Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Kayla
The sound of his footsteps fades down the hallway. A moment later, I hear a door close somewhere in the apartment. The penthouse is quiet again.
“Well,” I murmur to myself, “that was weird.”
I push away from the counter and begin to rinse the glasses in the sink, but my brain is still replaying the moment from thirty seconds ago.
How he looked as he stepped closer. The way his voice dropped when he said my name.
I dry my hands and head down the hallway toward my room because, clearly, the best solution to this situation is sleep. Except when I get into my room, I’m not tired at all.
My brain is buzzing.
I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at my laptop.
“You’re not getting me again,” I tell it.
I hesitate before I open it.
I’m just going to check something—that’s what I tell myself.
The blank document pops onto the screen.
I sigh. “Fine.”
My fingers start moving. At first, the words come slowly. A sentence here, then another one a minute later. But before I know it, a scene begins forming almost without my permission.
At some point, I glance up at the clock to see that an hour has passed.
I blink at the screen in shock when I realize I wrote an entire chapter. I lean back against the headboard and stare at the word count.
“Unbelievable.”
The truth is painfully obvious. My writer’s block didn’t just magically disappear. It left the moment Sawyer cornered me in that kitchen.
Just like it did the other night after the gym.
I close the laptop slowly.
“Well,” I say to the empty room, “that’s inconvenient.”
Because if this keeps happening … living with Sawyer might turn out to be extremely productive.
* * *
I’m lying in bed, thinking about last night and the fact that I apparently wrote an entire chapter because the man had cornered me in a kitchen.
I pull the pillow over my face. “Great.”
Eventually, I roll out of bed and wander down the hallway.
The apartment is already awake. Sawyer is standing near the windows with his phone pressed to his ear.
“… that’s not what I asked for,” he says calmly.
I pause in the hallway. He’s dressed in dark jeans and a fitted black shirt, pacing slowly while looking out over the city. He seems completely focused and serious. For some reason, that makes my stomach do a weird little flip.
I retreat toward the kitchen before he notices me watching him.
I guess my body has decided we’re reacting to Sawyer now. That’s … inconvenient.
I make myself coffee and sit at the island. A few minutes later, he walks in mid-conversation.
“I’ll review the numbers later,” he says into the phone.
His eyes briefly flick toward me. My brain immediately remembers the kitchen last night. My stomach does the weird flip again.
He finishes the call and sets his phone on the counter. “Morning.”
“Morning.”
“You’re up early.”
“I write for a living. My schedule is chaos.”
“That sounds accurate.”
His phone rings again. He sighs and answers it.
And just like that, the morning turns into a steady stream of Sawyer taking work calls.
Every time I wander into the living area to grab something, he’s there, talking calmly about deals, numbers, meetings. And every single time I walk past him, my body decides to react like he’s some kind of gravitational force.
By noon, I’ve decided the best solution is simply staying in my room. I hate to admit it, but I was able to work out another chapter.
That evening, I’m halfway through changing, only in my bra and black silk panties, when I hear a knock on my door.
“Kayla?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s Sawyer.”
“Hold on.”
I pull my jeans up to my thighs when Sawyer steps halfway into the room—before he freezes.
I’m standing here in the middle of the room, wearing nothing but a bra and jeans that aren’t even pulled all the way up.
For a second, neither of us moves until he snaps his eyes upward.
“Sorry,” he says quickly.
“You knocked.”
“You didn’t answer.”
“I said hold on.”
He clears his throat. “I was going to order dinner. I wanted to see if you wanted anything.”
“Oh.”
I finish pulling my jeans up, then grab my shirt and pull it on.
“Yeah. Sure.”
His gaze flicks away toward the window. “What do you want?”
“I don’t know. What are you getting?”
“Probably Italian.”
“That works.”
“Pasta?”
“Always.”
“All right.” He turns toward the door.
“Thanks,” I add.
He nods once and leaves the room quickly.
Once the door closes behind him, I stand still and stare at it.
A few minutes later, I finish changing and head out to the kitchen.
Sawyer is standing at the island, eating something and holding a book.
My book.
I stop. “What are you doing?”
