Chapter 17 #2
New energy.
New inspiration.
I have never met a man who—delete.
“Oh my God.”
Apparently, my brain has decided to go on strike.
The apartment is quiet this morning. Sawyer must have already left for work, which is good—excellent actually. Because if he were here right now, I’d have to deal with the smug look he’d give me if he saw the current state of my word count.
I sit up again and start typing faster.
Just write.
Don’t think.
The hero crossed the room slowly—delete.
“Why are you crossing the room?”
I rub my face with both hands. Maybe I need coffee.
Yes.
Coffee fixes everything.
I push myself off the couch and head toward the kitchen.
Halfway there, the front door opens.
I freeze.
Sawyer walks in, and my brain immediately short-circuits. He pauses when he sees me standing in the middle of the living room like someone caught in a crime scene.
“You’re home,” I say.
Sawyer raises an eyebrow slightly. “I live here.”
He sets his briefcase down near the kitchen counter and loosens his tie.
“I forgot a file.”
Of course he did. The universe apparently wants to test my patience today.
I cross my arms. “Well, don’t let me interrupt.”
He glances briefly toward the couch, specifically toward my laptop, which is still open. The blank document is absolutely visible from here.
Fantastic.
“You working?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He nods once, then walks into the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t even look at me again. Somehow, that’s more irritating than if he did.
I go back to the couch, sit down, and grab my laptop.
The cursor blinks.
Still judgmental.
Fine.
Let’s try this again.
I start typing. Fast.
He stepped closer, his voice dropping as he—
My fingers pause as I realize the words are suddenly coming easily.
I write another paragraph. The scene is moving, dialogue is flowing, and tension is building. I glance up without meaning to.
Sawyer is standing at the kitchen counter, making coffee. He hasn’t even looked in my direction, yet somehow, my brain just produced five hundred words in under ten minutes.
I stare back down at the screen and toward the kitchen again, then back at the screen.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Apparently, Sawyer Maccini doesn’t even have to talk to me to ruin my productivity. He just has to exist in the same apartment, and suddenly, I’m writing like someone lit a fire under my keyboard.
The worst possible thought creeps into my brain. What if he’s right?
I immediately shake my head. “No.”
Sawyer glances over from the kitchen. “Problem?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“None of your business.”
He takes a slow sip of coffee. “That doesn’t sound good.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You walked in here, and suddenly, I write half of a chapter.”
I can’t believe I just said those words out loud. Sometimes, my mouth gets me into trouble.
He smirks. “That seems like a positive development.”
“It’s suspicious.”
Sawyer sets the mug down, then walks casually across the living room toward the hallway.
My eyes track him automatically. The moment he passes the couch, my brain suddenly produces another line of dialogue for the scene I was writing.
I grab the laptop again.
He leans closer, his voice low as he …
The words spill out like they’ve been waiting for permission all morning.
The characters are suddenly cooperating instead of staring blankly at each other like they were earlier.
Sawyer stops halfway down the hall. “You’re typing again.”
I don’t look up. “I refuse to discuss it.”
“That seems wise.”
“You’re not part of this.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“That’s the problem.”
He leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching me. I absolutely do not acknowledge him.
The cursor flies across the screen as I write more dialogue, tension … more words.
“Interesting,” Sawyer says quietly.
I stop typing and slowly look up. “What?”
“You write faster when I’m in the room.”
“That’s coincidence.”
“How much have you written today?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Seems it does.”
I glare at him. “You are not the source of my creativity.”
“I didn’t say I was.”
“You implied it.”
Sawyer pushes off the wall and walks back toward the kitchen. “I forgot the file I came for.”
I point toward the hallway. “Then go forget it somewhere else.”
He disappears into his office. The door closes, and the apartment goes quiet again.
I stare at the laptop. Nothing happens. Not a single word.
“Oh, come on.”
I type a sentence.
Delete.
Another.
Delete.
I lean back against the couch and groan. This is humiliating.
The moment Sawyer walks back out of his office a minute later, the words start flowing again.
My fingers move across the keyboard before I even process the thought.
Sawyer pauses near the kitchen. I can feel him watching me again.
“You hate that I’m right,” he says calmly.
“I hate that you’re smug.”
“Same thing.”
I slam the laptop shut again. “This proves nothing.”
“It proves something.”
“It proves coincidence.”
Sawyer grabs his briefcase. “Whatever helps you sleep.”
I point at the door. “You should leave.”
“I was already planning to.”
He walks toward the elevator, pausing before he steps inside. “You can’t stop writing every second I’m in the room.”
“That’s unrelated.”
“Sure.”
The doors close behind him. I open the laptop slowly.
The cursor blinks, and I wait …
Nothing. Not a single word appears.
I stare at the screen for a long moment, then drop my head back against the couch cushion.
“Oh my God.”
The most arrogant man I’ve ever met might also be the most inconveniently useful writing tool in existence.
Which is absolutely not something I’m prepared to admit out loud.
Even if my word count is starting to suggest otherwise.