Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Sawyer
This has officially crossed into insanity. I’ve paced the length of the living room at least thirty times … possibly more. The hardwood floors probably have a permanent path worn into them by now.
I stop near the window, stare down at the city lights for a moment, then turn and walk back across the room again.
This is exactly why I avoid complicated situations. Because complicated situations lead to moments like this.
Moments where I’m irrationally irritated by the fact that Kayla is still out with some painter.
Theo.
The name alone is irritating.
I drag a hand through my hair and glance at the clock on the wall again—10:42.
Which means she’s been gone for almost three hours. Three hours is a perfectly reasonable length of time for a date.
I know that. I’ve been on enough of them.
Dinner, drinks, and conversation. Maybe a walk. Maybe he kissed her goodnight.
My jaw tightens. I push the thought away immediately.
What Kayla does on a Friday night has absolutely nothing to do with me. She’s not my girlfriend or my responsibility.
She’s a guest who needed somewhere to stay while she moved out of her apartment. That’s it.
And yet … I turn and pace back across the room again.
When that guy showed up at the door earlier, something happened that I didn’t particularly enjoy.
The way he looked at her or how she smiled back. How she leaned casually against the doorframe, like she was completely comfortable with leaving with him.
I stop in the middle of the living room and exhale slowly.
This is exactly the kind of reaction I don’t tolerate from myself. Jealousy is inefficient. Jealousy makes people reckless. They make people do stupid things, which is why I’ve spent most of my adult life avoiding situations where those reactions might appear.
Kayla, however, seems determined to destroy every system I’ve built. Because in the time that she’s been living here, she has managed to create more chaos in my routine than most people manage in a year.
She argues, challenges everything I say, and refuses to be impressed by anything. For some reason, she looks at me like I’m the one who’s unreasonable.
I walk into the kitchen and grab a bottle of water from the fridge. I lean against the counter and stare toward the front door.
My brain immediately offers an image I didn’t ask for.
Kayla sitting across from that artist at some dimly lit bar, laughing, leaning forward. Listening to him talk about paint and emotional landscapes or whatever the hell he does.
Maybe he’s walking her home right now. Or maybe— I set the bottle down harder than necessary.
No. Enough. This is absurd. Kayla can go on as many terrible dates with artists as she wants. It has nothing to do with me.
Except, apparently, it does. The second I saw her in that dress earlier, something in me stopped behaving rationally.
She looked good … and the way that guy looked at her, like he’d already decided he was going to take her home, didn’t sit well with me.
I push off the counter and start pacing again because there’s another problem, I’ve been trying to ignore all evening.
The kiss.
I told myself it was a mistake, a lapse in judgment. Something that happened because we were standing too close and arguing, like we always do.
But if that were true … I wouldn’t still be thinking about it days later.
And I definitely wouldn’t be standing here right now, wondering if some guy just kissed the same woman I’d kissed in my kitchen.
My jaw tightens again.
I stop pacing. For the first time all night, I allow the thought that’s been hovering in the back of my mind to surface completely.
I can’t take this much longer.
Watching her write.
Watching her argue.
Watching her pretend she isn’t curious about the arrangement I offered.
The truth is painfully obvious.
Kayla is attracted to me.
Just like I’m attracted to her.
And pretending otherwise is starting to feel impossible. The only question left is whether she’s stubborn enough to keep pretending or if she’s eventually going to walk down that hallway and knock on my door.
My gaze shifts toward the apartment entrance again, which is still quiet.
I exhale slowly.
If she comes home tonight, smelling like that guy … I’m probably going to lose what little patience I have left.
The door handle rattles. I straighten immediately.
Suddenly, every irritated thought in my head goes completely silent.
* * *
She’s settled on the couch in the living room when the idea settles into place slowly, and it’s extremely satisfying.
Kayla thinks I’m wrong. She thinks the way her writing suddenly comes alive when I’m around is a coincidence.
She thinks she’s immune to the effect she has on me.
Fine.
If she wants proof … I can give her proof.
Her eyes follow the movement immediately with suspicion.
“You look like you’re about to make a terrible decision,” she states.
“That’s a bold assumption.”
“History suggests otherwise.”
I walk casually toward the couch. Kayla watches me the entire time, her arms crossed, like she’s bracing for another argument.
Good.
Arguments she understands. This will be different.
