Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Sawyer
The apartment is quiet when I wake up, which isn’t unusual. The faint glow coming from the kitchen is unusual.
I check the time as I walk down the hallway.
Six fifteen.
I stop just short of the doorway when I find Kayla sitting at the island—or more accurately, she’s collapsed on it.
Her laptop is open in front of her, but her head is resting on one arm, hair spilling across the keyboard like she simply ran out of energy mid-sentence.
I lean against the counter for a second, studying the scene.
The laptop screen is still glowing. The document open on it contains a handful of lines followed by a lot of blank space.
Quietly, I move to the coffee machine. If I’m careful enough, I can probably—but the moment I press the button and the grinder starts, the noise echoes loudly throughout the kitchen.
Kayla jerks upright.
Her head snaps up, and she looks around wildly for a second before her eyes land on me.
“Oh my God,” she says, pressing a hand to her chest. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“You fell asleep on the counter.”
“That’s because your apartment is aggressively comfortable.”
“That’s a new complaint.”
She blinks a few times, clearly trying to wake up. Her gaze drifts to the coffee machine, then back to me. “Is that the machine that tried to kill me yesterday?”
“I’m sure it didn’t try to kill you.”
“It spoke Italian.”
“That’s the settings menu.”
“It felt unnecessary for coffee.”
I reach for a cup. “It’s an espresso machine.”
She watches for a moment as I press a few buttons. The machine hums to life.
“Okay,” she says slowly, sliding off the stool and walking over. “You’re going to have to explain what you just did.”
“Did you just press random buttons yesterday?” I ask, though I’m sure I know the answer.
She leans closer, squinting at the panel. “There are too many options.”
“Most of them make coffee.”
“Thanks Captain Obvious.”
I slide a second cup under the dispenser. “What had you up so late?”
She glances toward the laptop. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“That’s not what it looked like five seconds ago.”
“I was resting my eyes.”
“On the keyboard.”
“Strategic resting.”
I hand her the cup. She takes it with alarming speed.
“Okay,” she says after the first sip. “You’re forgiven.”
“For what?”
“For owning this terrifying machine.”
I shift back against the granite. “So, you stayed up all night writing?”
She looks at the laptop again, then shrugs. “Something like that.”
“You don’t look thrilled.”
“That’s because I wrote approximately three sentences.”
She takes another sip of coffee before she gestures toward the machine. “You should show me how that works before you leave.”
“So you don’t accidentally declare war on it again?”
“So I can operate it without international translation.”
“That seems reasonable.”
I walk her through the buttons. When I’m finished, she sighs heavily holding her second cup of coffee like she’s memorizing something complicated.
“There,” I say.
“You make it look easy.”
“It is easy.”
“For you.”
She glances toward the laptop again then back to me.
“Well,” she says, lifting the cup slightly, “thank you for the coffee tutorial.”
“You’re welcome.”
I grab my jacket from the chair.
“You heading to work?” she asks.
“Yes.”
She nods slowly then continues to drink her coffee.
* * *
By the time I get to work, Jordan is already waiting outside my office, which feels exactly like him.
“Good morning,” he says without looking up.
“Morning.”
He falls into step beside me as we walk into my office.
“The article about Ms. Laurent has been corrected,” he says.
“That was quick.”
“The photographer confirmed the tip had come from her publicist.”
“That was also quick.”
Jordan glances up. “I’m efficient.”
“That you are.”
We step into my office, and he places the tablet on my desk.
“The more interesting problem,” he says, “is the second article.”
I sit down and glance at the screen. It’s the same headline from last night.
Maccini Seen Returning to Penthouse with Mystery Woman
Jordan taps the screen. “I’ve already contacted the outlet.”
“And?”
“They’re refusing to retract it.”
“Of course they are.”
“They did, however, ask if you’d like to comment.”
“That seems unlikely.”
“That’s what I told them.” He pauses. “I also confirmed the woman in the photo is Kayla Carpenter. Would you like me to issue a statement?”
“No.”
Jordan nods once. “Understood.”
He walks out of my office just as Dean—the cofounder of our tech company and my best friend—walks in without knocking which is also not surprising.
“Morning,” he says.
He stops, looks at me, then at the tablet on my desk, and breaks into a grin.
“Oh, this is fantastic.”
I don’t look up. “Good morning, Dean.”
“You didn’t tell me you moved in with your girlfriend.”
“I didn’t.”
He pulls out his phone. “That’s not what the internet says.”
“That’s because the internet is wrong.”
Dean leans against the chair across from my desk. “I don’t know, man. The article seemed pretty convincing.”
“Tabloids rarely are.”
“Still,” he says, tapping his phone, “living together feels like a big step.”
“What exactly are you doing?”
A second later, my phone buzzes on the desk.
Then again.
Then again.
Dean smiles. “There we go.”
I glance at the screen to find our group text with our friends that we’ve known since college.
Dean: Gentlemen, I regret to inform you, Sawyer has entered a domestic relationship.
Below it is the link to the article.
Another message appears.
Lincoln: Wait … Kayla, Kayla?
He grins. “Oh, this is about to get good.”
My phone buzzes again.
Colton: He’s in trouble.
Another message appears.
Roman: Didn’t that girl roast him in a bar for, like, ten minutes?
Dean laughs. “They remember.”
Colton: She called him not hero material.
Walker: Which is objectively hilarious.
Dean glances at me. “You’ve met your match.”
I set the phone back on the desk. “She’s Melissa’s friend.”
“Who now lives in your penthouse.”
“Temporarily.”
Dean gestures toward the phone. “You should see what they’re saying.”
“I can imagine.”
Another buzz.
Dean reads the screen over my shoulder. “Oh, this one’s my favorite.”
Colton: You know, with Kayla living there, Sawyer is getting verbally attacked before breakfast.
Dean nods approvingly. “Accurate.”
“She asked me questions about my life for fifteen minutes,” I admit.
“That’s called curiosity,” he replies with a smirk on his face.
“That’s called interrogation.”
Dean pockets his phone. “So,” he says, clearly entertained, “how is living with the woman who told you you’d never be a romance hero?”
Before I can even form a thought, I glance at the phone again as another message pops up.
Roman: Someone check on Sawyer.
Lincoln: He’s not built for that level of personality.
Dean laughs again. “I’m looking forward to meeting her again.”
“That seems unnecessary.”
“Oh, no,” he says with a grin. “This is going to be very entertaining.”
Then he just stands up and leaves like he didn’t just cause a week’s worth of shit-talking from the guys.
But at least the office is quiet again.
Then my phone buzzes one more time on the desk.
Roman: Good luck.
I set the phone down.
Because if there’s one thing I already know about Kayla, it’s this: living with her is not going to bring peace and quiet.