Wes
Sawyer’s waiting outside when I pull up, running shoes on and water bottle in hand. I half expected her to be in D.C. already, so the fact she’s not is a good sign. The fact she’s in running shoes is an even better one. It means she isn’t fighting me right from the start.
“Morning,” I call as I jog around the truck to open her door, trying not to let my eyes linger on hers, which seem bigger and greener than normal with her dark hair pulled back in a sloppy bun.
“Morning,” she replies evenly. Not happy, but not angry either. I’ll take it.
“We’ve got a bit of a drive. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Taking me to the woods so I can’t escape?” She buckles her seatbelt.
“Something like that.”
Her jaw drops.
“Don’t worry,” I chuckle. “The whole family knows you’re with me so it’s not like
