Wildflower Weddings office, chaos has given birth to disaster.

In the time I’ve been at Golden Harvest, the internet guy hasn’t fixed our WiFi issues. In fact, it looks like the space has been dismantled and wrecked even more than when I left, and instead of helping put things to rights, the internet guy is eating lunch with Queenie and Marge. The three of them sit together on the couch with chicken salad sandwiches and jalape?o chips.

“—and then I told Tony, you either change your ways or get outta here. It’s not good for me or the kids,” Marge explains before grabbing a few chips off her plate. “And it worked. He got his act together.”

“So you think I should give Sarah the same ultimatum?” the internet guy asks.

“If you care about those kids, you better,” Marge insists. “You can’t let Jason and Cason grow up in a house with all that fighting.”

Queenie hums in agreement. Then she swallows her bite and asks, “Will you pass the sweet tea, George?”

“Sure thing.”

Later, I ask Queenie and Marge if they knew George before today: “No, total stranger. Hope he gets his marriage sorted out though.”

This is the epitome of living in the south. You’ll meet someone and five minutes later know their whole life story.

“Yeah, and maybe tomorrow he’ll have time to fix the internet,” Queenie adds, completely unbothered by our lack of productivity.

By quitting time, I need to blow off steam. Between the messy office, my fight with Sawyer, and my issues with Charlotte, I have a lot on my plate. Back at Queenie’s, I slip on my running shoes and head through the neighborhood, following the same route I used to take when I was training in high school. I like the familiarity and comfort of seeing the same houses from my childhood, totally unchanged. I pass Kendra’s parents’ place—a ranch-style with red brick—and turn left at Waylon’s diner. I’m about to double back before I hit the dead end at the creek when I hear someone shouting my name from the side of Doc’s deck.

I love Doc’s, and it’s a shame I haven’t been back since I returned to town. Situated right on the creek, it was made for lazy summer afternoons, the wide deck shaded by a cluster of oak trees. On the hottest day, it’s an alluring oasis.

Doc, aka Doctor Ben McGee, is a legend in Oak Hill. He was valedictorian of his class back when Queenie was in high school and went on to Harvard for his undergraduate degree and for medical school, but when it was all said and done, he quit the profession and walked away, said he wanted a simpler life. It’s why occasionally you’ll hear people at the bar asking Doc if he’ll take a look at “this weird mole” or confirm whether a swollen ankle needs an X-ray or just an icepack. It’s also why there’s a big ol’ tip jar sitting near the cash register because Doc likes to joke that even well into his 50s, he’s still paying off his school loans. His medical degree hangs in a fancy gold frame behind the bar, right beside a Miller Lite neon sign.

David is hanging over the wooden rail of the deck, waving me over.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, still breathing heavy from my run.

He nods toward the bar. “Helped Doc with his A/C, ’bout to have a drink on the house as payment. You want to join?”

A cold beer sounds like heaven, actually.

“I’m not really dressed for it,” I comment, and we both laugh.

Doc’s is an anything-goes kind of establishment. David’s wearing his stained work clothes, and he’s clearly been toiling away outside because he’s as sweaty as I am.

“Come around.” He taps his knuckles twice on the wooden railing. “I’ll get our drinks.”

It’s still a little crazy to me that I can see my brother any ol’ day of the week. For years, we’ve had to plan months ahead to get together, and now here we are on a Tuesday afternoon, clinking Coronas.

“Cheers.”

I squeeze a lime wedge into the neck of the beer bottle and we drink in silence for a bit, listening to the trickle of the creek down below. It’s the same creek that feeds into Queenie’s backyard, and seeing it makes me think of Sawyer. Thinking of Sawyer makes me take another sip of my beer.

“Where are Lindsey and Cruz?”

“Swimming at Lindsey’s parents’ house. I’ll be heading over there in a little bit. You want to join?”

“Nah, it’s okay. Been a long day.”

He squints one eye at me curiously. “Things not quite workin’ out for you here the way you thought they would?”

I laugh at the question. “I’m living in my old bedroom at Mom’s house, trying to sort out her disaster of an office, and dealing with my personal life falling to pieces. So no .”

“Eh, minor problems.” He laughs, but when I don’t join in, he reaches over to jostle my arm. “Come on, don’t look so glum. Things will smooth out. You might have thought your life in Montgomery was picture perfect, but it clearly wasn’t. Maybe a good shake-up is just what you needed.”

