Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Sawyer
The elevator ride to the penthouse is quiet.
It always is.
Most people think living at the top of a building like this would feel impressive.
After a while, it mostly just feels quiet.
Tonight though, the silence reminds me of something unexpected—a woman standing in my living room, narrating my apartment like she was writing the opening chapter of her romance novel.
I loosen my tie slightly as the elevator climbs.
Kayla.
Melissa’s friend.
The woman Colton insisted needed a temporary place to stay after Melissa moved out of their apartment.
Also, the same woman who looked me in the eye at a bar and informed me I wasn’t hero material.
I’m still not sure if she realizes how entertaining that was to me.
The elevator doors slide open. When I unlock my front door, the penthouse is dim, except for a soft glow coming from the kitchen which means one of two things.
Either she forgot to turn the lights off or she’s still awake. I step inside and immediately hear something that makes me stop.
Kayla is talking to herself, again. I pause just inside the living room.
Her voice drifts from somewhere near the kitchen. “… and this is where the heroine realizes the billionaire is secretly emotionally unavailable but devastatingly handsome.”
I lean slightly against the wall, listening. Earlier today, she looked startled when I walked in, but she didn’t cower.
Most people get uncomfortable around me. They straighten up. Change their tone. Start choosing their words more carefully.
Kayla did the opposite. She argued and insulted my personality. Then she analyzed my penthouse like it was a setting in one of her books.
I push away from the wall and walk toward the kitchen, because now I’m curious what she’s doing
A couple of weeks ago, I told Colton letting Melissa’s friend stay here wouldn’t be an issue.
Melissa trusts her. That was enough for me.
But now I’m second guessing my decision. Her confidence is throwing me off. It’s not the polished kind people practice around someone with money.
The real kind.
The kind that lets someone insult a stranger’s personality and not immediately apologize for it.
I didn’t react much at the time.
Mostly because laughing in her face seemed unwise. But it was entertaining, more entertaining than I let on.
I step into the kitchen.
Kayla is sitting at the island with her laptop open in front of her.
The city lights spills through the windows behind her, reflecting softly across the marble countertops.
Her long brown hair is pulled into a loose knot on top of her head, and she’s wearing an oversize gray sweatshirt that looks like it came from a completely different life than this penthouse.
A strand of hair has fallen loose from the knot on top of her head, brushing her cheek every time she frowns at the screen.
She’s staring at her computer with the same intensity someone might use while trying to solve a complicated math equation.
A soft sigh pulls me from my thoughts. She deletes something.
“You know,” I say from behind her, “most people wait until I leave the room before insulting my personality.”
Kayla jumps slightly and turns toward me. Her eyes widen for a second before narrowing. “You really need to work on announcing yourself.”
“I did earlier.”
“You scared ten years off my life.”
“That seems dramatic.”
Her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile. “You weren’t supposed to be home yet.”
“So I’ve been told.”
She leans back slightly in the chair. “Late meeting?”
“Yes.”
She studies me again with that same analytical look. The one she had earlier. “You don’t seem like someone who has meetings at night.”
“That’s an oddly specific assumption.”
“Just an observation.”
“From your research?”
She blinks. Then crosses her arms. “I never said I was researching you. Once again with the arrogance.”
“Arrogance,” I repeat.
“Yes.”
“You’ve mentioned that twice now.”
“That’s because it’s a recurring theme.”
I shift my attention to the laptop in front of her. She notices immediately and slides it an inch closer to herself.
“Relax,” I say. “I’m not going to read it.”
“You were just accusing me of spying on you.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“You were narrating my apartment.”
“That was creative expression.”
Her fingers drift back to the keyboard. She types, pauses, and deletes everything,
Type. Pause. Delete.
Finally, I say, “That doesn’t seem productive.”
She freezes, then slowly looks up. “You’ve been watching me?”
“It’s hard to miss.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re judging my writing process now?”
“I’m observing a pattern.”
“And what pattern would that be?”
“You write something,” I say, nodding toward the laptop, “and then immediately delete it, like it personally offended you.”
“That’s not what’s happening.”
“Then what is happening?”
She hesitates for a second, and then she closes the laptop. “That’s classified information.”
“That seems suspicious.”
“It’s not suspicious.”
“It’s definitely suspicious.”
She exhales slowly, leaning back in the chair. “I’m thinking.”
“You looked less like you were thinking and more like you were fighting with the keyboard.”
“That’s because the keyboard is wrong.”
“Of course.”
She huffs. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“That’s a bold assumption.”
“You don’t strike me as someone who spends a lot of time staring at a blank page.”
I glance at the closed laptop. “You’re a writer.”
It’s not really a question.
She sighs. “Yes, you knew that.”
“And your process is narrating what’s going on around you.”
“That was a onetime thing.”
“Earlier, you narrated about my living room.”
She points at me. “You were eavesdropping; you weren’t supposed to hear that.”
“I walked into my own apartment, and you were talking to yourself.”
“Fine. Whatever. It’s called brainstorming.”
“Out loud?”
“Yes.”
I consider that. “Interesting strategy.”
She leans forward slightly. “You know what’s interesting?”
“What?”
“You’re very calm for someone who just caught a stranger, who’s living in his apartment, insulting him.”
“You’re not a stranger.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Oh?”
“You’re Melissa’s friend.”
“That’s a very thin layer of familiarity.”
“Still technically familiarity.”
She studies me for a moment. “You’re not nearly as intimidating as Melissa made you sound.”
“That sounds like a compliment.”
“It’s another observation. I like to understand the people I’m living with.”
“That makes it sound like you’re conducting an interview.”
“Maybe I am.”
I fold my arms loosely. “Should I be concerned?”
