The last time he’d walked into this bar I’d taken him home, and he’d made me tremble around his mouth. Fuck, this man was a walking addiction. I saw him, and all I wanted was another hit. And the taste of him? The pleasure I took in having all of him in my mouth? It was the sweetest kind of desire I’d ever experienced. And I was nowhere near satisfied.
“Been busy,” he said, a tease to his tone. “Haven’t you been watching?”
“I have,” I said, nodding. “And I know playoffs are coming up. How about I grab you the turkey club instead?”
“That’s no more healthy than the fried fish.”
“Maybe. But it’s lighter. Won’t sit on you as heavy. And you’ll be less likely to throw it up during morning skate tomorrow.”
He sighed, his head dropping into his hands. “Fine, woman. I’ll take the sandwich.”
I smirked and raked my fingers through his hair. He sighed with the contact, those tense muscles loosening a fraction. “Take it easy, West Coast. You’re so wound up you look like you may pop.” I hurried to the back, quickly throwing together the sandwich and pilling the basket with celery sticks instead of fries. I had it and a seltzer water in front of him before he could even think about ordering a drink.
“Thank you,” he said and dug in.
“Tough week.”
“Are you asking or telling,” he said after swallowing a bite.
“Both?”
“Business been tough?” he asked.
“Nah, it’s golden here. Especially with playoffs coming up.”
He flinched slightly, and it was the motion that made me notice the worry in his eyes. He wasn’t just simply stressed, he was consumed by it.
“You okay in there?” I asked, boldly smoothing my finger over the furrow in his brow.
He closed his eyes for a moment, setting down his half-eaten sandwich.
“I don’t know.” The answer was a whisper that squeezed my chest.
“We went through this last time,” I said, leaning my elbows on the bar. “You are okay, Sawyer McCoy.”
He cocked an eyebrow at me. “You say that like it will change things.”
I smirked. “I’m pretty powerful and usually get my way.”
“Is that right?”
There.
There was that playful fire in his eyes.
“Yup,” I said, leaning back to wipe down the rest of the bar. “So, you’re perfect. And that sandwich will turn things around for the rest of your day.”
“There are other things I’d rather be eating,” he said, and those flames dancing in his eyes told me he wasn’t talking about the food.
A zing of electricity stormed down the center of me as I gaped at him. The man continued to shock me with that mouth of his.
He chuckled at my stunned look but ate in contented silence. I tried and failed three times to come up with something equally as clever to say back to him, but every time I opened my mouth, only an invitation was on the tip of my tongue. To my bed. To my heart. I didn’t know.
All I knew was that if I spoke, I’d say the wrong fucking thing for us both. So I kept my mouth shut and settled on not hiding the heat in my eyes every single time our gazes locked.
When he rose to stand, I was practically panting from the tension vibrating between us. He slid the empty basket toward me. “Thanks for the pick-me-up, Echo,” he said. “Practice. Will I see you soon?”
I wet my lips, hating that I couldn’t wait to see him in a non-work environment.
“We’ll see when you can squeeze me in, hockey star.”
He winked at me before sauntering through the exit.
At least he’d walked out with more bravado than he’d walked in with.
Echo: Did you know that studies show that some cats are actually allergic to humans?
Sawyer: Please don’t tell me you’re a crazy cat lady like Langley.
Echo: She only has two cats! How does that constitute the crazy cat lady title?
Sawyer: I’m a dog person. Owning any number of cats constitutes the title.
I rolled to my stomach on my bed, laughing as I shook my head. It had been a long shift tonight with a huge rush, but I hadn’t been able to even think about sleeping without at least texting Sawyer.
Echo: What kind of dog?
Sawyer: I’m kind of a lover of all dogs, but if I ever own one, it’ll be a Golden Retriever.
Echo: Of course it will.
Sawyer: Why do you say it like that?
Echo: Golden dog for a golden boy.
Sawyer: Boy? Could a boy make you scream like I did the other night?
My toes curled under my sheets, and my fingers shook as I typed out another text.
Echo: I don’t know. It’s been so long I can hardly remember.
Sawyer: Is that right?
Me: That’s right. Goodnight, West Coast.
Sawyer: I don’t believe you. You’ll be dreaming of my hands on you tonight, Echo.
I bit my bottom lip, shaking my head. This man. He was absolutely infuriating in the best possible way.