September 8, Sunday

THE LATE summer sun filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows across my notebook. I'd come to the graveyard to write, hoping the peaceful atmosphere would inspire me. Instead, I found myself constantly distracted by the view.

Sawyer worked shirtless in the heat, his muscles rippling as he carefully righted a gravestone to reset it. I tried to focus on my novel, but my eyes kept drifting back to him. For research purposes, of course. How else was I supposed to describe my hero's "chiseled physique" without a proper reference?

As if sensing my gaze, Sawyer looked up, catching me mid-ogle. I quickly glanced down at my notebook, feeling heat rise in my cheeks that had nothing to do with the weather.

"How's the writing going?" he called out, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Oh, you know," I said vaguely, desperately searching for a change of subject. My eyes fell on the nearest headstone. "Actually, I was wondering if you could tell me more about the people buried here. The Whispers, the Bensons, all of them."

Sawyer set down his tools and walked over, mercifully pulling on his t-shirt as he did. "Curious about the local history, huh?"

I nodded, trying to ignore the disappointment I felt at the loss of my "research material."

"Well," he began, pointing to a cluster of ornate headstones, "those are the oldest Whisper graves. The family's been here since before the Civil War." He moved on, indicating another section. "The Bensons came a bit later, but they've been just as influential in Irving's history."

As Sawyer spoke, I found myself genuinely fascinated by the stories of these long-dead residents.

"What about those?" I asked, pointing to three graves set apart from the others.

Sawyer's brow furrowed. "Those are a bit of a mystery, actually. They're not Whispers or Bensons. From what I understand, they were poor members of the community who were given plots here as a charitable act."

I walked over to the graves, noticing for the first time that each small foot marker bore a single letter at the base: S, J, and K.

"Any idea what the letters mean?" I asked.

Sawyer shook his head. "No one knows for sure. Could be initials, could be something else entirely."

As I leaned in for a closer look, my foot caught on a tree root. I stumbled, bracing for impact with the ground, but instead found myself caught in Sawyer's strong arms.

"Whoa there," he said softly, his face inches from mine. "I've got you."

I could feel the warmth of his breath, see the flecks of gold in his green eyes. My heart raced as we stood there, frozen in the moment.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Sawyer began to lean in. My eyes fluttered closed...

And then reality came crashing back. I stepped away quickly, my mind reeling. "Thanks," I mumbled, not meeting his eyes. "Guess I should watch where I'm going."

Sawyer cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair. "Right. Of course. Uh, maybe we should head back to the house? It's getting late."

I nodded, grateful for the excuse to put some distance between us. As we rode back in awkward silence, my mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

On one hand, the attraction between us was undeniable. Sawyer was kind, handsome, and there was clearly a connection there. But on the other hand, I'd been down this road before. I'd fallen hard for someone I thought I knew, only to have my heart—and my bank account—broken. In fact, I was still dealing with the aftermath.

Plus, there was still so much mystery surrounding Sawyer and his connection to this place. The family secrets, Rose's death, the strange events in town – how could I trust my feelings when I didn't have the full picture?

By the time we reached the house, I'd made up my mind. I jumped out of the truck before it had come to a full stop, then waved and jogged away. Whatever was brewing between Sawyer and me, I couldn't act on it. Not now, maybe not ever. I had a book to write and a life to rebuild.

Romance would just have to wait.