Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Kayla
Ishould probably stop hanging out in the kitchen when Sawyer is home. It seems to be where all of our problems start.
Tonight is no exception.
I’m leaning against the island, pretending to scroll through something on my laptop, when he walks in from the hallway—sleeves rolled up, like always, and tie loosened, like the day annoyed him.
He stops when he sees me. “You’re still awake.”
“I live here.”
“Temporary housing situation.”
I smile faintly. He moves to the refrigerator, grabs a bottle of water, and leans against the counter across from me.
The kitchen lights are low. Just the pendant lamps over the island. Everything feels quieter at night in this place.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says.
I blink. “That’s dramatic.”
“You left the kitchen yesterday.”
“You stepped toward me like you were about to interrogate me.”
“That’s not what I was doing.”
“Sure.”
He watches me for a moment, completely still.
Sawyer has this way of looking at people like he already knows more than they do.
Except lately, that focus has started feeling a little too personal.
It’s been more focused and personal.
I already know exactly why getting comfortable with him is a terrible idea. Only assholes have money. Rich men are arrogant. Entitled. Completely convinced the world belongs to them.
And Sawyer Maccini is no better.
He’s successful, controlled, and infuriatingly confident. Which means the fact that I’ve been noticing things about him lately is a problem.
Like the way he goes quieter when he’s irritated. Or how his voice drops when he’s annoyed. Or how he keeps looking at me like he’s trying to solve something.
“You keep looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to win an argument I can’t hear.”
His eyebrows raise. “Have you learned nothing about me?”
“That excuse doesn’t make it any less weird.”
He pushes off the counter and walks slowly around the island. I don’t move. Mostly because I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
He stops a few feet away. “You push people on purpose.”
“Only the ones who deserve it.”
“And I deserve it?”
“Constantly.”
“You keep expecting me to stay controlled.”
I tilt my head. “Well … you won’t.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “That’s a bold statement.”
“It’s an accurate one.”
I set my laptop aside and cross my arms. “You keep acting like you’re about to do something,” I say. “But you won’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because men like you always stay in control.”
The words come out lightly, teasing, but the moment they’re in the air, the conversation suddenly stops feeling harmless.
Sawyer takes another step closer. Heat rushes through me instantly, which I choose to blame entirely on Sawyer.
“You’re very confident about that,” he says.
“I’m observant,” I say, repeating his words.
“Or reckless.”
“I prefer curious.”
He’s close now. Close enough that I have to tilt my head slightly to keep looking at him. Close enough that I can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.
My pulse picks up, which is annoying because I’m the one who started this.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“That look you get right before you try to take over the conversation.”
“That doesn’t seem to be working.”
“It’s not.”
He leans one hand against the counter beside me, and suddenly there’s nowhere else in the kitchen worth looking at.
“You’re very sure of that,” he says quietly.
“I am.”
“Why?”
“Because” I say, lifting my chin slightly, “if you were actually going to do something … you would have done it already.”
Sawyer goes still for half a second.
“You talk too much.”
And before my brain can catch up to what’s happening, he kisses me.
For a second, I don’t move.
Not because I don’t want to, but because my brain is still trying to comprehend the fact that Sawyer Maccini—controlled, infuriatingly composed Sawyer Maccini—just proved me completely wrong.
His other hand comes up to steady himself against the counter beside me, trapping me in the small space between him and the island. The movement isn’t rough, but it’s deliberate, like he’s making sure I can’t simply slip past him and turn this into another joke.
The kiss is controlled and deliberate like he made the decision seconds ago and committed fully to it.
My first instinct is surprise. My second instinct is to kiss him back harder.
This kiss isn’t quick. It isn’t the kind of impulsive mistake people laugh off a second later. Sawyer kisses like a man who makes decisions and follows through on them.
Slow and intentional, as if he’s testing something. And apparently, the test involves my ability to remember how breathing works.
My fingers curl against the fabric of his shirt before I realize I’ve done it, gripping the material like I need something solid to hold on to. The faint scent of his cologne—clean and sharp and annoyingly familiar by now—makes my head feel a little light.
This was not the plan. There was definitely not a plan that involved kissing the billionaire who lived down the hallway.
Yet somehow, my body seems to have skipped that part of the discussion entirely.
The kiss keeps going long enough for surprise to disappear completely.
Sawyer’s hand shifts slightly against the counter, his shoulders angling closer, the space between us disappearing until I can feel the warmth of him through his shirt.
I can’t pull in a full breath.
Fast enough that I’m fairly certain he can feel it. I was supposed to be the one pushing his buttons tonight. Not the other way around.
For someone who supposedly talks “too much,” I’m suddenly completely out of words.
Neither of us says anything. The soft hum of the refrigerator the only sound besides the faint rush of my own heartbeat.
And the irritating part—the part I will absolutely be blaming him for later—is that somewhere in the back of my mind, a single thought keeps repeating itself.
So, this is what he was holding back.
Which means I may have badly underestimated him.
His mouth leaves mine so suddenly that it takes my brain a second to realize the warmth is gone.
One moment, he was there—close, solid, completely taking over the small space between us.
The next, he’s stepping back, like he realized a second too late what he’d done.
I blink once, then twice.
Sawyer runs a hand through his hair, the movement sharp and uncharacteristically restless. For a man who usually looks like he has every detail of his life perfectly controlled, he suddenly seems … unsettled.
He looks genuinely thrown off.
Which somehow affects me more than the kiss itself.
“That—” he starts, then stops.
His jaw tightens slightly as he looks away, like he’s trying to collect himself before saying something he might regret.
“That shouldn’t have happened.”
The words land in the quiet kitchen like a dropped glass.
I don’t say anything. I’m still leaning back against the island, still aware of the lingering warmth where he was standing seconds ago.
Sawyer grabs the bottle of water he abandoned earlier, but he doesn’t open it. He just stands there for a second, staring at it like it might offer some kind of explanation.
“I shouldn’t have—” He stops again, exhaling through his nose.
Apparently, even Sawyer Maccini doesn’t have a polished speech prepared for this situation.
He glances at me once more, and the look on his face makes something in my chest tighten.
The frustration there isn’t directed at me. It’s directed entirely at himself.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
Oddly, the apology hits harder than the kiss.
Sawyer Maccini does not strike me as a man who apologizes often.
Before I can respond, he pushes away from the counter.
“I need some air.” He turns and walks out of the kitchen … just like that.
No dramatic exit or lingering glance. Just long, purposeful strides toward the hallway until he disappears around the corner.
A second later, I hear the sliding door to the balcony open. The apartment goes quiet again.
I stay rooted in place for another minute staring at the empty space in front of me before I lift a hand to my mouth without thinking.
The memory of the kiss comes rushing back all over again.
Warm. Certain. Completely unexpected.
“Well,” I mutter to the empty kitchen, “that was confusing.”
Apparently, the billionaire down the hall kisses like he’s trying to prove a point … and then runs away from it.
Which, frankly, was not how I expected this night to go.