Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Kayla
For a few seconds after I wake up, nothing makes sense.
The ceiling is too high. The room is too bright. And the bed is significantly more comfortable than anything I’ve ever slept in before.
I sit up slowly, squinting at the sunlight pouring through the wall of windows across the room.
Right.
Penthouse.
Billionaire roommate.
I drop my face into my hands. Yesterday really happened.
After a quick shower, I throw on leggings and a sweatshirt, and I wander down the hallway toward the kitchen.
The apartment is quiet. Which is good because I’m not mentally prepared to run into Sawyer before coffee.
I stop in front of the kitchen counter, and then I see the coffee machine. Calling it a coffee machine feels generous. It looks like something NASA might use during rocket launches.
There are buttons. Too many buttons.
A digital screen. A compartment that opens for reasons I don’t understand. And something that might be a milk steamer … or possibly a flamethrower.
I stare at it for a moment before I press a button, and the machine hums. Then flashes a message on the screen.
In Italian.
“That feels aggressive,” I mutter.
I press another button.
Now it starts grinding something loudly.
“Okay, we’re already doing too much.”
I press a third button. The machine beeps like it’s judging me.
Then nothing happens.
I stare at it.
The machine stares back.
We both know this relationship isn’t going to work.
Five minutes later, I’m walking down the street toward a small café Melissa pointed out the first time she showed me the neighborhood.
The morning air is crisp and cool, the sidewalks already busy with people rushing to work.
I push open the café door and immediately feel better.
Coffee. Actual, understandable coffee.
Steam curls from nearby coffee cups while quiet conversation hums through the crowded café.
Ten minutes later, I’m sitting by the window with a large cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin I didn’t technically need but emotionally required.
My laptop sits on the table in front of me. The document is still open—same document from last night. The one that now contains exactly three sentences.
All of which I still hate.
I stare at the blinking cursor for a minute. After another sip of coffee, I close the laptop again.
Nope.
Not today.
Instead, I pull out my phone and check the time.
If I’m going to get the rest of my stuff moved, I should probably start soon.
Melissa and I still technically have the apartment for two more weeks, which means all my things are currently sitting there, waiting to be dealt with.
Eventually, most of it will end up in a storage unit, but first, I have to actually move it.
I glance out the window toward the street.
I’m living in a billionaire’s penthouse while slowly relocating my life into a storage unit.
If my parents could see this, they’d think the universe had finally decided to reward them for years of subtle matchmaking attempts.
Too bad they’d be wildly misunderstanding the situation.
I finish my coffee, pack up my laptop, and head back toward the penthouse.
If I’m going to live there, I should probably at least attempt to look like I belong. Or at the very least retrieve more than one suitcase.
* * *
By the time I reach Melissa and Colton’s place that evening, the sun is already starting to dip behind the buildings.
Colton answers the door.
“Hey,” he says, stepping aside so I can walk in. “Penthouse life treating you well?”
“That depends on your definition of well.”
He laughs and closes the door behind me.
Melissa’s voice calls from the kitchen, “Is that Kayla?”
“Yes,” I say as I drop my bag by the couch. “And I have complaints.”
“Already?” she asks, appearing in the doorway.
“It’s been almost twenty-four hours,” I say. “That feels like a reasonable time frame for complaints.”
Colton walks past us toward the kitchen. “Should I be concerned?” he asks.
“That depends,” I say. “How loyal are you to your best friend?”
He opens the fridge. “Very.”
“Then, yes, you should probably be concerned.”
Melissa laughs and waves me toward the kitchen.
“Come sit,” she says. “Colton’s making dinner.”
Colton points a wooden spoon at her. “You volunteered me for that.”
“You like cooking.”
“I like cooking when people don’t announce it like a restaurant opening.”
I slide onto one of the stools at the kitchen island.
“So,” Melissa says, leaning against the counter across from me, “what did Sawyer do?”
“First of all,” I say, “he came home last night and immediately started criticizing my writing process.”
