Chapter 6

• Beau Walker told himself he was doin’ good. He’d spent the morning fixing the warped step on the back porch of Sparrow’s Bakery, ripped out three rusted pipes, and only stared at her thighs five— six— maybe seven times tops. That was progress for a man sittin’ next to temptation wearin’ cutoffs that didn’t cover half what they should.
• It was hot already — August sun turning the little shop into a damn oven. She’d been fussin’ with boxes stacked high on the old pantry shelves. She’d worn a flannel tied loose over a skimpy black crop top, denim shorts hugging her hips, boots unlaced and kicked off somewhere by the register.
• Beau was under the front counter, fighting the last of the busted plumbing when he heard her curse — that sweet country snarl she used when she didn’t care who was listenin’.
• “Son of a bitch—! Damn shelf’s too high—”
• He slid out, wiped sweat off his neck, propped himself up on an elbow. “What’d I tell you about stackin’ shit up there, Bug?”
• She didn’t look at him — just tossed him a middle finger over her shoulder. “Ain’t Bug. And I’m fine.”
• She wasn’t fine. She’d dropped the flannel halfway through the morning, sweat darkening the soft black cotton clinging to her ribs, leaving just enough belly bare that his brain went fuzzy every time she twisted to reach for something. That damn smell — sugar, vanilla, flour dust — it’d crawled under his skin and stayed there.
• Now she was barefoot, standing on her tiptoes, fingers brushing the edge of a box on the top shelf. The crop top lifted. That stretch of skin — soft, tan, slick with a sheen of sweat — flashed a small glint of metal just above her navel.
• Beau felt his breath catch. It wasn’t the belly ring that got him first — though that alone made his gut twist in ways it shouldn’t. It was the way her ribs curved with her stretch, the edge of her bra riding high enough to reveal it — the tiny ink just under her breast. Small. Simple. Black line work: a tiny lightning bug. Right where her ribs met soft skin.
• Bug.
• His nickname for her. Stamped permanent on that skin he wasn’t supposed to touch, hidden all these years under sweatpants and baggy shirts. Now here she was, sunshine spilling through dusty glass, arms stretched high, hair falling down her back like honey, showing him a secret she probably didn’t even realize she was baring.
• She snagged the box — thunk — and turned on the balls of her feet, half-grinning, half breathless. She didn’t see him staring. Didn’t see the way his hands clenched so hard his knuckles cracked.
• “What’re you gawkin’ at, cowboy?” she teased, tucking a stray wave of hair behind her ear. “Never seen a girl lift a damn box?”
• He swallowed. Tried to say something smart — anything — but all that came out was a rough sound, low in his chest.
• Sadie cocked her head. That grin went sly. “You break somethin’, Beau?”
• He pushed off the counter, stood up slow, wiped the sweat off his neck with the hem of his shirt — bought himself a second to look away, to pull himself together. The image burned the backs of his eyelids. The glint of silver in her belly, the tiny lightning bug under her ribs. That skin. His name for her, inked forever.
• She plopped the box on the counter with a grunt, blew a stray hair out of her face. “Damn near gave myself a hernia. You coulda helped.”
• He cleared his throat, stepped in close — too close. He smelled her sweat, sugar, that soft heat rolling off her skin.
• “You got a new trick for every day, huh?” he asked, voice low enough she tipped her chin to hear it.
• Sadie blinked, played dumb. “What?”
• He didn’t touch her. He wanted to. God, he ached to. Instead, his thumb hovered just above her ribs, right where that ink hid under her bra line.
• “That.” He dropped his eyes to her belly. “And that.”
• She followed his gaze, spotted the belly ring peeking out, the corner of her tattoo catching sunlight. She froze, pink blooming up her throat. But that grin — that wicked, smartass grin — never left her mouth.
• “Maybe I do,” she said, breath softer now. “Maybe I got a whole damn garden of secrets you don’t know about.”
• Beau’s pulse roared in his ears. He wanted to press his mouth right where that ink curled under her ribs. Wanted to taste the salt there, drag his teeth along the metal in her belly button, hear her squeal that country curse straight into his throat.
• He stepped back instead. Swallowed it down. Broke the moment like a man setting fire to his own damn barn.
• “Put some shoes on before you drop somethin’ on those pretty toes,” he grunted, turning away before she saw too much in his eyes.
• Sadie laughed — that sharp, sweet crackle that’d always been his favorite sound in the world. “Bossy. Ain’t you supposed to be workin’?”
• He didn’t look back. Couldn’t. Just grabbed his wrench, dropped to his knees under the counter where she couldn’t see the war in his chest.
• Behind him, she hummed along to some old Loretta Lynn tune, voice off-key, feet bare, skin warm enough to haunt him for days.
• She’d carved herself into him, years ago. Now she was back — glinting silver and black ink, smelling like cookies and bad decisions.
• And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it.