His Reckoning (Empire State of Love #5)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Kayla

My parents always wanted me to settle down with a rich man. Today, I’m moving in with a billionaire. Unfortunately for them, this definitely isn’t a love story.

The last time I saw Sawyer Maccini, we were sitting across from each other at his friend’s place as he questioned my intelligence and I questioned whether arrogance was a prerequisite for becoming a billionaire.

My friend Melissa grabs the key fob from her back pocket and places it in front of the private elevator’s sensor pad. The panel lights up. She presses P for penthouse, then hands me the key fob.

“I believe this is yours now,” she says enthusiastically.

I take it from her, glancing down at my plain, brittle nails. The kind that haven’t seen a manicure in months.

Strange problem to have while riding an elevator up to the penthouse I’m about to call home.

We come to a sudden halt, and the doors glide apart. Melissa leads the way to the front door and turns the knob, opening up to the biggest foyer I’ve ever seen in New York City.

“Here it is.” Melissa smiles.

I roll my suitcase into the foyer, which is bigger than our entire apartment.

Melissa just married Sawyer’s best friend, Colton, which means I can’t afford our two-bedroom apartment on my own anymore. Luckily, we were at the end of our lease. This is her solution until I can find a place I can afford on my own.

We walk through the foyer, which has two massive coat closets and dark mahogany wooden floors, into the main living area. There are arched windows every ten feet with French doors that open up to a wraparound balcony with iron posts that look like we’re in Europe.

Late afternoon sunlight spills across the dark wood floors, catching in the crystal chandeliers and turning the entire apartment gold.

I suddenly feel underdressed for a place that probably expects people to drink champagne before breakfast.

The detailed crown molding is painted in a rustic cream color. The kitchen is simple yet expensive. White marble countertops with white cabinets and gold details everywhere. And more chandeliers.

Melissa’s eyes scan the place slowly. “Isn’t it breathtaking?”

I glance around the living room again. The chandeliers. The marble. The balcony that probably costs more than everything I’ve ever owned, combined.

“It’s aggressively expensive,” I say.

Melissa laughs. “That’s the least enthusiastic reaction anyone has ever had to this apartment.”

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate it.” I drag my suitcase farther into the room, my wheels clicking against the hardwood floors that probably cost more per square foot than my parents’ house. “It’s just strange.”

“Strange good or strange bad?”

“Strange like I feel like security is about to escort me out because I obviously don’t belong here.”

Melissa rolls her eyes. “Please. Sawyer won’t care.”

That’s debatable.

The first time I met Sawyer was at a bar, where I believe I told him he wasn’t hero material for my books.

As a romance author, I know a hero when I see one.

And Sawyer screams secondary character. Which probably wasn’t ideal considering I now lived here.

Melissa walks toward a hallway off the living room. “Your room is down here.”

I follow her, suitcase rattling behind me.

The hallway alone is bigger than the kitchen in our old apartment. Three doors line one side. Two on the other.

She opens the second door on the right. “This one.”

I step inside and stop immediately.

The bedroom is enormous. A king-size bed sits against the far wall with a tall, upholstered headboard that looks like it’s built into the wall.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the entire side of the room, the skyline of Manhattan glowing outside.

There’s even a sitting area with two armchairs and a small table.

“This is the guest room?” I ask.

Melissa leans against the doorframe with a small smile. “Yep.”

“This is bigger than my entire bedroom back home.”

She walks in and sets one of my bags on the bench at the end of the bed.

“You have your own bathroom too,” she says, pointing to another door. “And the closet is ridiculous.”

I open the closet.

She’s right.

It’s not a closet.

It’s a room.

Built-in shelves. Hanging racks. Drawers.

My entire wardrobe could probably fit on one rack with space left over.

Melissa watches me with amusement. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I’m calculating how many years of my salary it would take to afford this place.”

She laughs again. “Relax. Sawyer barely uses the guest wing anyway.”

Guest wing.

Of course there’s a guest wing.

I close the closet door slowly.

“And you’re sure he’s okay with this?” I ask.

Melissa waves a hand dismissively. “He travels all the time. Half the week, he’s not even here.”

“That’s comforting.”

“Besides,” she adds, “he offered.”

That surprises me enough that I look up.

“He did?”

“Well … technically, Colton asked him first. But Sawyer didn’t hesitate.”

That surprises me even more.

The man I met at the bar didn’t seem like the type who eagerly opened his home to people who had insulted him.

Melissa starts pulling open drawers in the dresser.

“You can unpack later,” she says. “I just wanted to show you everything before I go.”

“You’re leaving already?”

She glances at her watch. “Colton and I have dinner reservations.”

Of course they do.

Newlyweds.

She walks back toward the hallway, and I follow her again.

We pass another bedroom, an office, and what looks like a small sitting room before returning to the main living area.

She grabs her purse from the kitchen counter. “You’ll be fine,” she says.

“That’s what people say before things go terribly wrong.”