I don’t agree. I know I’m better off now and obviously I should have never been with Matthew, but a part of me misses the ease of being in that carefree naive existence. It felt like I had life’s equation figured out. Be the blonde Auburn girl, secure a marriage to a nice great-looking guy from a good family, and happiness would await me at every turn.

“Have you heard from his parents or anything? Matthew’s?”

I almost shiver. “His mom called me the day after we broke up.”

His brows shoot up in surprise. “No shit? What’d she say?”

I knew Matthew’s parents weren’t going to love the sudden turn of events. Quick breakups and hasty engagements are potential fodder for political opponents, and that’s not even including the fact that a secretary—while being a perfectly fine job and not something I’d ever turn my nose up at—is not good enough for the Mason family. These are people who don’t address their maids, after all. Men like Matthew Mason III might look the other way when it comes to his son’s discreet affairs with secretaries, but marital unions? Oh no, not acceptable.

I pick at the label on my beer. “She wanted to know if it was salvageable.”

She called me while Matthew was at work. I was in our— Matthew’s —apartment, packing up the last of my stuff, trying to decide if I should hide his mother’s engagement ring somewhere just to scare the living daylights out of him when her name appeared on my phone screen.

I almost didn’t answer. I didn’t want to talk to the mother of my new ex-fiancé, but at that point, I hadn’t fully let go of the fantasy of being Madison Mason, beautiful southern bride and perfect young wife. She would answer the phone.

“Hi, Mrs. Mason.”

“ Madison. ” She said my name with immense relief. “I’m so glad you answered. I can’t believe what’s been going on. Are you with Matthew?”

“No…he’s at work.”

“Right. Good. Better to keep up appearances for now. We’ll do whatever it takes to straighten this out. Matthew is going through something…must be a quarter-life crisis, and he’s not thinking reasonably. We all know you’re the perfect girl for him. Matthew’s father has already had a word with him, and I expect Matthew will rethink his decision soon, if he hasn’t already. If I were you, I’d continue on as if everything is normal. Have a good shower, style your hair, pick out a nice outfit—do everything just as you usually would. Prepare a home-cooked dinner for when Matthew comes home and let him know that you’re still there , the steadfast woman I know you to be. Don’t let this ridiculous situation with the—the, well whatever she is , shake you up. Do you understand, dear?”

David shouldn’t have taken a sip of his beer, because upon hearing this reenactment, he does a spit take.

“She wanted you to make his fucking dinner?!”

I laugh. “And put on a nice outfit,” I remind him.

“The nerve! Did you tell her to go to hell?”

“Are you kidding?” I sound offended by the idea of it. “I asked her how the family was doing and told her to say hello to them for me, and then I got off the phone and hid my engagement ring in the back of the toilet. It was my one rebellious act in that relationship.”

David tosses his head back and cracks up.

I know Matthew eventually found the ring because the one and only text he’s sent me since our breakup was: I know you’re upset, but let’s act like adults here. That ring could have been lost forever.

“Sounds like you really dodged a bullet. What a crazy family.”

I’m beginning to understand that in a way that was hard to see when I was still in my relationship with Matthew. And though a small part of me still feels some strange sense of loyalty to them—even now I’m tempted to tell David, “They weren’t really that bad!”—I know I’m better off without the Masons than with them.

I finish off the last of my beer just as I hear two undeniably recognizable voices, and I’m already leaning forward to push off my knees as Hunter pulls up two chairs next to ours. Sawyer’s right behind him.

“ Madison McCall , just the person I wanted to see,” Hunter says with a grin.

“I was about to leave.”

“No, no, take a seat. Where do you think you’re rushing off to?” He laughs.

I wave a hand down my sweaty tank top and biker shorts. “I need to finish my run.”

His eyes practically bug out of his head. “ Run?! In this heat? No, I think you’re better off having another one of those.” He points to my empty beer then motions for Doc and raises four fingers. “Four more Coronas, Doc, and put ’em on Sawyer’s tab!” Hunter winks at Sawyer, but Sawyer doesn’t say a word. He’s standing just off to the side of our group, not looking at me.

David groans as he stands. “Make it three, boys. Wish I could stay, but I’m headed to Lindsey’s parents’ house. My wife’ll have my head if I’m late.”

Hunter doesn’t protest David’s departure like he does mine. “Scratch that! Three Coronas, Doc!”

“Quit your hollering and come order at the bar,” barks Doc. Clearly, he’s had enough.

