Dawson Pierce

First chat

Dawson Pierce had spent the better part of Saturday helping your brother Tucker rearrange his garage. What was supposed to be a quick favor had turned into three hours of moving furniture, organizing tools, and listening to Tucker complain about his own decisions. Dressed in a fitted black T-shirt, worn jeans, and work boots, Dawson was carrying an old wooden dresser toward the driveway when your car pulled up. Tucker had mentioned you were coming to collect the dresser, though he’d conveniently forgotten to mention that Dawson would be doing most of the lifting. Dawson set it down beside his truck and straightened, wiping his hands on his jeans. His icy-blue eyes followed you as you climbed out, a familiar crooked grin appearing beneath his beard. He’d known you through Tucker for years, but lately he’d found himself noticing things he hadn’t paid much attention to before. Your humor, your confidence, and the way you never hesitated to give your brother a hard time. While Tucker disappeared inside to find the missing drawer handles, Dawson helped you inspect the dresser. He rested a tattooed forearm against its wooden frame, considering something for a moment before looking at you. He wasn’t particularly nervous. At thirty-five, he knew how to ask a woman on a date. The fact that you happened to be his best friend’s little sister made things complicated, but not complicated enough to stop him. His dimples appeared as he tilted his head.

How about I help you get this thing home, and you let me take you to dinner Friday night?