Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Kayla
The strange thing about moving out of an apartment is how quickly it stops feeling like yours.
Three days ago, this place felt normal. Now it feels like a storage unit with sentimental attachments.
I stand in the middle of the living room, holding a half-empty box labeled Books, trying to decide if I actually need to keep three separate copies of the same romance novel.
The answer is yes. Some things are nonnegotiable.
Melissa’s old room is already empty. Her closet door hangs open, the hangers spaced out like tiny metal skeletons.
The silence in the apartment feels different without her here.
Not sad exactly. Just … unfinished.
I set the box down and glance around the room. Suitcases, plastic bins, and stacks of clothes I haven’t decided whether to keep or donate surround me.
And one stubborn laptop sitting on the coffee table.
I walk over and open it. The document appears immediately. Three sentences.
Still terrible. Still exactly the same three sentences I wrote last night.
I stare at them for a moment.
Nothing happens. My brain offers absolutely no assistance.
I close the laptop again. Instead, I grab another suitcase and start filling it with clothes from the hallway closet.
We technically still have two weeks left on our lease. That’s how long I have to move everything into storage and to pretend living in a billionaire’s penthouse isn’t extremely weird.
I drag the suitcase into the living room and glance around again. There’s a lot more here than I remember owning: books, shoes, and boxes labeled things like Office Supplies and Miscellaneous.
I check the time on my phone. If I hurry, I can probably get most of this moved over in a few trips today.
The elevator in Sawyer’s building is big enough to fit several suitcases at once which is helpful because at this point, it feels like I own my body weight in belongings.
I zip the suitcase closed and drag it toward the door. The apartment echoes slightly when it’s this empty. For a moment, I pause in the doorway and glance back inside.
Three years—that’s how long Melissa and I lived here.
Three years of late-night takeout, bad reality television, and deadlines that always seemed to arrive too quickly.
Now the place just looks like a collection of boxes.
I grab the suitcase handle.
“All right,” I mutter to myself, “let’s go relocate my life.”
* * *
By the time I reach Sawyer’s building with the third round of luggage, I’m already questioning my life choices.
I juggle two suitcases, one large box of books, and a tote bag full of random things I refused to throw away.
The doorman opens the door for me, eyeing me with mild curiosity.
“Moving day?” he asks.
“Something like that.”
I wrestle the load across the marble lobby and press the elevator button.
The elevator doors open, and I drag everything inside.
Once the doors close, I lean back against the wall and let out a breath.
Moving is expensive and so are storage units. And despite what people seem to think about writers, most of us are not secretly wealthy.
I make a living. Barely.
I’ve published five books so far. They do well enough to keep me afloat if I’m careful. But I haven’t had the kind of breakout success that lets someone casually stop worrying about rent.
The elevator reaches the top floor with a soft ding.
I haul the luggage out into the living room and drop everything with a heavy thud.
The apartment is quiet, which means Sawyer is probably at work—good. Because hauling three trips of luggage through this place feels significantly less embarrassing without an audience.
I grab the box of books and carry it toward the guest room. Halfway down the hallway, I stop because the sound of the door opening echoes through the apartment.
I turn just as Sawyer steps into the living room.
He’s holding a leather briefcase, and he looks exactly like someone who just came from a long day of meetings.
His gaze drops to the pile of luggage in the middle of the room, to the box in my arms, then back to me.
“You’re multiplying,” he says.
“I own things.”
“That appears to be the case.”
I shift the box slightly. “This is only the third trip.”
“How many trips are there?”
I think about the apartment and the storage unit where I’ve already loaded my main furniture then the alarming number of shoes I own.
“Let’s call it … several.”
Sawyer sets his briefcase down. “You’re moving everything here?”
“Temporarily,” I say quickly. “Most of it went to storage.”
He studies the box in my arms. “Books?”
“Yes.” I set the box down before my arms fall off.
“Are they all yours?”
“Some of them.”
“Define some.”
“Enough to justify the box.”
He nods slowly. “You know,” he says, glancing toward my belongings again, “most people hire movers.”
“Most people probably aren’t paying for a storage unit on a writer’s budget.”
That seems to surprise him slightly. “You make a living writing?”
“Yes.”
“I thought maybe it was a side gig.”
“It’s called moderate success,” I say. “Just not the kind that pays for movers.”
He considers that for a moment before he walks over and picks up one of the suitcases.
“I have an elevator,” he says. “And working arms.”
“You don’t have to help.”
“I’m aware.” He lifts the suitcase easily. “Where do want this?”
I point down the hallway. “My room works.”