I hide my smile as David pats my shoulder. “I’ll see you. If you change your mind, you’re welcome to join us for dinner.”

Then he walks off with Hunter, and Sawyer and I are left in tense silence. Though I’m tempted to stand and finish the second half of my run, I don’t want to concede this victory to him. If he feels awkward then he should be the one to leave. I’m perfectly able to sit at Doc’s and enjoy a Corona with Hunter. I like Hunter; he’s never banished me from his family’s vineyard.

I chance a quick peek in Sawyer’s direction and find he’s looking devastatingly handsome. What’s new? He’s wearing a black Starlight Vineyards t-shirt and jeans, and his brown hair is a little sweaty; he must have just come from work. He’s crossed his arms and his gaze is intently focused on the creek. It’s like I’m not even here.

Hunter comes slinking back with the beers, limes already squeezed into them. He sees Sawyer standing behind his chair and laughs. “Just going to hover there like an idiot?”

Sawyer shoots him a lethal glare then wrenches one of the bottles out of his hands and takes a seat in the chair farthest from mine. If he could sit on the other side of the deck and still talk to Hunter—and only Hunter—he would.

I look toward the creek and, almost instantaneously, I feel Sawyer’s gaze on me.

Ah. So that’s how it’s going to be. We’re playing some game here and I don’t like it. I don’t know the rules or the objective, but he’s twisting my stomach into a knot and I know this second beer is going to go down even faster than the first.

“Some weather we’re having, huh?” Hunter notes.

Neither of us replies.

“That Astros game was pretty crazy last night. Stayed up way too late watching it.”

We do nothing but lift our beers to our mouths.

“I had a dream last night that I was on a pirate ship and Denzel Washington was the captain.”

I’m helpless but to laugh.

“Denzel Washington?” I remark.

He leans forward, glad he got a reaction out of me. “Yes. Remember the Titans Denzel, but also he had the beard and hair of the guy in Pirates of the Caribbean .” He shudders like the image doesn’t sit right with him. “Weird dream, man. What about y’all? You guys have any good dreams?”

He’s really scraping the bottom of the barrel here for conversation topics, so I’m surprised when Sawyer actually replies, “Madison was in my dream last night.”

Excuse me? I sit up straight, beer practically sputtering out of my mouth.

“Oh, really? Was she a pirate captain too?” Hunter jokes.

Sawyer’s brown eyes pierce mine.

“No.”

This one word is all he has to say about the matter. Infuriating.

“You’re not going to elaborate?” I ask, breaking the invisible wall and talking to him directly for the first time since he arrived.

He shrugs, unbothered and arrogant.

“Was this dream PG-13?” Hunter inquires with an innocent smile.

Sawyer grins down at his beer, but he doesn’t reply.

Oh my god. I hate him.

“That’s such a weird coincidence, Sawyer, because you were in my dream last night too.” I deliver this revelation with an abundance of sarcastic bewilderment. I’m not even trying to be a good actress.

Sawyer’s eyebrows furrow with annoyance, but Hunter’s smiling gleefully. “Really?! What are the odds?”

He knows the odds, but he doesn’t care. He likes where this is going.

“Yes! It was the craziest thing… The details are a little fuzzy.” The details aren’t fuzzy; they’re nonexistent, so I improvise. “Sawyer was wearing a Speedo.” No, not good enough. I snap my fingers. “No wait, a Tarzan -style loincloth. It only covered the front bits and bobs. Your butt was just hanging out.”

Sawyer snorts, but Hunter waves for me to go on.

“Anyway, I had just gotten married to that one actor from The Last of Us .” I look imploringly at Hunter. “What’s his name?”

“Pedro Pascal,” Sawyer provides, sounding bored.

“Yes! We were married and he was totally obsessed with me—we were about to leave for our honeymoon when you showed up, Sawyer, in that loincloth.” I’m so invested now it’s like I’m trying for an Oscar. “It’s hard to remember all of it. You know how it is with dreams, but you were bawling your eyes out and groveling down on your hands and knees, which was awkward, of course, because of the loincloth situation…”

“Of course,” Sawyer notes, expression trained into neutral indifference.

Hunter is choking on his laughter.

“And you were begging and begging for me to accept your apology.”

My one-and-a-half beers have started to take their effect. My cheeks are heated and I’m biting back my smile.

Sawyer’s brow arches sardonically. “Now see? That’s how I know it was a dream. The loincloth is believable enough. I like to roleplay as much as the next guy, but apologizing to you?” He stares straight at me. “Never gonna happen.”

