Page 5 of Sparks Fly

“A Realtor,” I corrected.

Sawyer smirked. “Oh, is there a difference?”

“There is,” I said feeling more confident. “A real estate agent is anyone licensed to help buy or sell property. A Realtor is specifically someone who is a member of the National Association of Realtors.”

“Well, I had no idea.” she said, but it wasn’t sarcastic, it was genuine. “You look like someone who could walk into a million-dollar home and sell it before lunch.”

“I can, and I do,” I said with a quiet laugh.

She ended up buying me another drink, and what started as a quick conversation turned into something much more in-depth.

We sat talking and laughing while the bar moved around us. Every time I thought the conversation might lull, one of us found something else to say. Tiff shot me several suspicious looks from across the room, and at one point, Benji walked by and raised his eyebrows like he was filing the moment away to be talked about later.

Before I even realized it, nearly an hour had passed, and the music had shifted. The crowd thickened near the bar for last call.

“I should probably head out,” I told her.

Sawyer nodded easily, like she understood. “Good meeting you, Sunshine,” she said.

“You too,” I replied.

I found Benji and hugged him goodbye, waved to Tiff, and slipped out into the cool night air.

* * *

Once I got home and settled, buzzed and barefoot in my kitchen, I made myself some sparkling water in the SodaStream, poured it into a stemmed glass and collapsed onto the couch. My phone was already in my hand before I even thought about it. I opened Instagram and typed her name into the search bar.

Her profile popped up immediately.

@sawyer.wilson.welds

38

welder

loves to ride.

The profile photo was Sawyer leaning against a motorcycle, sunglasses pushed up into her hair and one eyebrow slightly raised like the camera had caught her mid-snark.

Her feed was full of photos of metalwork. Close-ups of weld seams glowing orange. Sculptures made from scrap steel. Half-finished projects clamped to worktables under harsh shop lights. Mixed between those were bike pictures, bar nights, and candid shots that clearly looked like someone else had taken them. Sawyer mid-laugh. Sawyer sitting on a tailgate with a beer. Sawyer leaning over a workbench, sleeves pushed up, tattoos dark on display.

She looked ridiculously perfect in every frame. Real. Completely unbothered by the camera.

I kept scrolling.

There was a picture of a dog stretched across the passenger seat of a truck, with a caption that read: ‘Muddin’ with Jay and Bud.’ A blurry concert photo with colored lights streaking across the crowd. And another motorcycle shot taken on an empty stretch of highway at sunset.

I kept scrolling… before I knew it, I was thirty-six weeks deep. My thumb slowed.

I stopped on a photo Sawyer sat straddling her motorcycle, wearing ripped jeans and a black tank top, hair windblown like she’d just pulled off the road. Her posture alone radiated the kind of confidence people either spent years building or were simply born with.

I sat up, studying the details like that was somehow normal behavior. The curve of her shoulder. The tattoo along her arm. The careless ease in the way she sat on the bike.

I zoomed in slightly, my thumb hovering over the screen. Then, without thinking, I tapped the screen. The heart turned red.

For half a second my brain didn’t process what had just happened. Then it did.

“No!” I muttered under my breath, my stomach dropping. “No, no, no!”