Melissa laughs and walks toward the elevator.

At the door, she pauses and turns back to me. “Oh, and Sawyer usually gets home around six.”

I glance at the massive windows. The sky outside is already starting to dim.

“What time is it now?”

“Five thirty.”

Great.

She smiles innocently. “Try not to start a fight with him in the first ten minutes.”

“No promises.”

She presses the elevator button, and the doors slide open.

“Text me if you need anything,” she says as she steps inside.

Then the doors close and suddenly, the penthouse is quiet.

I stand there for a moment, listening to the silence stretch across the marble floors and high ceilings, like the apartment is holding its breath.

“Well,” I mutter to myself, “this is normal.”

I walk farther into the living room, my footsteps echoing softly.

The space somehow feels even bigger without Melissa here as the Manhattan skyline glows outside like a postcard.

I turn in a circle, taking it all in again.

Then I clasp my hands behind my back and start pacing slowly across the room.

“The billionaire’s penthouse was exactly what she’d expected,” I say aloud in a dramatic narrator voice. “Cold. Expensive. Slightly intimidating.”

My eyes move around the room like I’m mentally taking notes.

“Towering windows. Chandeliers everywhere. A kitchen that probably has appliances smarter than most people.”

I walk toward the counter, resting my hands on the cool marble.

“The kind of place where the heroine immediately knows she doesn’t belong.”

I pause, then add thoughtfully, “Just like the billionaire who owns it.”

A voice behind me says, “That’s a harsh review.”

I jump. My hand flies to my chest as I spin around.

Sawyer Maccini stands near the foyer, one hand loosely gripping the handle of a leather briefcase, the other in his pocket.

His dark suit jacket is still on, his tie slightly loosened, like he just came from work.

And he’s watching me with unmistakable amusement.

The room suddenly feels smaller. His presence seems to absorb all the space around him.

“Well,” he says coolly, glancing around the empty penthouse before looking back at me, “this is unexpected.”

My hand immediately goes to the pendant on my gold necklace, and my thumb and finger rub against it back and forth.

He kicks off his leather shoes before he steps deeper into the apartment.

“You could have announced yourself,” I say irrationally, knowing my cheeks must be red because they certainly feel it.

Sawyer raises an eyebrow. “I did,” he replies. “You were busy reviewing my home.”

Heat creeps up my neck, surely now obvious to him how humiliated I feel.

“I wasn’t reviewing it,” I lie.

“You called it cold.”

“I said slightly intimidating.”

“Ah,” he says. “Much better.”

He sets his briefcase down on the console table near the entry and shrugs out of his jacket. The movement is casual, practiced, like this entire enormous penthouse is just another Tuesday for him.

Which, apparently, it is.

His eyes move around the room once before settling back on me.

“So,” he says, “you’ve made yourself comfortable.”

“I’ve been here approximately twelve minutes.”

“Long enough to form some strong opinions.”

I cross my arms. “You weren’t supposed to be home yet.”

That earns me the smallest hint of a smile.

“Did Melissa tell you that?”

“Yes.”

He loosens his tie slightly. “She tends to be optimistic about my schedule.”

I glance toward the elevator behind him. “So, you’re not staying long?”

“Just changing.”

“For …”

“A meeting.”

The answer comes to smoothly.

“Meeting,” I repeat slowly.

“Yes.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Sawyer pauses halfway through rolling up his sleeves. “What exactly do you think I’m calling it?”

I shrug. “Dinner with a model.”

He actually laughs.

Not loudly. Just a short, surprised sound, like he didn’t expect that answer.

“That’s very specific.”

“Statistically likely.”

He studies me for a moment, clearly amused. “Do you always narrate strangers’ homes,” he asks, “or am I getting special treatment?”

“Only when they belong to arrogant billionaires.”

“I see.”

His gaze drifts briefly toward the kitchen. “And here I thought, the narration was complimentary.”

“It was observational.”

“Observational.”

“Yes.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Then I’m curious what your next observation will be.”

I glance around the penthouse again before looking back at him.

“Well,” I say, “the billionaire seems less intimidating than advertised.”

Sawyer tilts his head slightly. “That so?”

“Still arrogant though.”

“That’s disappointing,” he says dryly. “I was hoping for a better review.”

I gesture vaguely toward the room. “Your penthouse is impressive. I’ll give you that.”

“And the billionaire?”

I shrug. “Still undecided.”

For a second, he just looks at me like he’s trying to figure me out, which somehow feels worse.

Then he picks up his jacket again.

“Well,” he says, starting toward the hallway that leads to his master bedroom that Melissa showed me earlier, “try not to redecorate while I’m gone.”

I watch him walk away.

“I make no promises,” I call after him.

Without turning around, he says, “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

Then he disappears down the hallway.

And I realize something that’s probably going to complicate this living situation significantly.

Sawyer Maccini might not be hero material.

But he’s definitely not a secondary character.