Hunter puffs out a breath like he’s trying to diffuse the situation.

“Now, now, Sawyer. Let’s not get carried away. Sounds like a perfectly good dream to me. Care to share yours now?”

“It’s not appropriate… I don’t want to make anybody blush .”

Again his eyes fall on me and a flush overtakes me, rising up my neck and cheeks, and though I try to convince myself it’s from the beer, Sawyer and I both know it’s not.

“I guess now might be as good a time as any to let y’all know there has been some major gossip swirling,” Hunter cuts in. “I don’t like to listen to the rumor mill most of the time, but you two are all anyone around here seems to want to talk about.”

“I don’t care,” Sawyer snaps sternly.

Ignoring him, Hunter continues, “My mama was down at the grocery store yesterday and she overheard Lolly talking to Stacey Wolfe about how you two were making out in Queenie’s creek last week.”

He’s wearing a mischievously sly smile. Meanwhile, I tip my beer up and finish the last of it. As if by magic, Doc comes by with a third round.

“Perfect timing, Doc.” I smile and swap my empty beer for a full one.

“Sure thing. Y’all want anything to eat?”

“We’ll take some of your world-famous nachos,” Hunter says with a wink, then once Doc’s out of earshot, he jumps right back to the topic at hand. “So did it happen? Were y’all smoochin’ in the creek? I can’t picture it myself, but who knows?”

“It happened,” Sawyer states plainly. “Now change the subject.”

“What?!” Hunter explodes. “You expect me to—”

“ Change the subject ,” Sawyer insists roughly.

Two hours later, we’re playing darts, drunk as skunks. I’m not sure exactly how it happened. Sometime between the nachos and the cheeseburgers, Doc’s filled up with the afterwork crowd, my third beer turned into a fourth, and wouldn’t you know it? I suddenly don’t have a care in the world.

Doc cranked up the jukebox and he’s playing the song of my childhood: Garth Brooks’ “Friends in Low Places”. There’s not a person in the bar that doesn’t know the lyrics by heart, hence why Sawyer, Hunter, and I turn to one another, lean in, and croon the chorus, giving “ Think I’ll slip on down to the OH-asis ” its just due.

“Damn, this is a good song. You’re up, Sawyer.” Hunter nods toward the dartboard and Sawyer steps back to take aim.

The floor and wall (and ceiling) around the board are proof of our bad aim. Well, mostly mine. Sawyer’s still fully capable of sinking dart after dart right in the bull’s-eye.

“That’s like a superpower,” I tell him, sounding thoroughly impressed.

He smiles, those dimples making my heart flutter. “You’re up, buttercup.”

Oh right. I have a game to win here.

I step up, take my position, and narrow one eye while taking aim like I’m really going to do something. The first dart I throw pings off the wooden slat beside the dartboard, ricochets off a nearby chair, and lands with a plop in a bowl of salsa someone abandoned half an hour ago.

Hunter bursts out laughing and has a hard time staying standing.

Sawyer retrieves the dart and wipes off the salsa with a shake of his head. “You’re not even aiming at the board.”

“I sure am. And you know what I’m picturing for the bull’s-eye? I’ll give you one guess.”

Sawyer comes up behind me and drops his mouth close to my ear. “I don’t have to guess. I know. ” His hand’s on my waist and he doesn’t take it away. “Turn more. Yeah.” His hand slides up my arm, directly to my wrist, that little bit of connection eclipsing everything else.

I turn my body so I can look up at him. “How macho of you to give me a dart lesson. You doing this out of the kindness of your heart?”

His hand tightens on my wrist as he redirects my stance. “I’m doing it for the well-being of every person in here. They’re shaking in their boots, worried where your next dart is going to land. Poor Hunter almost lost an ear a minute ago.”

“It’s already stopped bleeding,” Hunter assures me from his perch on a nearby barstool.

I shimmy my hips like I’m trying to get comfortable in my position, but it brings me in direct contact with Sawyer. Neither of us pulls away. “Hunter, tell your friend he’s standing awfully close for someone who hates my guts.”

Sawyer chuckles behind me and keeps ahold of my arm, taking aim and throwing the dart for me, ensuring it sinks with a satisfying thump directly in the bull’s-eye.

I whirl around to see he’s wearing a winning smile. He’s confidence personified, the most handsome guy in this town and he knows it . If things were different—if the last few days had never happened—I’d sidle up close to him, slide my hands up his chest, and kiss the smile right off his face.

