Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
“Easy,” he says, leaning down to my ear, his breath on my neck causing a shiver to run through me. “I told him I’m in love with you.”
“Oh,” I stammer. Oh. Am I supposed to respond to that? Now? With my family a few feet away? I’m fairly certain my eyes have widened to owl-like proportions and I dart my eyes back and forth wondering how much privacy we have, then suck my bottom lip between my teeth as I wonder if I can sneak Sawyer up to my room without getting called out for it. Which would be ridiculous, I’m twenty-two, but I’m not gonna push my luck with Eric.
Sawyer’s eyes trace my face and he grins at my obvious distress before leaning down and touching my forehead with his.
“You can tell me how you feel about that later, Boots.”
I release the breath I’m holding and nod at the same moment my mom calls out, asking Sawyer what he’d like to drink.
Drinks and appetizers pass without incident. Sawyer has everyone in love with him and my grandmother confides that he’s quite the ‘hotsy-totsy’ and she’d give me a run for my money if she was a little bit younger. So I’m feeling pretty relaxed when we sit for dinner. That feeling lasts until the first bite of lasagna has passed Sawyer’s lips and he raves to my mother about how long it’s been since he’s had homemade lasagna, with a little wink my way.
“Everly can make it for you! She’s seen me do it a dozen times!” She beams with happiness as I choke on a crouton. “She has the recipe.”
Sawyer pats my back but the dimple flashes in his cheek as he fights back a smirk. I clear my throat and take a sip of water.
“That’s really sexist, Mother. Maybe Sawyer should make lasagna for me.” I kick Sawyer in the shin as I deliver this edict.
“Fair point, Everly.” My mom nods. “Maybe you can make it together?” She brightens with this solution and passes the rolls to my dad on her left.
“I’d be happy to make it for you, Everly.” Sawyer jumps in. “I’ll even drop it off at school. I’ll call first,” he adds without batting an eye. “Make sure you’re in.”
“How lovely!” My mom is positively glowing over Sawyer’s perfection right now while I am plotting revenge. I am never breaking into anyone’s apartment and making them lasagna again, that’s for sure.
After dinner we gather around the tree in the living room, plates of cookies on the coffee table, mugs of coffee and hot chocolate all around. My younger cousin Bonnie distributes gifts from under the tree. Viv hands me a small package with a tag reading that it’s from Sawyer. We’re sitting on the couch next to each other, his arm wrapped over the back of the couch behind me.
I place it on my lap, waiting for Bonnie to finish passing around gifts, but obviously that’s not going to do for everyone else.
“Open it,” my mom prods. It’s clearly a necklace box, and I slip my finger under the tape, then peel back the paper revealing a blue Tiffany box. I pop open the lid and start to laugh, which I don’t want to have to explain, so I try to suppress the laugh and it turns into a weird snort. My mom gives me a funny look but must decide I’m trying to hold back tears instead of laughter and doesn’t say anything.
“Pretty!” Erin leans over and examines the necklace and Vivian jumps up wanting a look.
“I’ll put it on,” I tell everyone, lifting it out of the box and holding up to my neck, leaning forward a little so Sawyer can clasp it for me.
“Keys!” Vivian says, getting a close-up look at the trio of silver keys hanging from a delicate silver chain around my throat. “Aww, that’s so sweet,” she coos and I try again not to laugh.
Of course he finds a necklace with three keys instead of just one. Of course. He tugs softly on the end of my ponytail so I’ll look at him, and I do, his dimple firmly in place as he enjoys watching me try not to laugh. It’s okay, he hasn’t opened his present yet.
On cue, Bonnie hands him a box. It’s about the size of a shoe box, and I smile at him in anticipation.
He frees his arm from behind my neck on the couch and rips the paper off with abandon. He pops the lid open and digs through the tissue, pulling out a mug with a picture of a cat on it, and below that it says, ‘I just freaking love cats, okay.’
“I’m taking this to work,” he says with a grin.
“Oh, there’s more, darling,” I tell him, patting him on the knee.