"I don't think Sawyer is interested in my shoes," I retort and enter, crossing my arms.
"It's fascinating," Petr replies.
I have a couple hundred pairs of shoes, if not more. They're over by the Jimmy Choo rack.
"This pair cost half what my Land Rover did," Petr says picking up a rare pair.
"Definitely couldn't buy these on a captain's salary," Sawyer mutters.
"I buy my own shoes!" I snap. "I have a trust fund."
"This is what you use it on?" Sawyer glances at me. His intent gaze lingers. The combination of his chiseled features, direct look and the cling of his dark sweater to his lean frame cause the base of my belly to grow warm.
It's something like his reaction to my shoes that indicates we might be too far a part for any bridge to connect us. I'm not sure how to answer. Or even if I can right now. I'm staring at his body.
"The good thing is that you don't have to buy her shoes on your salary. Her trust fund will last a few lifetimes," Petr says. "You've got one thing going for you at least."
We both look at him. My brother sounds crazy right now. He's definitely not helping the growing tension.
"Just in case anyone was wondering." Petr shifts uncomfortably.
I roll my eyes and leave them in my shoe closet. God knows why anyone but me is interested in my collection. Snatching clothes to change into, I escape to my bathroom and swap out the dress for jeans, grateful to be back in comfy clothing after the long day.
My phone chimes, and I glance down. My stomach flutters to see Sawyer's name pop up.
Coffee/cocoa on the deck, 5 min?
Part of me wants to mess with him and say I need at least seven minutes.
Another part wants to run down now and melt in his arms.
"What is wrong with me?" I'm twenty-five and feel like I'm fifteen.
I don't answer but end up rushing anyway, the way I did at camp when he told me to hurry and I told him I had no intention of doing so.
In a sweater, jeans and ballet-style shoes, I head downstairs. My hands are clammy, my blood humming with hope, dread and disbelief.
Sawyer is seated at one of the fire pits, two mugs of steaming cocoa in his hands. I draw a deep breath of the chilly winter air and the scents clinging to me from the event before approaching with what I hope is calmness.
I sit down beside him, too aware of the distance between our legs, the firm shape of his swimmer's thighs.