He suddenly chokes on whatever he just ate, coughing into his hand.
“Are you okay?” I ask, walking toward him.
He clears his throat and sets the snack down, then slowly holds up the book. “I thought you said you wrote romance.”
“I do.”
He flips the page and looks at me. “What’s romantic about this?”
I blink. “What part are you on?”
He turns the book toward me, and my stomach drops because it’s not just a scene. It’s that scene.
I immediately grab the book out of his hands. “Oh my God.”
Sawyer watches me carefully. “You wrote that?”
“Yes.”
“This is your book?”
“Yes.”
He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “I wasn’t aware romance novels included”—he gestures vaguely—“that.”
I cross my arms. “You mean sex?”
He looks mildly horrified. “I mean whatever that scene was.”
“It was a perfectly normal scene.”
“That woman had her mouth—”
“Okay!” I interrupt quickly. “We don’t need to recap it.”
Sawyer exhales slowly. “I clearly misunderstood the genre.”
I try very hard not to laugh. “You thought romance novels were what?”
“Less … athletic.”
Now I am laughing. “Oh my God.”
“So, this is what you do for a living?”
“Yes.”
“You sit in my penthouse, writing scenes like that?”
I shrug. “Pretty much.”
Sawyer studies me for a moment.
He shakes his head. “I need to rethink several assumptions.”
“About what?”
“About you.”
That probably should concern me. Instead, it just makes me smile.
Sawyer leans back against the counter like he’s trying to regain control of the situation. I can practically see the gears turning in his head.
“So,” he says slowly, “you wrote this?”
I nod my head. “Yes.”
“And people buy it?”
“Quite a few people actually.”
His jaw tightens. He picks up the book that I just put back down like it’s a piece of evidence, then immediately sets it back down, like touching it might make things worse.
“I just want to be clear about something,” he says.
“Oh, this should be good.”
His eyes flick toward the page again before snapping back to me. “You researched this?”
I blink. “What?”
“The scene.” He waves loosely toward the book. “The … logistics seem very confident.”
I lean against the island across from him, folding my arms. “That’s because I’m good at my job.”
His mouth opens slightly, like he’s about to argue, but he closes it again. His fingers tap once against the counter. “You’re telling me you just … imagine it?”
“Pretty much.”
Sawyer grabs the back of his neck again, which I’m starting to notice is something he does when he’s uncomfortable.
His shoulders shift faintly, like he’s trying to shake off tension. “That seems unlikely.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he says carefully, “the details are … specific.”
I grin. “You sound very concerned.”
“I’m not concerned.”
“You look concerned.”
“I’m analyzing.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I am not.”
He absolutely is. It’s faint, but the color around his neck gives him away. Sawyer exhales slowly and looks at the ceiling for a second, like he’s questioning every life decision that led him here.
Then his gaze drops back to me.
“So, you sit in this apartment, while I’m in it,” he says, voice lower now, “and write scenes like that?”
“Yes.”
“Regularly?”
“Somewhat,” I lie, embarrassed to admit the truth that it’s not nearly as regularly as it should be thanks to my writer’s block.
He studies me and something in his expression shifts. It’s not judgment, but something else. Something more complicated.
His posture changes, shoulders tightening, as if he’s suddenly aware of the space between us.
“Fascinating,” he says quietly.
“Why?”
He shakes his head once. “No reason.”
But the way his jaw flexes tells me there’s definitely a reason.
I push the book further away from him. “You didn’t have to keep reading.”
“I didn’t realize what I was reading.”
“You made it several pages in.”
He clears his throat. “That was before I understood the situation.”
I laugh. “Oh my God.”
Sawyer straightens and grabs a glass of water like he suddenly needs something to do with his hands.
“You should probably warn people,” he says.
“Why?”
“Because if someone picked that up without context—”
“They’d discover adults sometimes have sex?”
His hand tightens around the glass. “That’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
His eyes flick toward me again, and this time, the look lingers a second too long. Then he drains the glass and sets it down harder than necessary.
“You’re enjoying this entirely too much.”
“Immensely.”
Sawyer shakes his head again, but the corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to smile. And the tension in his shoulders hasn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it looks worse, which is fascinating because I’m suddenly realizing something.