Colton looks up from the cutting board. “That sounds like Sawyer.”
“See?” I say, gesturing toward him. “He admits it.”
“I said, it sounds like him,” Colton says. “That doesn’t mean he was wrong.”
Melissa smiles slightly. “What exactly did he say?”
“He accused me of losing an argument with my keyboard.”
Colton chuckles. “That’s actually pretty good.”
“You’re both terrible,” I inform him.
Melissa studies me for a moment. “You argued with him, didn’t you?”
“That’s not the point.”
“That means yes,” she says to Colton over her shoulder.
“He started it.”
Colton points the knife he’s holding in my direction. “That’s also something Sawyer would say.”
I sigh and lean forward, resting my elbows on the counter.
“He’s very calm,” I say. “And annoyingly observant.”
Melissa nods slowly. “ That sounds like Sawyer.”
“It’s like arguing with someone who refuses to get emotionally involved in the argument.”
Colton grins. “That’s because he enjoys watching people argue with him.”
“That’s incredibly irritating.”
“That’s the point,” he replies.
Melissa crosses her arms. “So, you two got along great.”
“We did not get along great.”
“You’re complaining about him like you enjoyed the conversation.”
“I did not enjoy the conversation.”
“You definitely enjoyed the conversation,” Colton says.
I glare at both of them. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
Melissa walks around the counter and sits on the stool next to mine.
“Okay,” she says gently, “then tell me what’s really going on.”
I open my mouth, then close it again because, suddenly, the answer feels heavier than the question.
Colton starts chopping vegetables again, clearly pretending not to listen. Which means he’s absolutely listening.
I stare down at the countertop for a second, then sigh. “I haven’t written anything in weeks.”
Melissa’s expression softens immediately. “What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly what that sentence means,” I say. “I sit down to write, and nothing happens.”
“How long has that been going on?”
“About three weeks.”
She blinks. “Kayla.”
“I know.”
“You’ve never had writer’s block before.”
“I’m aware.”
Colton glances up. “That sounds stressful.”
I glare up at him and run a hand through my hair. “It’s like my brain just … stopped cooperating.”
Melissa watches me carefully. “And Sawyer noticed?”
“Immediately,” I say.
“How?”
“He came home and noticed me type three sentences and delete all of them.”
Colton laughs quietly. “That’s unfortunate timing.”
“That’s incredibly unfortunate timing.”
Melissa nudges my arm lightly. “You’ll figure it out.”
“I hope so.”
“Maybe the change of environment will help.”
I think about the penthouse.
“Maybe,” I say … but I’m not entirely convinced.
* * *
By the time I get back to the penthouse, it’s late enough that the elevator ride up feels quieter than usual.
The city below has that late-night hum—traffic softer, lights glowing through the windows of the surrounding buildings.
I step out of the elevator and into the living room. The lights are on in the kitchen.
So, Sawyer’s home.
I drop my bag quietly near the couch and start toward the hallway. Then I hear his voice.
It’s sharp. Controlled. But unmistakably irritated.
“I don’t care if her publicist thought it would generate interest.”
I slow down automatically. He’s in the kitchen with his back to me; phone pressed to his ear. A tablet is propped up against something on the counter, the screen glowing.
“And how exactly did she think that would work long term?” he continues.
There’s a pause while whoever’s on the other end speaks.
I glance toward the tablet. The photo is impossible to miss. Sawyer sitting across from a blonde woman at a restaurant. The same photo Melissa showed me earlier.
Apparently, the internet got to him before I did.
His jaw tightens slightly as he listens. “Yes, Jordan, I understand that,” he says. “What I’m asking is, why did she think arranging a photographer outside the restaurant was a good idea?”
Another pause.
I shift my weight slightly, still half in the hallway.
He runs a hand through his hair. “No. Cancel the rest of the dinners.”
Another pause.
“Yes,” he says flatly. “All of them.”
He listens for another second, and then his gaze shifts slightly. Right toward me.
