Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Kayla
Iwatch him walk into the kitchen like he owns the place—which, technically, he does—but tonight, he looks … different.
He appears less polished.
His sleeves are rolled halfway up his forearms, and his hair is slightly messier than usual, like he ran his hands through it too many times.
“Did your family interrogate you?” I ask.
Sawyer pours himself a glass of water. “About what?”
“Me.”
He glances over. “They asked questions.”
“Of course they did.”
“They’re curious.”
“I would be, too, if my son suddenly had a woman living in his penthouse.”
“That’s not how it was presented.”
I lean my chin into my hand. “How was it presented?”
He takes a sip of water. “Temporary housing situation.”
“You’re really committed to branding this correctly.”
He sets the glass down. “It’s accurate.”
“Your brother doesn’t seem convinced.”
Sawyer exhales once. “Cole enjoys creating problems.”
“Is he the charming one?”
“He thinks he is.”
“That usually means yes.”
The corner of his mouth twitches briefly before he reins it back in.
I hop off the couch and wander into the kitchen. “Did your mom ask about me?”
“Yes.”
“What did you say?”
“That you’re Melissa’s friend.”
“That’s it?”
“What else should I say?”
“That I’m a brilliant author who writes scandalous literature.”
His eyes flick toward the book sitting on the counter. “I’m still processing that discovery.”
“Oh, please.”
“I still can’t believe you wrote that.”
“You’re taking this much harder than my readers do. I’ve written dozens like it.”
Sawyer goes very still. His fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the counter, like he suddenly regrets asking.
“Do you read all your friends’ work this carefully?” I ask.
“No.”
“So, I’m special.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“But you didn’t deny it.”
He looks at me again—really looks—and the air in the kitchen shifts slightly. The silence stretches just a little too long to feel casual.
Sawyer clears his throat and opens the refrigerator. “I need sugar after this conversation.”
I blink. “I did not expect that sentence from you.”
“I had dinner with my mother.”
“That explains everything.”
He pulls out a carton and grabs two spoons, then slides the container across the island toward me.
“You’re sharing?”
“I was raised correctly.”
I laugh and take the spoon.
For a minute, we eat quietly, which should feel awkward, but it doesn’t.
Sawyer leans against the counter, looking more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him.
“So …” I say.
“So …”
“What was your family really like tonight?”
He considers the question. “Loud. Too much food. Multiple arguments happening at once.”
“So aggressively Italian.”
“Painfully.” His mouth twitches again. “You’d fit in.”
I pause mid-bite. “With your family?”
“Yes.”
“Because I argue?”
“You don’t filter yourself around me.”
“That sounds like a dangerous quality.”
“It’s unusual.”
I tilt my head. “Are people usually intimidated by you?”
“Yes.”
I study him briefly then shake my head. “Wild.”
“Why?”
“Because underneath the billionaire thing, you’re basically just a grumpy Italian man with family dinners.”
Sawyer lets out a quiet laugh. A real one this time. I don’t think I’ve heard him laugh like that before.
I scoop another bite of ice cream.
“You know,” I say, “this is not what I expected when I moved in here.”
“What did you expect?”
“Cold billionaire who only eats takeout and talks to his assistant.”
“That also happens.”
“I’m discovering layers.”
Sawyer watches me for a moment. There’s something about the way he does it that makes my stomach do that weird little flip.
Which would be less of a problem if the tension between us would stop escalating every five minutes.
I scoop another bite of ice cream and watch him over the rim of the carton.
“You know what I’m trying to figure out?” I say.
“Should I be concerned?”
“Probably.”
Sawyer leans against the counter, arms loosely crossed now. The sleeves of his shirt are still rolled up, which I’m discovering is extremely distracting.
“What are you trying to figure out?” he says.
“How did you end up the way you are?”
He raises an eyebrow. “That’s a very loaded question.”
“I know.”
I gesture vaguely at him with my spoon. “You run companies, intimidate entire boardrooms, and live like a Bond villain.”
He waits.
“But then,” I continue, “you go to Sunday dinner with your family like a normal human being.”
“That’s because I am a normal human being.”
“The penthouse says otherwise.”
His mouth twitches. “You’re very judgmental for someone living in my apartment.”
“Temporary housing situation,” I clarify.
“Of course.”
I take another bite and shake my head. “I’m just saying. The image doesn’t quite match.”
“What image?”
“The brooding billionaire who ruins people’s mornings professionally.”
“Only when necessary.”
“I knew it.”
He scrutinizes me for a beat. “You seem disappointed.”
“I’m adjusting.”
“To what?”
“To the fact that you’re harder to figure out than I expected.”
“That sounds like your problem.”
“It is.”
He reaches across the island and takes the carton back from me. “You’ve had enough.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re talking too much.”
“That’s my personality.”
“I noticed.”
Sawyer sets the carton on the counter and tosses the spoons into the sink. Neither of us says anything for a second which suddenly feels very noticeable.
He looks at me for a second too long.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“That look means something.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It absolutely does.”
He shakes his head once, like he’s dismissing the thought entirely. Then he grabs the ice cream and puts it back in the freezer.
“Good night, Kayla.”
I blink. “That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“You’re just ending the conversation?”
“I have work tomorrow.”
“Coward.”
He pauses at the doorway. “You ask too many questions.”
I grin. “And yet you keep answering them.”
He doesn’t respond to that, just disappears down the hallway.
A moment later, I hear his bedroom door close.
I stand here in the kitchen for another minute before I grab the carton from the freezer and shake my head.
“Well,” I mutter to myself, “that was interesting.”
I take another bite of ice cream.
This apartment is becoming a very bad idea.