Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Sawyer
The gym is quiet when I walk in, which is exactly what I need.
Tonight, my mind refuses to settle. Something about the evening—about Kayla—has left a kind of restless energy under my skin that lifting usually fixes.
I roll my shoulders once and step toward the weights. Then the door opens, and Kayla walks in.
Of course she does.
She doesn’t notice me immediately. Her focus is already on the treadmill as she sets her water bottle down and starts adjusting the speed. Which means I have a moment to observe her without interruption.
Her hair is tied loosely at the back of her head. A few strands have escaped already.
Running shorts and a tank top—completely normal workout clothes. Yet somehow, the room feels different now.
Probably because the last time I saw her, she was laughing at me over dinner while explaining the finer points of writing extremely graphic romance scenes.
She starts jogging so I move to the weight rack behind her. The mirrored wall reflects everything in the room.
Every few seconds, her eyes flick up toward it, which means, every few seconds, our gazes almost meet. After a few minutes, she slows the treadmill and steps off. She grabs her water bottle and takes a drink.
Then she notices me.
“You’re back,” I say.
“I live here.”
“Temporary housing situation.”
Her mouth curves slightly.
I nod toward the bench nearby. “Trying something new tonight?”
She glances at the equipment beside her. “I thought I’d attempt weights.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“I resent that.”
Kayla steps toward the rack and picks up a pair of dumbbells.
She lifts them once, then twice. Her elbows flare outward slightly. I watch for a second but can’t help but walk over to her.
“Your form is wrong.”
She lowers the weights immediately. “Wow. No warm-up? Just straight into criticism?”
“You’re going to hurt your shoulders.”
She sighs and hands me the dumbbells. “Fine. Fix it.”
I set them back in her hands and step closer. “Keep your elbows in.”
She adjusts slightly. “Like this?”
“Not quite.”
Without thinking, I reach out and lightly touch her elbow, guiding it inward.
The contact is brief, barely anything, but Kayla freezes.
I notice immediately, which means I also notice how close we’re suddenly standing.
It’s too close, so I step back. “Try again.”
She lifts the weights. Better this time.
“See?” I say.
“Miracles happen.”
She finishes the set quickly, then sets the weights down.
Her movements are sharper now, much less relaxed.
“Thanks,” she says, grabbing her water bottle.
“You’re leaving already?”
“I just remembered something I need to do.”
“That sounds suspicious.”
“Writers have chaotic schedules.”
Before I can respond, she grabs her water from the table and heads for the door. Halfway there, she pauses, glances back, and for a second, our eyes meet again. Then she disappears into the hallway.
The door closes, and the gym goes quiet.
I stand here for another moment because I have absolutely no idea why Kayla just fled the room like that.
I finish the rest of my workout alone, which should make it easier to concentrate. Instead, my focus keeps drifting back to the exact moment Kayla abruptly decided she needed to leave the room.
One minute, she was lifting weights, and the next, she was halfway out the door like the gym had caught fire.
I rack the last weight and grab a towel. Something about the whole interaction feels unfinished. I wipe the sweat from the back of my neck and head down the hallway toward the kitchen.
The penthouse is quiet until I step inside the kitchen. Kayla is sitting at the island with her laptop open and her fingers moving across the keyboard at a speed that suggests something important is happening.
She hasn’t noticed me yet. It gives me a moment to watch. Her brow is slightly furrowed. Her attention completely locked on the screen.
She pauses for half a second, then keeps typing almost aggressively.
Interesting.
I walk over to the refrigerator and grab a bottle of water. The sound finally pulls her attention up.
Her fingers stop mid-sentence.
“Oh,” she says.
“Working late again?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Inspiration strikes when it strikes.”
I nod toward the laptop. “I wonder what caused the inspiration,” I say casually.
Her fingers stop again. This time, she slowly looks up, and the look she gives me is very deliberate.
Her gaze drifts downward. I watch her take in my shoulders, my arms, and the fact that I’m still in workout clothes.
Then she looks back up again. It’s quick, subtle even, but unmistakable. Out of nowhere, a very inconvenient thought pushes its way into my head.
The scene I accidentally read in her book earlier flashes back immediately. Where the hero corners the heroine. The one that was … very detailed.
My jaw tightens slightly. Kayla’s attention returns to the laptop.
But I’m not looking at the screen anymore. I’m looking at her because the timing is suddenly very interesting.
“You left the gym in a hurry,” I say.
“I remembered something.”
“That something appears to be a chapter.”
She smiles slightly. “Writers write.”
“That seems like a convenient explanation.”