Of course, he notices me standing there. Sawyer doesn’t seem like the type of person who misses things.
He pauses briefly before speaking again. “No,” he says into the phone. “That’s fine.”
Another short pause.
“I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
He hangs up.
For a second, the apartment is quiet again. Then he glances at the tablet.
Then at me.
“You heard that,” he says.
It’s not really a question.
I shrug slightly. “Some of it.”
His expression doesn’t change. “You can come into the room, you know.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt your media crisis.”
That almost makes him smile. “Media crisis is a strong phrase.”
“You seem annoyed.”
“That’s accurate.”
I can’t help but notice the dark gray dress shirt and how he rolled the sleeves up. An expensive gold watch sparkles on his left wrist.
I glance toward the tablet again. “So, the model tipped off a photographer?”
He braces himself against the counter. “Yes.”
“That feels … inefficient.”
He tilts his neck. “How so?”
“Now you have to stop dating her.”
“I already did.”
“That was quick.”
He considers that for a second. “It wasn’t particularly serious.”
“You rich people move fast.
“Do we?”
“In my experience.”
His eyebrows rise. “You’ve dated a lot of rich people?”
“No,” I say. “But I read about them.”
That earns a small laugh from him. Then his gaze flicks briefly toward the tablet again.
“The article about the mystery woman was less helpful.”
I blink. “The what?”
He turns the tablet slightly. A photo of Melissa and me outside the building fills the screen.
I stare at it. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“That was also my reaction.”
I cross my arms. “So, now the internet thinks I’m dating you.”
“That appears to be the current theory.”
“Well, that’s unfortunate.”
“For which of us?”
I glance at him. “Both of us.”
This time, he does smile. Just a little.
“Relax,” he says. “My assistant Jordan will have it corrected tomorrow.”
“It’s not really my problem.”
“You’re in the photo.”
“Yes, but they don’t know anything about me.”
“That hasn’t stopped speculation before.”
I shrug. “I’m not the one they’re actually interested in.”
He pins me with a measured look. “That’s not what you said last night.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What did I say?”
“You told me I wasn’t hero material.”
“Oh,” I say lightly. “Right.”
“You seemed very confident about that.”
“I was.”
“That’s disappointing.”
“Why?”
“You write romance novels,” he says calmly. “I assumed you’d have higher standards.”
I lean against the counter opposite him. “I do.”
“And yet here I am.”
“Yes,” I say thoughtfully. “Which is exactly why the heroes in my books usually have a personality.”
That earns a real laugh from him. “So, I’m lacking personality now.”
“No,” I say. “You definitely have one. I just wouldn’t describe it as romantic.”
He nods slowly. “Harsh.”
“Accurate.”
His eyes drag slowly over me, clearly entertained. “You’re surprisingly calm about the article.”
“It’s a tabloid.”
“They tend to persist.”
“If my parents see it,” I say, grabbing a glass and filling it with water, “they’ll think this is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to them.”
“Your parents follow financial gossip?”
“They follow anything that involves wealthy men standing next to their unmarried daughter.”
“That sounds stressful.”
“It’s exhausting.”
He crosses his arms. “So, their long-term plan was what exactly?”
“Strategic seating arrangements.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Dinner parties. Charity events. One time, my mother sat me next to a hedge fund manager like she was arranging a diplomatic summit.”
“And?”
“He explained derivatives for forty minutes.”
“That’s difficult to recover from.”
“Exactly.”
The kitchen falls quiet as I set the glass down.
“Well,” I say, starting toward the hallway, “I’m going to pretend the internet doesn’t think we’re dating.”
“That seems like a reasonable strategy.”
“Try not to accidentally get photographed with anyone else tomorrow,” I add.
“That’s a difficult request in this city.”
“Do your best.”
I walk down the hallway toward the guest room, but just before I close the door, one thought crosses my mind.
Living with Sawyer was already going to be complicated. Now, apparently, the entire internet thinks I’m dating him.
Which feels like a situation that could only get worse.