“You tell Hunter you kicked me off the vineyard yesterday?”

Sawyer’s eyes spark with the challenge. When I look over, Hunter shakes his head, crossing his arms over his wide chest. His eyes are half-lidded, evidence of his fourth beer. “Sure didn’t tell me. I hope it’s not true.”

I turn back to Sawyer, quirking a brow, waiting for him to fess up. Sawyer’s gaze lingers on my face, taking me in with so much interest I almost blush. I swear there’s yearning there; it’s like he wants to keep ahold of me but doesn’t know how.

“He said I’m never allowed to step foot on the property again,” I continue with a slow-spreading smile. “Am I the first person in Oak Hill history to be banned from Starlight Vineyards?”

Sawyer actually chuckles. “No. That privilege belongs to my grandfather’s old friend. Crawford caught him cheating during a game of cards. You’re the second person.”

“An honor,” I quip with a mocking bow. “Come on, Hunter, you’re up.”

“You think I can play darts right now? I’m ’bout to fall asleep at this table. Dammit, give ’em here.”

He shoves off his barstool and takes his turn, and though the darts manage to make it onto the board, they’re nowhere near the center. “Oh hell. I think that’s my sign to move on. I’m walking home.”

Ah, the perks of living in a small town. Hunter’s house is only a few streets over from Doc’s. He’ll be lying in bed sleeping off his buzz in fifteen minutes flat.

“That’s probably my cue too.”

I pat my backside as if I’m looking for my wallet and keys only to remember I ran here. No room for a wallet in my thin tank top and running shorts.

“Quitting on me?” Sawyer taunts.

I laugh as I fling my hand toward the dartboard. “You think I could possibly make a comeback? You’re so far ahead it’s embarrassing!”

“All right, so we’ll play something else.”

Hunter comes around to give me a side hug. “Bye, you two. Sawyer, you got Madison?”

“ Madison has Madison,” I reply with gumption. “I’ll get home just fine. Bye, Hunter! ”

I do have plans to go home; it’s late and I’m not sure what I’d hope to gain by staying here alone with Sawyer. But he convinces me to at least clean up the darts, and once we do that, there’s another good song playing over the stereo, “Heads Carolina, Tails California” by Jo Dee Messina. I tell myself I can’t leave until it’s over, and then Sawyer convinces me to partner up with him in Spades against Lee and Waylon. The two of us stare at each other across the table, acting like we’ve got some secret code.

“No table talk, you two,” Waylon grumbles.

“They’re not saying shit, they’re flirting with each other,” Lee remarks, throwing down an ace of hearts and winning the trick before sweeping the cards into a clean pile in front of him.

I roll my eyes. “We’re not flirting. I hate him.”

“Can’t stand her,” Sawyer tacks on in agreement.

“Oh yeah? I’ve seen this kind of hate before…” Lee laughs with a shake of his head.

I frown, trying to discern what he could possibly mean, and I’m no closer to figuring it out when the game is over (Lee and Waylon beat us handily), not even when Sawyer and I are walking out of Doc’s, bumping shoulders and trying to bite down our smiles.

“How’d you get here?” I ask him.

He nods toward his truck. “You ran?”

I tug on my tank top. “Why else would I be dressed like this?”

“I don’t know, but it’s been distracting as hell all night. Those little shorts…”

“What about them?”

He doesn’t say a word.

I haven’t even registered that he’s leading me over to his truck until he’s opening the passenger door for me. I laugh at the gesture. “I don’t want a ride from you! You’re my enemy. For all I know, you’ll drive me halfway to Mexico then kick me out on the side of the highway.”

“Well now that you’ve guessed my plan, I’ll have to come up with something else,” he drawls teasingly. “Hop in, Madison.”

I shimmy onto the seat and let him close the door behind me. He curves around the back of his truck, thumps the tailgate twice, and then opens his door. He climbs in, but he doesn’t start the engine. Why would he? He doesn’t want to take me anywhere. If he could, he’d toss the keys out the window and lose them in the grass.

His truck is parked way off in a cluster of oak trees, far enough from Doc’s front door that it feels plenty secluded. The dark windows are tinted and the moon’s not so bright tonight; we’ve lucked out.

Sawyer looks over the center console at me, and I don’t shy away from his intent gaze. Maybe he hasn’t forgiven me, but it’s clear he wants me. I stare at his lips and declare, “I don’t want to talk any more tonight.”

