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“Aaggghhh!” I cry. “Seriously? I want to walk out of here, not wade through a puddle of your saliva!”

They break apart, taunting me with their mutual laughter, until Sawyer breaks his short by biting his lower lip. It’s a sly rogue’s move, one I’d expect more from Reece than him, making me do a double-take—even before he states, “Hate to break this to you, Em…but the lagoon might be getting worse.”

“Why?” Lydia steps back, hands on her hips. “You got another kid to pull out of the woodwork, Chainsaw? Oh, wait. Hold the hell up.” Her hands drop. “The Ducati…it was still rattling when you got home today…” And her gaze flares wide. “Holy shit. You didn’t really go out and get that fixed this morning, did you?”

His eyes twinkle until they’re the color of a damn Tinkerbell cartoon. “No, Fireball. I didn’t go get the motorcycle fixed.”

A distinct intuition niggles up my spine. I glance to Dad for confirmation of it—and he’s ready with a knowing smile. Though a lightbulb of comprehension explodes to life in my mind, I keep a careful façade plastered across my face. Lydia still has no clue what’s going on here, despite her delighted gasp and dazzling grin.

“Ohmigawd,” she rushes out. “You went back and got the painting, didn’t you?” She whips around toward Dad and me. “We hit the Roadium market on a whim the other day. It was a lot of the usual flea market stuff, but there was this one new guy there, and his paintings were out of this world. I fell in love with this one—ohhhh!”

Now I really do give in to the double-take, as Sawyer sweeps a framed painting out from behind the couch. While Lydia is right—the piece, depicting a windswept cliff overlooking a sunset-stained ocean, is beyond stunning—it’s not the payoff I was expecting for the man’s inscrutability.

“Errrmmm…wow,” I stammer. “It’s…uhhh…really pret…”

I trail off, realizing my sister isn’t listening anyhow. “Thank you,” she whispers fervently to her guy and kisses him with matching meaning. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Sawyer smiles—still giving off that shit-eating mien that I can’t figure out. “It’s the one you liked the most, right? Is everything all right with it? You like the view and shit?”

“Of course I like the view and shit.” She crunches two seconds’ worth of a bemused frown. “And you know this one’s my favorite. I only swooned over it for—” As her voice snags, her head slides back. “What the…” And then forward again.

I step over to where she’s propped the painting on the couch, leaning it along the back cushions. “What is it, honey? It is a gorgeous piece. And hey, look; the artist even painted a bride and groom up on the cliff.”

Lydia chuffs. “Oh yeah, he did.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Besides the fact that they weren’t there when I looked at this on Sunday?”

I peer closer—and as I do, my heart beats faster. “And that they look like you two?” I say past a grin.

Lydia’s answering stare conveys that I’m stating the obvious—though she doesn’t get a chance to speak it.

“Well, would you look at that?” her guy drawls. “I suppose they do.”

’Dia’s breath snags hard. “Sawyer?”

She whips her head around, intent on impaling him with her stare—but encounters empty air instead.

Because Sawyer’s already dropped to one knee.

“Sawyer?”

I rush to Dad’s side, joining him in tearful silence as Sawyer Foley grabs my sister’s quivering left hand. He’s steady as steel, his spine straight and his gaze intent, while bringing her fingers up for a lingering connection with his lips. “I had him paint us there because that’s what I want, Spitfire.” At last his composure crumbles a little, but he hauls in a long breath and finds his fortitude once more. Damn good thing because nobody else in the room can keep our tears from flowing now. “No.” The guy shakes his head. “Not what I want. What I need. What I told myself I’d never need or never have to need—but now can’t imagine living without.” He looks like a beggar being shown the realms of heaven as he gazes up at my sister, the tender smile on his lips widening. “Because I can’t imagine living without you.”

I choke out a sob. Fortunately, Lydia’s is louder and fuller. “Sawyer Howard Foley, what the hell are you getting at?”

I’m grateful for the excuse to snicker through my tears. Holding it in after learning Sawyer’s middle name was an ordeal and a half.

“Well, I’m sure as hell not down here to moisturize my knees.” He casts a rueful look around at the puddles of congealing lotion. Lydia does the same before casting down a watery smirk.

“Technically, you could…” she hedges.

“And technically, you could still say no to me,” Sawyer volleys, yanking back her attention by taking the inside of her wrist beneath his pleading kiss. When he’s done, he doesn’t let her go. “But please don’t, sweetheart.” With her hand crushed against his forehead, he drops his sights down. “Damn it, even your father has said yes.”

Lydia’s jaw drops. “You asked my dad too?”

Dad harrumphs. “Bet your sweet ass he did.”