He carries it past me without another word, and for some reason, that feels more helpful than I expected.
Sawyer sets the suitcase down in the guest room and turns back toward the hallway.
“I’ll grab the rest,” he says.
“You don’t have to—”
The elevator dings. Both of us look toward the front door. A second later, the front door opens, and a man steps out.
He looks younger than Sawyer, dressed casually in dark jeans and a navy jacket.
He stops when he sees me. “Oh,” he says easily. “I didn’t realize you had company.”
Sawyer exhales quietly beside me. “Kayla,” he says, “this is my brother.”
The man walks forward and offers his hand. “Cole Maccini.”
I shake it. “Kayla.”
His handshake is warm and confident, the kind that comes from someone who spends a lot of time talking to people.
Cole glances at the suitcase and tote bag left on the floor. “Moving in?”
“Temporarily,” I say quickly.
“Ah.”
Sawyer folds his arms. “What are you doing here?”
“I had a break between meetings,” Cole says. “Thought I’d stop by.” Then he gestures toward the suitcases. “Looks like I arrived at a busy moment.”
“You’re just in time for manual labor,” Sawyer says.
Cole laughs. “Noted.”
I glance between them. “So … what do you do?” I ask.
Cole shrugs casually. “I’m taking over the family restaurant group.”
I blink. “You run restaurants?”
“Trying to,” he says. “My father built the business years ago. I’m expanding it now—opening a few new locations, updating some of the older ones.”
I stare at him for a second. “You feed people for a living.”
Sawyer leans against the wall. “Yes,” he says dryly. “Apparently, that’s impressive.”
“It is impressive,” I say.
Cole grins. “I like her.”
“Of course you do,” Sawyer mutters.
“Restaurants are great,” I continue. “You make people happy with food.”
“That’s the goal.”
Sawyer gestures toward the suitcases again. “Are we done admiring my brother, or are we moving luggage today?”
Cole glances at the pile. “You need help with anything?”
“I’m good,” I say. “But thank you.”
Sawyer grabs another suitcase. “She owns many things.”
“Mostly shoes,” I say defensively.
“And books,” Sawyer adds.
Cole looks amused. “Sounds like a normal move to me.” Then he glances at Sawyer. “You helping her with all this?”
Sawyer lifts the suitcase like it weighs nothing. “I have working arms.”
Cole’s smile widens slightly. “Well,” he says, “this is new.”
“What is?”
“You being helpful.”
Sawyer gives him a look.
Cole turns back to me. “So, how did you two end up living together?”
I open my mouth, but Sawyer answers first. “Bad timing and temporary circumstances.”
Cole nods slowly. “Interesting.” Then he adds casually, “I saw the article this morning.”
“Oh, no,” I say.
Cole holds up his phone like evidence in a courtroom.
“I have to say,” he says, glancing between us, “I was surprised.”
Sawyer doesn’t even turn around. “You’re surprised by many things.”
“I’m surprised you managed to keep a girlfriend secret long enough for the tabloids to break the news.”
I nearly choke on air. “I’m not his—”
“Temporary living arrangement,” Sawyer cuts in flatly.
Cole studies me with obvious amusement. “Right.”
He looks back at the phone. The article is pulled up on the screen.
There’s the photo of Melissa and me getting out of the car yesterday afternoon. The headline is even worse than I remember.
Billionaire Sawyer Maccini Seen Returning to Penthouse with Mystery Woman
Cole tilts the phone slightly toward me. “You’re the mystery woman.”
“I gathered,” I reply matter-of-factly.
“You’re trending,” he says.
“That’s deeply upsetting.”
Cole laughs. “I like her,” he says again.
“You’ve said that.”
“Well, she’s funny.”
Sawyer sounds unimpressed. “I noticed.”
Cole crosses his arms across his chest. “So,” he says casually, “how long have you two been secretly dating?”
“We’re not dating,” I say.
Cole gestures at the luggage. “You’ve moved in.”
“Temporarily,” Sawyer replies.
“She’s carrying half her apartment with her.”
“Not really. I have a storage unit,” I say.
Cole looks impressed. “You’re organized.”
“I’m broke.”
Sawyer glances at me. “You’re not broke.”
“I’m writer broke,” I correct.
Cole raises an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”
“It means I make a living, but I still think about the price of storage units.”
“That sounds stressful,” Cole replies.
I sigh. “It builds character.”
Cole nods thoughtfully. “Meanwhile, Sawyer buys buildings when he’s bored.”
“That’s not true.”
“You bought an airline.”
“That was strategic.”
Cole looks back at me. “See what I deal with?”
I laugh but Sawyer does not.