Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Kayla
By Friday afternoon, I’ve had enough. Enough of Sawyer watching me write, his ridiculous theory, and the deeply inconvenient possibility that he might actually be right.
If Sawyer Maccini thinks he’s the only man capable of inspiring my creativity, he’s about to be very disappointed.
This is how I end up agreeing to drinks with Theo.
Theo is an artist I met at a gallery event earlier in the week. He paints abstract landscapes. Or emotional interpretations of landscapes … something along those lines.
The important part is that he’s not a billionaire tech CEO who thinks my writing process revolves around sleeping with him.
By the time evening rolls around, I’m standing in my room, staring at my closet.
“This is a completely reasonable adult decision,” I tell myself.
It’s just drinks with someone emotionally functional, who probably doesn’t analyze people like they’re business investments.
I pull on a black dress that’s casual enough to pass as effortless but still flattering enough to make me feel like I’m proving a point.
Mostly for me, but slightly out of spite, which is ridiculous because he’s not even home yet.
I check my phone.
Theo: Outside.
Perfect.
I grab my purse and head toward the living room just as the apartment door opens.
Sawyer walks in. His tie is loosened, his sleeves rolled up, and he stops short the moment he sees me standing there by the door, dressed and ready to leave.
His attention moves over me slowly. It’s not subtle or polite.
“Going somewhere?” he asks.
“Out.”
“With who?”
I open the door. “None of your business.”
A muscle ticks in his cheek, which is extremely satisfying.
Theo is standing just outside the door when I step into the hallway.
He’s tall with short, slightly curly hair. He has paint stains on his fingers. Exactly the kind of man Sawyer would probably describe as chaotic.
Theo smiles. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
I glance back toward the apartment. Sawyer is standing just inside the doorway, watching.
Theo follows my gaze. “Your roommate?”
“Temporary housing situation.”
Sawyer somehow looks even less pleased.
Theo offers his hand. “I’m Theo.”
Sawyer looks at the hand for half a second, then shakes it. “Sawyer.” His tone is polite, but there’s something tight underneath it.
Theo nods toward the elevator. “Ready?”
“Absolutely.”
I step toward the elevator and press the button. The doors slide open a moment later. Before stepping inside, I glance back toward the apartment one more time.
Sawyer is still standing there with his arms now crossed.
His expression is unreadable.
I give him my most innocent smile. “Don’t wait up.”
Then I step into the elevator, and the doors close.
* * *
By the time Theo starts explaining the philosophy behind his latest series of paintings, I realize something unfortunate.
I am incredibly bored.
Not because Theo is unpleasant. He’s actually very nice. Enthusiastic. Passionate. Earnest in a way that makes me feel slightly guilty for mentally drifting halfway through his explanation about emotional landscapes and color symbolism.
But there’s something missing. A little spark. Something sharper beneath the conversation.
Instead, the entire evening feels like a very polite interview.
Theo gestures animatedly with his hands. “… and the red strokes represent internal chaos,” he says.
“That makes sense,” I reply automatically.
He smiles, clearly pleased, and immediately launches into another explanation.
I take a sip of my drink and glance around the bar. There’s warm lighting with low music. Couples leaning close together at small tables. It should feel romantic.
My thoughts keep drifting somewhere deeply unhelpful—back to the apartment. To Sawyer and the look on his face when Theo introduced himself, which was … something.
Not angry, but definitely not pleased. The memory makes me smile slightly.
Theo notices. “That’s a good reaction,” he says.
“Oh?”
“That means you’re picturing the work.”
“Something like that.”
Technically true. Just not the way he thinks. Instead of emotional landscapes, I’m picturing Sawyer leaning against the kitchen counter with that calm, irritating confidence.
I push the thought away immediately.
Absolutely not.
This entire evening is about proving the opposite.
Which means I should probably focus on the man sitting across from me instead of the one pacing around his apartment.
Theo is still talking. “So, what do you write again?”
“Romance novels.”
His eyes brighten. “That’s amazing.”
“Thank you.”
“Are they like … sweet romance?”
“Sometimes.”
He leans forward with interest. “I’d love to read one.”
Something about the way he says it makes me hesitate, not in a bad way.
Sawyer didn’t say it like that when he read my book. Sawyer choked on his drink and looked personally offended, which, in hindsight, was significantly more entertaining.
I finish my drink and glance at the clock on the wall.
It’s already past ten.
“Well,” I say, standing, “this was nice.”
Theo looks surprised. “So soon?”
“I have an early morning tomorrow.”
Although it’s a lie, it’s not a particularly harmful one.
Theo walks me out to the sidewalk a few minutes later. The night air is cool, the city still buzzing with energy.
“I had a great time,” he says.
“Me too.”
Another small lie, but again, harmless.
He hesitates like he might lean in for a kiss. My entire body immediately rejects the idea. Not because Theo is unpleasant, because he isn’t Sawyer, which is becoming a serious problem.
I step back slightly but then give him a quick hug. “Good night, Theo.”
He smiles politely. “Good night.”
Twenty minutes later, I step out of the elevator and walk down the hallway toward the apartment.
I expect the place to be dark and quiet with Sawyer maybe even asleep.
Instead, the door opens to a fully lit living room and Sawyer pacing back and forth across the floor like a man trying very hard not to lose his mind.
The second he sees me he stops moving entirely. I set my purse down slowly.
“You look normal,” I say.
Sawyer doesn’t answer immediately. He just watches me.
“Good date?” he asks finally, his voice controlled.
I shrug and kick off my shoes. “It was fine.”
He nods once. “Fine?”
“Painfully.”
Sawyer crosses his arms. “And you’re home early.”
“It’s eleven.”
“For a Friday night.”
I tilt my head slightly. “Were you waiting up for me?”
“No.”
“You were pacing.”
“I was walking.”
“Sounds like a lot of walking.”
His jaw tightens slightly. “Did he kiss you?”
The question is so direct that it catches me off guard.
I blink, then cross my arms. “Why do you care?”
“I asked a question.”
“And I asked one.”
The tension in the room thickens instantly.
Sawyer takes a step closer. “Did he?”
I shrug again. “Maybe.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “You’re lying.”
“That’s a confident answer.”
“You’d look different if he had.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Yes.”
“And how would I look?”
Sawyer studies my face for a long moment, then says quietly, “Less irritated.”
My mouth opens but closes again because, unfortunately, he might not be wrong.