I stop in front of her. “You said your date was fine.”
“It was.”
“You came home early.”
“Because it was fine.”
“I almost believe you.”
Her eyes narrow. “What exactly are you getting at?”
I tilt my head slightly. “You wanted to prove something tonight.”
She doesn’t answer, but the tension in her shoulders gives her away.
“You wanted to prove you don’t need me to write,” I continue.
“That’s not—”
“That’s exactly what it was.”
Kayla exhales sharply. “You are unbelievably full of yourself.”
“Possibly,” I admit. “But you’re also curious.”
“I am not,” she denies.
“You are.”
I step closer. Just enough that she has to tilt her head slightly to keep looking at me.
She swallows thickly.
“You’re curious if I’m right,” I say quietly.
“I’m curious how someone can be this arrogant without imploding.”
“Different kind of curiosity.”
She opens her mouth to argue again.
I reach down to grab the laptop off the coffee table and try to hand it to her.
Kayla blinks. “What are you doing?”
“Take it.”
“No.”
“Kayla.”
“Absolutely not.”
I take her wrist firmly before she can step away. Enough to guide her the few steps backward until the couch presses against the back of her knees.
She stares at me.
Equal parts annoyed and surprised.
“Sit,” I repeat.
“This is insane.”
“Probably.”
She hesitates, then drops onto the couch with an irritated huff.
I place the laptop in her hands.
She looks down at it, then back up at me. “You’ve lost your mind.”
“Open it.”
“No.”
“Open it,” I repeat slowly.
She narrows her eyes. “Why?”
“Because I’m going to prove something.”
Kayla snorts. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Possibly.”
She flips the laptop open anyway, mostly out of stubbornness.
“Start writing,” I say.
She stares at me like I just insulted her entire family. “You think you can just boss me around?”
“Yes.”
“You’re insane.”
“Write.”
She rolls her eyes. “This proves nothing.”
“We’ll see.”
Kayla sighs dramatically and turns toward the screen. Her fingers hover above the keyboard, waiting, but nothing happens.
She glances sideways at me. “You’re very smug for someone who’s about to be wrong.”
“I’m patient.”
“You’re unbearable.”
“Write.”
Kayla looks back at the screen again and types a word.
She stops, then deletes it.
I press a hand to the couch cushion she is sitting on and guide myself down to my knees.
Her eyes meet mine. “What are you doing?”
“I’m testing something,” I say.
I move her laptop up a couple of inches to her stomach, then place my hands on her bare knees.
The warmth of her skin sends goose bumps across my body, which I am going to ignore. I don’t want to analyze what the hell that is about.
Then I pull her legs open wider.
I can hear the audible breath she takes in.
“Sawyer, what are you doing?”
“I want you to write, Kayla. Every time you do, I will reward you. I’ll show you just how much you want me. How much creativity I can help unlock.”
She narrows her eyes at me as she stays completely still.
Stubborn. That’s Kayla’s real problem.
“Absolutely not,” she says unsurprisingly.
She doesn’t make any effort to move or get rid of her laptop. This is how I know she wants it. She just doesn’t want to admit it.
Words aren’t going to cut it. I’ll have to convince her another way.
I slowly move my right hand from her knee up to her inner thigh, gliding my fingertips along her smooth skin. Instead of pushing me away, she opens her legs wider.
But she does not write. She just watches me with a look of anger in her eyes. That anger is my fuel.
Her red lace underwear is just in sight. My dick hardens as I think about what’s underneath until I realize she wore that, knowing she was going on a date with another man.
No. That won’t do. I am going to make sure she only thinks of me when she puts those on in the future.
With my other hand still on her knee, I push that leg slightly up and to the side to get more access. I let my fingers now slide up the rest of the way until they hit her warm center.
She huffs out a breath that sounds like she’s annoyed but turned on at the same time. Because she knows she is not going to stop me.
Satisfaction pulls briefly at the corner of my mouth. Instead, I harness that energy into making her crazy.
My thumb moves to her clit, and I rub slow circles around it. Her face looks tortured, like she can’t decide whether to smack me or let me continue.
I could probably prove my point right now, but I’d rather draw it out. I want her begging.
Just like the woman in her book. Fuck. The thought of her writing that scene still gets me hard instantly.
I take my hand away and tuck a finger inside the seam of her panties, then pull it, exposing her pussy to me.