Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Sawyer
By the end of the week, I’ve learned something about Kayla—she forgets to eat. Not completely, but enough that it’s noticeable.
Most mornings, she wanders into the kitchen sometime after I’ve already been awake for about an hour, makes herself coffee, and then disappears into the living room with her laptop.
Sometimes, she eats a piece of toast or nothing at all. Then she spends the next four hours typing like she’s in a race with the keyboard.
Which shouldn’t matter to me nearly as much as it apparently does.
I make myself a cup of coffee and lean against the counter, staring at the refrigerator like it’s responsible for this situation … because, technically, it is.
The apartment is quiet this early. The sun is just starting to come through the windows.
Kayla’s door is still closed down the hallway.
She was up late again last night. Typing, deleting, then typing again. I know this because the living room lights were still on when I went to bed and again when I got up.
Which means she probably fell asleep on the couch with her laptop open.
I take another drink of coffee, then open the refrigerator and gaze at the eggs, bacon, fruit, and bread. All perfectly normal breakfast ingredients.
I close the refrigerator again.
This feels like a boundary I shouldn’t be crossing.
I walk toward the hallway. Halfway there, I stop, turn around, walk back into the kitchen, and open the refrigerator again.
None of this fits into my normal routine. I do not cook breakfast for people. I don’t even cook breakfast for myself.
Usually, I grab coffee and deal with food later. But the idea of Kayla surviving on caffeine and pure determination suddenly bothers me more than it should.
I grab the eggs, a pan, and the bacon. Halfway through cracking the third egg, I realize what I’m doing … and pause.
I genuinely don’t recognize my own behavior right now.
I run companies. I negotiate deals worth more money than most people will see in their lifetime. And yet here I am, standing in my kitchen, making scrambled eggs like a man with entirely different priorities.
For a woman who technically isn’t even supposed to be living here.
I stare at the pan for a moment before I release a sigh and finish cooking.
The bacon sizzles, and the eggs cook quickly. The smell fills the kitchen.
Another thought occurs to me. This is exactly how you wake someone up.
I glance toward the hallway. Kayla’s door is still closed, which means she’s either still asleep … or still writing.
Both are equally possible.
I plate the food anyway. It looks alarmingly thoughtful. I set it on the island and step back.
The bigger issue is that I have no believable explanation prepared.
When Kayla walks into the kitchen, she’s going to ask questions, and I will not have answers.
I take another drink of coffee and lean against the counter.
I should’ve ordered coffee and minded my business.
I’m halfway through my coffee when Kayla finally appears. Her hair is pulled into a messy knot on top of her head.
She’s wearing oversize sleep shorts and one of those loose shirts that hangs off one shoulder, like she pulled it on sometime around two in the morning and never reconsidered the decision.
She stops in the doorway, then sniffs the air.
Her eyes narrow. “Why does it smell like breakfast?”
I straighten slightly. “Because it is breakfast.”
Kayla walks toward the island carefully, like she expects the plate to disappear if she gets too close.
She looks at the plate, at me, then back at the plate. “You cooked?”
“Yes.”
“For yourself?”
“No.”
Kayla blinks. “For me?”
I clear my throat. “You weren’t eating.”
Her eyebrows lift. “That’s your reasoning?”
“Yes.”
She pulls out the stool at the island and sits, still studying me like she’s solving a puzzle. “Well, this is unexpected.”
“What?”
“You cooked me breakfast.”
“I made food that happened to be available.”
“You actually plated it.”
“I wasn’t going to throw eggs directly onto the counter.”
“You added fruit.”
“It was already cut.”
She picks up the fork and takes a bite of eggs, then nods slowly. “This is good.”
“Thank you.”
Kayla takes another bite. She rests her chin on her hand as she still watches me. “You don’t do this for people.”
Her tone is far too certain. It’s not accusatory. Just … certain.
I lean against the counter. “You don’t know what I do.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Oh?”
“You run companies, terrify boardrooms, and host investment banker wine nights.”
“That’s a very specific description.”
“And you definitely don’t wake up early to cook breakfast for women.”
I cross my arms. “You sound very confident about that assessment.”
Kayla gestures toward the plate. “Evidence suggests otherwise.”
I don’t respond immediately because the irritating part is that she’s right. This is not something I do.
I can’t remember the last time I cooked breakfast for another person.
If I ever have.
Yet somehow, I woke up this morning and decided Kayla needed eggs. Somehow, this feels entirely reasonable until she points it out.
She watches me think through it and smiles slightly. “You don’t know why you did it, do you?”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Am I?”
She takes another bite. Completely calm, like this entire conversation is just another normal day.
“You’re overthinking it,” I say.
“You’re under-thinking it.”
“That’s not possible.”
“It is when you’re avoiding the obvious answer.”
“And what’s that?”
Kayla shrugs lightly. “You care.”
The word sits between us. That’s ridiculous and totally incorrect.
I immediately shake my head. “I don’t.”
“You cooked me breakfast.”
“You needed food.”
“You noticed.”
“I notice things.”
She laughs softly. “Sure.”
My grip tightens slightly around the coffee mug because the problem is, I can’t actually argue with her logic, and it’s irritating.
Kayla finishes the last bite of eggs, then slides the plate back across the counter. “Thanks, Sawyer.” Her voice is softer now, more genuine.
She grabs her laptop from the couch and sits at the island.
Before I know what just happened, she is already opening it and typing again, like the conversation is over.
I stand here for another moment, watching her.
None of this fits neatly into the life I’m used to controlling. Which is probably why the last thought that crosses my mind before I grab my keys is the most annoying one yet.
Tomorrow, I should probably pretend this never happened.
Instead, I’m already thinking about what she’ll eat for breakfast.