Kayla finally closes the laptop, then looks at me again. This time, with open amusement. “You’re very curious tonight.”
“I’m evaluating possibilities.”
“Of what?”
I take a drink of water before I place the bottle down on the counter. “Of what might be inspiring your work.”
Her smile widens slowly. “Well,” she says lightly, “you were there. Use your imagination.”
For a second, the kitchen goes completely quiet. Kayla opens the laptop again and resumes typing like she didn’t just say something incredibly dangerous.
And for the first time all night, I realize something.
Kayla might know exactly what she’s doing.
* * *
My mother still insists on Sunday dinner. It doesn’t matter how busy the week gets or how many times I tell her I have work. Every Sunday at six o’clock, the entire family shows up at the house in Brooklyn, like we’re following some unwritten contract.
I park in front of the brownstone and shut off the engine, but I’m late … again.
When I walk in, the smell of garlic and tomato sauce hits immediately.
My mother appears in the kitchen doorway. “Finally.”
“Good evening to you too, Mom.”
Lucia Maccini crosses the room and kisses my cheek. “You’re late.”
“I had work.”
“You always have work.”
She waves a wooden spoon toward the dining room. “Everyone is already here.”
Of course they are. The dining table is full when I step in. My father sits at the head of the table, reading something on his phone.
Luigi Maccini built three restaurants into a small empire and still somehow manages to look like a man who just stepped out of the kitchen.
Cole is already halfway through a glass of wine.
He grins when he sees me. “Well, look who decided to show up.”
“You’re one to talk,” I say, taking the empty chair beside him.
“I was here on time.”
“Because you live ten minutes away.”
“That’s called good planning.”
Across the table, my sister Brooklyn rolls her eyes. “Please don’t start already.”
Hudson, my brother, leans back in his chair. “You’re lucky Mom didn’t start without you.”
“She threatened to,” Cole says.
Livia, another sister, smiles from the other end of the table. “She always threatens.”
My father finally looks up. “You working too much again?”
“I’m fine.”
“You always say that,” he sighs.
“And I’m always right.”
He studies me for a moment, then nods once like the conversation is over.
My mother reappears, carrying a bowl of pasta the size of a small planet. “Enough talking. Eat.”
The plates start moving around the table. Wine gets poured while voices overlap. The same way they have every Sunday for as long as I can remember.
Cole nudges my arm. “So …”
“So …”
“You still have that roommate?”
“She’s not a roommate.”
“What is she then?”
“Temporary housing situation.”
Cole smirks. “That’s not what the internet says.”
I sigh. “You ever going to let that article go?”
“Not likely,” he replies.
Brooklyn leans forward immediately. “What article?”
Chase, my youngest brother, grins. “Oh, this should be good.”
Cole lifts his glass. “Sawyer has a mystery woman living in his penthouse.”
Livia gasps dramatically. “Scandal.”
My mother freezes halfway through serving pasta. “What woman?”
“It’s not like that,” I say.
Cole laughs. “That’s exactly what someone says when it’s like that.”
“It’s Melissa’s friend.”
My father raises an eyebrow. “And she lives with you?”
“Temporarily.”
My mother narrows her eyes. “What’s her name?”
“Kayla.”
Lucia nods thoughtfully. “She sounds nice.”
“You’ve never met her.”
“I know a nice name when I hear one.”
Cole leans closer again. “So, when does everyone else get to meet her?”
“They’re not meeting her.”
“It sounds serious,” Hudson says with a smile.
“It’s not.”
“Sure it isn’t,” he replies.
I take a drink of wine.
Sunday dinner continues exactly the way it always does. Loud, everyone talking over each other, and crowded.
For a moment, I forget about everything waiting back at the penthouse.
* * *
It’s nearly ten when I get home. The apartment is quiet. Kayla is sitting on the couch with her laptop when I walk in.
She glances up. “You disappeared today.”
“I had dinner.”
“With who?”
“My family.”
She blinks. “Your family?”
“Yes.”
She studies me like I just said something unbelievable. “You go to Sunday family dinners?”
“Yes.”
“That’s surprising.”
“Why.”
Kayla tilts her head slightly. “You don’t seem like the Sunday family dinner kind of guy.”
I set my keys on the counter. “And what kind of guy do I seem like?”
“The kind who eats takeout alone while working on his laptop.”
“That also happens.”
She laughs softly. “So, you have this big Italian family dinner every week?”
“Yes.”
“With pasta and yelling and wine?”
“Mostly.”
Kayla leans back against the couch. “Interesting.”
“What.”
“I think I just discovered something about you.”
“And what’s that?”
“You might actually be human.”