“That depends.” She leans back in her chair again.
“On what?”
“Whether you answer the questions honestly.”
“You’re assuming I plan to answer them at all.”
Kayla tilts her head. “You’re the one who came in here and started observing my writing habits.”
“Fair.”
“So, now it’s my turn.”
“That hardly seems balanced.”
“You’re a billionaire,” she says. “I think you’ll survive a few questions.”
I rest my back against the counter. “All right,” I say, “let’s hear it.”
Her eyes brighten like she didn’t expect me to agree.
“Why do you work so late?”
“That’s your first question?”
“Yes,” she says with a neutral face.
“It’s a very boring answer.”
She lifts her chin. “Try me.”
“I run a company.”
“And … that explains the late hours.”
“It tends to require time.”
She narrows her eyes. “That wasn’t a real answer.”
“That was the answer.”
“You’re deflecting,” she accuses.
“I’m simplifying.”
Her gaze lingers on me for a beat. “You do that a lot.”
“Do what?”
“Avoid saying more than you have to.”
“That’s called efficiency.”
“That’s called suspicious.”
“Suspicious of what?”
She gestures vaguely toward me. “I don’t know yet. I’m still gathering information.”
I laugh quietly. “Good luck with that.”
“You’re not going to make it easy, are you?”
I straighten my shoulders. “No.”
Her pink lips turn down. “That’s disappointing.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She edges closer on the island. “Because mysterious billionaires are very inconvenient to live with.”
I raise an eyebrow. “And what exactly would make me more convenient?”
She considers my question for a beat. “Basic information would be a start.”
“Such as?”
“What you actually do.”
“I already told you.”
“You said you run a company.”
“That’s accurate.”
“That’s vague.”
“That’s intentional.”
She sighs dramatically. “You’re impossible.”
“Yet here you are,” I say. “Living in my apartment.”
Kayla doesn’t look away. “Temporarily,” she says.
“Of course.”
She pins me with a measured look, like she’s deciding something, then says, “Why aren’t you married?”
That’s not the question I expected.
I raise an eyebrow. “That escalated quickly.”
“You said I could ask questions.”
“I did.”
“I’m asking one.”
“That’s less of a question and more of a life audit.”
She shrugs. “You’re a billionaire.”
“That seems to be a recurring theme tonight.”
“You’re successful. You’re clearly not terrible-looking.”
“High praise.”
“And yet,” she continues, gesturing vaguely toward the enormous apartment around us, “you live alone in a penthouse that could comfortably house a small royal family.”
“You’re assuming I live alone.”
Her eyes narrow, turning into sharp, calculating lines. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
“See? Progress already.”
“That hardly answers your original question.”
She waits patiently, like she’s fully expecting me to answer, not backing off at all.
“Because I haven’t wanted to be,” I say finally.
She tips her head to the side. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“That’s a very unromantic answer.”
“Life tends to be less romantic than books.”
She watches me carefully when she says the next part. “You say that like you’re very sure of it.”
Something about the way she says it makes me realize she’s not just asking questions.
She’s evaluating the answers. And suddenly, I understand something.
Kayla isn’t just curious; she’s trying to figure me out.
Which is slightly amusing because she’s not nearly as subtle as she thinks she is.
“My turn,” I say.
Kayla’s eyebrows lift. “I don’t remember agreeing to that.”
I kick one leg over the other. “You started the interview.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s reciprocal.”
“It does if you want more answers.”
She weighs whether the trade is worth it, and then she sighs. “One question.”
“That seems restrictive.”
“Take it or leave it,” she says as she crosses her arms across her chest.
I glance at the laptop sitting closed in front of her. “How long have you been staring at that thing tonight?”
Her expression tightens. “That’s not a fair question.”
“You offered terms. Now I’m the one not being fair.”
“That’s a trick question.”
“Seems like you’re avoiding it.”
She exhales slowly and leans back in the stool. “I’m thinking.”
“You were typing. Deleting. Typing again. Then deleting that.”
“You were paying an impressive amount of attention for someone who claims he just got home.”
“It was difficult not to notice.”
She drums her fingers lightly against the counter. “That’s called writing.”
“That looked more like losing an argument with your keyboard.”
She gives me a pointed look. “You’re very confident for someone who has never written a book.”
“That’s true.”
“And yet you’re critiquing my process.”
“I’m observing the results.”
She stares at me for a second, like she’s deciding whether to argue again. Then she huffs a quiet laugh and slides the laptop further away.
“Congratulations,” she says. “You’ve successfully ruined my concentration.”
“That suggests it was fragile to begin with.”
“You’re very pleased with yourself right now, aren’t you?”
“A little.”
She hops off the stool. “Well,” she says, “this has been a deeply unproductive evening.”
“For you maybe.”
“You interrogated my writing habits.”
“You interrogated my life.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“You’re interesting.” The words slip out of her mouth before she seems to realize she said them. She pauses, then quickly adds, “From a sociological standpoint.”
“That sounds suspiciously like backtracking.”
“It’s clarification.”
She takes a few steps toward the hallway, then stops. “And for the record,” she says over her shoulder, “you’re still not hero material.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Harsh.”
“Accurate.”
With that, she disappears down the hallway toward the guest rooms. The apartment falls quiet again. I glance at the laptop she left sitting on the counter, then toward the hallway where she just vanished.
Earlier today, I assumed letting Melissa’s friend stay here wouldn’t make much difference. Now I’m fairly certain that assumption was wrong because Kayla asks questions she probably shouldn’t.
She argues like she enjoys it and somehow manages to turn a simple conversation into a debate.
Which means one thing is already clear.
Living with her is going to be far more interesting than I planned.