The man who runs companies, negotiates deals, and intimidates entire boardrooms is completely thrown off by a romance novel.
I tuck the book under my arm. “Careful, Sawyer.”
“Why?”
“You keep reacting like this,” I say lightly, “and I might start using you for research.”
He goes very still. His eyes narrow, and for a split second, I swear the temperature in the room drops.
Then he laughs once. It’s low and dangerous.
Now I’m the one blinking.
Sawyer straightens his sleeves and reaches for his phone. “Dinner will be here in twenty minutes.”
He walks past me toward the living room, but as he passes, his shoulder brushes mine. The contact is brief, I think accidental, but not unnoticed.
Not by him and definitely not by me.
Something tells me dinner tonight is going to be very interesting.
Dinner arrives exactly twenty minutes later, which is unfortunate because the awkwardness in the penthouse has had exactly zero time to fade.
The delivery guy leaves two large paper bags on the counter and disappears as quickly as possible.
Sawyer starts unpacking the containers filled with pasta, salad, and garlic bread.
I slide onto one of the stools at the island. “This looks good.”
“It should,” he says. “It was expensive.”
I laugh. “You sound personally offended.”
“I am.”
“By what?” I raise an eyebrow at him.
“Delivery fees.”
I watch him open the pasta container. His sleeves are rolled halfway up his forearms, which is suddenly very distracting.
This is new.
Yesterday, I was just vaguely aware that Sawyer was an attractive man.
Now my brain has apparently decided we’re cataloging details, like the way his hands move when he sets the plates down or how his shoulders shift when he leans against the counter. Or the fact that his voice always drops a bit when he’s talking about something serious.
This is not helpful.
He slides a plate toward me. “Eat.”
“Yes, sir.”
His eyes flick up immediately.
I grin. “Relax. I’m kidding.”
His deep green eyes appear darker. “I’m aware.”
We eat in relative silence for a few minutes. It would be normal, except the silence feels charged, as if the air in the kitchen is just a little too warm.
Sawyer clears his throat and takes a drink of water. “So …”
“So …” I reply softly.
“That book …”
I nearly choke on my pasta. “Oh my God.”
“I have questions.”
I try not to roll my eyes. “Of course you do.”
He leans back slightly against the counter, looking very serious about the entire situation. “Your readers enjoy that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I stare at him. “Why do people enjoy romance?”
“Yes.”
I blink slowly. “That is a very big question.”
He gestures toward the book. “That scene was very … detailed.”
“That’s because it’s a romance novel.”
He studies me again with the same thoughtful expression he had earlier, like he’s trying to reevaluate something.
“You’re not what I expected,” he says finally.
“From a romance writer?”
“Yes.”
“What did you expect?”
He considers that for a moment. “Someone quieter.”
I laugh. “Oh, you definitely got the wrong person.”
“I’m beginning to realize that.”
I take another bite of pasta, then tilt my head slightly. “You know what’s funny?”
“What.”
“You look like you’re the one who should be in a romance novel.”
Sawyer pauses, and his fork stops halfway to his plate. “And what does that mean?”
“It means you’re tall, intimidating, and broody.”
“That doesn’t sound romantic.”
“It absolutely does.”
He sets the fork down slowly. “And yet you told me I wasn’t hero material.”
“That was before I knew you had a private gym.”
He almost smiles. “Your standards are very specific.”
I huff out a laugh. “You have no idea.”
He studies me again, longer this time, and suddenly, the same tension from the kitchen the night before creeps back into the room.
The air feels heavier again.
I clear my throat and stand up quickly. “More wine?”
Sawyer nods once. “Please.”
I grab the bottle and pour two glasses, then slide one toward him. Our fingers brush slightly when he takes it.
Neither of us comments on it, but the moment lingers just a second longer than it should.
I sit back down and take a sip.
Sawyer watches me over the rim of his glass. I suddenly realize something. The same man who choked on a snack only minutes ago because of my book … is now looking at me like he’s thinking about it again.
Which is unfair because I’m the one who wrote the scene, and yet somehow, he’s the one making the moment feel like it belongs in it’s own novel.