Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Kayla
Apparently, running at midnight was a terrible idea because now I’m wide awake.
I take a sip of my water and try to slow my breathing.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself, “that was fine.”
Just a casual late-night workout where I accidentally stared at my extremely attractive temporary roommate doing pull-ups.
No big deal.
Except now my brain won’t stop replaying it.
The way his shoulders moved when he lifted himself up. The sweat running down the back of his neck.
I push away from the door and pace across the room.
“This is a problem,” I mutter.
Because my brain decides that now—after weeks of refusing to cooperate—is the perfect moment to start producing ideas again.
I stop beside the bed, then glance at my laptop.
The same laptop that has been mocking me for days with the same three terrible sentences.
I stare at it for a long moment, then sigh. “Fine.”
I grab the laptop and sit cross-legged on the bed. I open the document. The blinking cursor waits patiently.
For the first time in weeks, my fingers move without hesitation.
He pulls himself up effortlessly on the bar as I watch the muscles in his arms bulge. Sweat trails down his back before disappearing beneath the waistband of his shorts.
I catch him in the mirror and do everything in my power to look away.
My fingers fly across the keyboard.
He drops from the bar and turns toward me slowly. My throat goes dry.
I grin to myself as I keep writing.
“Finally,” I whisper.
The words keep coming. For the first time in weeks, the story is actually moving again.
I pick up my laptop and walk out into the living room, stopping in the kitchen for a late-night bag of chips, before settling in on the couch where I continue to write.
I lean forward, completely absorbed in the moment, as the words come back to me.
He steps closer while I swallow the saliva building up in my mouth. He wipes his forward with a towel. Sweat—
Footsteps pull me out of my trance as Sawyer walks into the living room. I jump, and the laptop nearly slides off my legs.
Sawyer stands in front of me. His hair is damp, like he just showered.
He freezes when he sees me sitting there with the laptop.
“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know you were awake.”
My brain stops working because now that he’s standing there … it suddenly becomes extremely obvious where the inspiration for the scene came from.
I slam the laptop shut way too fast.
Sawyer raises an eyebrow. “Working late?”
“Yes.” The word flies out of my mouth.
He glances toward the laptop. “Thought you were stuck.”
“I was.”
“And now?”
I stand quickly, clutching the laptop against my chest like its evidence in a crime.
“I got unstuck.”
He nods slowly. “That’s good.”
“Yes.”
I take a step toward the hallway toward my room.
Sawyer watches me with mild curiosity. “Where are you going?”
“Bed.”
“Good night, Kayla.”
“Good night, Sawyer,” I reply, halfway down the hallway already.
I close the door behind me, then lean against it. My heart is racing. Now the entire situation feels mortifying.
I walk to the bed and open the laptop. The scene is still on the screen.
He steps closer while I swallow the saliva building up in my mouth. He wipes his forehead with a towel. Sweat—
I stare at it for five seconds, then drop my head into my hands. “Oh my God.”
I just wrote a steamy gym scene about the man who lives twenty feet down the hallway.
I slam the laptop shut. “Nope.”
I refuse to do this.
I open the laptop again, highlight the entire scene, and delete it.
The screen goes blank. I stare at it as I wait for another idea.
Nothing happens. My brain goes completely silent again.
I close the laptop slowly and fall back onto the bed.
“Well,” I mutter to the ceiling, “that was short-lived.”
The room is quiet again—too quiet.
I stare at the ceiling for another minute before rolling onto my side.
The gym scene replays in my head anyway. As well as the fact that I turned it into a fully formed romance scene in under fifteen minutes.
I groan and bury my face in the pillow.
Eventually, exhaustion wins, and I fall asleep.
* * *
The next morning, I wake up slowly, disoriented for a moment.
Then I remember my temporary living situation … and unfortunately, the gym.
I sit up and immediately grab my laptop from the nightstand.
I open the document.
Still blank. Good.
I close the laptop again and swing my legs over the side of the bed.
“New day,” I tell myself. “Fresh start.”
No thinking about the gym, Sawyer, or his stupid pull-ups.
Ten minutes later, I walk into the kitchen.
Sawyer is already there. Of course he is.
He’s standing at the counter in a dark shirt and dress pants, pouring coffee like someone who has already been awake for hours.
I stop in the hallway.
For a moment, I consider retreating back to my room, but that would be obvious. So, instead, I walk forward like a completely normal human being.
“Morning.”
Sawyer glances up. “Morning.” He slides a second mug across the counter toward me. “I made extra.”
“Thanks.”
I take the mug and lean against the island. The silence lasts about three seconds. Then my brain starts doing something extremely unhelpful.
Noticing things.
Like the way his shirt fits across his shoulders. Or the fact that his hair is still slightly damp from a shower.
Or the memory of last night in the gym.
I take a sip of coffee.
“So,” I say casually, “sleep better after your workout?”
“Yes.”
“That’s good.”
“You?”
“Eventually.”
He nods once, then studies me for a second. “You’re quieter than usual.”
“I’m drinking coffee.”
“That’s not the reason.”
I shrug. “Maybe I’m tired.”
“That’s possible.”
Another small silence settles between us.
Sawyer reaches for his jacket on the back of the chair.
“Moving more boxes today?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“How many are left?”
I think about the apartment again. “Uh … a few.”
“That sounds optimistic.”
“I’m trying to stay positive.”
He nods once.
“Well,” he says, heading toward the door, “try not to injure yourself, carrying them.”
“I’ll do my best.”
He pauses at the door and glances back. “Kayla.”
“Yeah?”
“If the coffee machine starts speaking Italian again …”
I smile slightly. “I’ll call for help.”
After he leaves, I exhale slowly and set my mug down.
“Well,” I say to the empty kitchen, “that wasn’t awkward at all.”
Which means it’s probably time to stop thinking about it.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about living with Sawyer Maccini so far, it’s that overthinking things tends to make them worse.