Page 21 of One Night with Number Nineteen

“Thanks,” I whisper.

We move outside in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. Not exactly anyway. It’s almost as though my body knows it can relax, knows it’s safe. But it’s also hyperaware of his scent, his strength, the flecks of gold in his blue eyes.

Of his shoulder-length hair twisted up into a bun…

And I’m reminded of big, sword-wielding warriors with big, soft hearts.

It’s no wonder who’s inspired my newest hero.

Not that I’ll admit it—no freaking way.

I’ve already tap-danced right along that dangerous line, allowed the temptation to get the better of me.

The moment I think that, I feel an odd prickling on the back of my neck. Spinning around, I search the shadows for…something.

“You okay?” Sawyer asks.

I shake myself, realize he’s paused by my car with Ollie in his arms, that he’s clearly waiting for me to unlock the doors.

“Yeah,” I say quickly, hitting the button and tugging at the handle. “Sorry about that.”

“You don’t need to apologize.” His voice is quiet, and slightly muffled as he buckles Ollie into his seat. “Want to check?” he asks, maneuvering himself out of the opening.

I move in, tug slightly at the straps.

But he’s done it perfectly.

And I wonder what else Sawyer’s done perfectly.

Homemade stuffing? The cupcakes and games and cleaning up?

The three orgasms in thirty minutes that I keep dreaming of night after night?

More?

And…what does it cost him to be so perfect?

He hesitates for a moment then his phone buzzes and he glances at the screen, something tense intruding on the edges of his smile.

“I’ll see you soon?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah,” I whisper back, wanting to take his hand for some reason.

Wanting to lean close and brush away the tension bracketing his mouth…with my lips.

What?

I step back, open the driver’s side door. “Goodnight, Sawyer.”

“Goodnight,” he replies softly, moving away as I close the door and back out of the driveway.

That itchy feeling on my nape returns and my eyes flick to the rearview mirror, half-expecting there to be a raccoon staring at me accusingly.

Or, a la Cedar Hollow, a goose.

But there’s nothing there aside from shadows.

“Paranoid,” I whisper as I look forward and focus on driving forward. “And maybe because I’m writing too many kidnapping scenes.”