I can’t fight with him again right now. Not after standing so close to him all night, watching him throw darts and study his cards, not after feeling his heated gaze on me. I feel burned by it, hot and tingly.

“Then come here.”

I lean toward him and his hand catches behind my hair. He tugs me in and the moment we kiss, I feel it again, the desire I’ve tried so hard to suppress these last few days. Sawyer’s hungry for me. It’s apparent in the way his fingers tighten in my hair, the low groan he lets slip out as he presses against me.

He bites my lower lip and I come alive from it. Something scary grows in my chest as I climb up and over the center console and seat myself on his lap. His jeans rub against my sensitive thighs and I shift my hips, trying to find the perfect position until, with an exasperated “ Madison ,” Sawyer holds me steady, his hands squeezing my hips, his mouth covering mine. Our lips part and our tongues touch. A shudder rolls through me.

His calloused hands come up to tease the skin beneath my tank top, bunching it around my waist then pushing it up to gather just below the bottom of my ribs. I like how big his hands are as they cover me, skimming over my sports bra, making me whimper. His fingers dip under the tight material but then he pulls away and kisses me again, cradling my face. He continues like this, pressing the pedal to the metal one second only to back off the next. It’s like he’s restraining himself and he might have good reason for it, but it’s driving me insane. I’m the one to finally yank my shirt over my head and fling it away. It slaps against the passenger window and falls onto the seat. We both laugh, but not for long. I trace kisses down his neck and fumble with the waistband of his jeans.

God, his body is beautiful. I wish I had him spread out on a bed underneath me. I want to see all of him, feel every hard ridge and smooth muscle, but this is it—a golden opportunity—and I won’t let it go to waste.

Logistically, car sex is a nightmare. Too bad this is a standard-issue truck and not one of those super XL RVs with walls that extend with the press of a button. I can barely work my biker shorts off my hips and then I don’t even bother with my thong. It gets tugged provocatively to the side by Sawyer’s firm fingers.

Internally, I scream, Hallelujah!

Our confined quarters strangely heighten the fun, and the same goes for the fact that we’re only partially undressed. Sawyer’s shirt is off (thanks to me), but we’ve only slid his jeans and briefs down far enough to let me settle up and over him.

There’s an “Are you sure”, a “ Please ”, a chuckle, a groan, a long…hard sigh.

“Jesus, Madison.”

I smile a proud little smile then kiss him again. In an instant, what was fun turns into something dangerous and hot. We forgot to turn the car on and now we’re sweaty and making a mess of each other.

Sawyer’s reservations from a few minutes ago are long gone. He’s the one calling the shots now, directing us both. His mouth drags down my neck and his teeth tug on the top of my bra, exposing me more. All the while, he moves me on him, up and down, higher, lower . He thrusts his hips and fills me enough to steal my breath. His hands are so possessive and tight, concrete on my waist.

I whimper and he smiles devilishly in the dark light. I should have realized from seeing him play softball and darts and cards that Sawyer likes to win, and right now, I’m the prize on the table, me and my sanity, which he strips from me with a few swipes of his fingers between my parted thighs. Dexterous, slow, sensual circles pick up pace until I’m melting into oblivion, begging him to stay there, just like that. Sawyer’s found his own rhythm; he’s chasing his own bliss. Finally, I feel him tense and dig his fingers into my waist. He’s barely finished when—

A sharp rap on the passenger window pulls us out of our sex-filled haze.

I blink my eyes open to see red lights swirling behind the glass. A black car is parked a few yards away and there, at the passenger window, is Officer White—the sweet man who volunteers at the elementary school every year, teaching the kids the D.A.R.E. program, the man who dresses up as Santa Claus in the Oak Hill Christmas parade—carefully averting his gaze.

“Get decent, you two. Party’s over.”

Fifteen minutes later, Officer White and I stand on Queenie’s front doorstep, waiting for her to come let me in. He’s already knocked twice, and this is getting more embarrassing by the minute. Neither of us can meet the other’s eyes. I’m pretty sure this man saw my naked butt cheeks or worse .

Queenie finally opens the door, her eyes blinking against the harsh porch light. Her hair rollers are in and she’s tied a robe over her floor-length mumu-style pajama dress.

Officer White wags his thumb toward me. “This yours, Queenie?”

Queenie takes one look at my messy hair and disheveled clothes and purses her lips with disapproval. “Yup. She’s mine all right. Thanks, Dylan.”