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I feel a pang in my chest. Without thinking, I reach out and brush a strand of hair from his forehead. “I’m sorry.”
He catches my hand, pressing a soft kiss to my fingertips. The gesture sends tremors down my belly. “It’s okay. Just having you here…It’s making this house feel like a home again.”
We lie there, faces inches apart, our breaths mingling in the quiet space between us. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I can count every freckle on Sawyer’s nose, see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. I wish I had the right words for him. Something meaningful to say. But I’ve never been a deep conversationalist.
“For what it’s worth,” I murmur, “I think you’d make a great dad someday.”
“Thanks, Magpie,” he says, his voice husky.
I chuckle, getting used to his nickname for me that I once found irritating but now is growing on me. But I have to ask, “Why do you call me that? Why Magpie? You know, it’s the same amount of syllables as Maggie.”
He threads his big knuckles through mine, stretching out my fingers a little. I like the feel of his hands. They’re warm and give me a sense of security.
“Magpies are one of the world’s most intelligent creatures,” he whispers. “And they’re beautiful. Black and white. Kind of like how you’re Yin to my Yang.”
I snort. “Keep calling yourself my Yang, mister, and I’ll put more pillows between us.”
He scoffs, finding my foot under the covers and stroking my ankle with his giant toes.
“My, my, Mrs. O’Malley. You really should cut back on browsing the Urban Dictionary.”
Oh my word, I might die! My only consolation is that Sawyer can’t see how badly my cheeks flare up under the cloak of night.
We fall into a comfortable silence, our hands still linked—our feet still flirtatiously touching. I can feel the calluses on his skin. It’s oddly comforting.
“What about you?” he whispers, his breath tickling my cheek. “Did you ever dream of the white picket fence life?”
I hesitate, memories of foster homes flashing through my mind. “I guess I never really let myself hope for that. It seemed…safer not to.”
Sawyer’s thumb traces gentle circles on the palm of my hand. It tickles in the best possible way. “And now?”
I twist my lip, considering Sawyer’s loaded question. What does that even mean? Is he giving me cause to hope? After what he told me, how he no longer wants a wife or kids, I don’t think he is.
“Foster homes weren’t exactly the Brady Bunch,” I whisper. “It was more like…Survivor…and I kept getting voted off the island.”
“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” he murmurs.
“It is what it is. Made me tough, I guess.”
He chuckles softly, his thumb on my palm still driving me crazy. “Ever thought about finding your birth parents?”
I stiffen slightly. “Not really. They gave me up, so what’s the point?”
“Maybe for closure? Or to understand your history?” Sawyer suggests gently.
I shake my head, my hair rustling against the pillow. “Nah, I’m good. No need to dig up potential heartbreak, you know?”
“What about a DNA test? You might have relatives out there who’d love to meet you.”
His concern is touching, but I’m not ready to open that can of worms. “I don’t want to dig up something that might hurt me later. It’s better not knowing. And maybe it’s better I don’t disrupt someone else’s life with my hot mess.”
Sawyer shifts closer, his breath warm on my cheek. “I love your hot mess. You’re pretty amazing.”
My heart skips a beat at his words. I adjust my head slightly, our noses almost touching. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Our eyes lock in the dim light, and suddenly I’m acutely aware of how close we are. The heat of his body, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the intoxicating scent of his manly soap. It takes every ounce of willpower not to close the gap between us. Sawyer’s eyes flicker to my lips, and for a moment, I think he might kiss me.
My heart starts racing, and I swear I can hear his pulse quicken too.
