Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Sawyer
Ileave the apartment earlier than usual the next morning, but it guarantees one thing: I won’t run into Kayla.
The elevator ride down is quiet, except for the low hum of the cables. I keep replaying the same moment in my head whether I want to or not.
The kitchen. Her standing there with that confident look on her face. The way she challenged me.
“You keep acting like you’re about to do something.”
And then I did.
I tighten my grip slightly on the steering wheel as I pull into traffic.
The problem isn’t that I kissed her. It’s how much I wanted to—and how much I still do.
That kiss wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t impulsive. It was deliberate.
I knew exactly what I was doing, which means the real problem is something else entirely.
It felt good … too good.
I pull into the garage beneath the office building and grab my briefcase.
Work is supposed to fix this. Work fixes everything. It gives my brain something else to focus on besides the fact that Kayla tasted exactly as good as I’d imagined she would.
Jordan is already at his desk when I walk in.
He looks up from his computer. “You’re early.”
“I have work.”
“You always have work.”
“Then you’re used to it.”
He studies me for half a second longer than usual, then hands me a tablet.
“Three meetings moved to the afternoon. The London call is still at ten.”
I take the tablet. “Fine.”
“And Dean asked if you reviewed the acquisition documents.”
“I did.”
“Last night?”
“Yes.”
Jordan pauses. He raises an eyebrow. “You look distracted.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“You snapped at me yesterday.”
“I didn’t.”
“You definitely did.”
I walk past him toward my office. “Schedule the next meeting.”
Jordan mutters, “Someone needs coffee,” as I walk away.
The morning drags on with emails, calls, meetings, and numbers. All of it should be enough to occupy my attention.
It usually is.
The second my attention slips, my thoughts go straight back to her.
The kitchen.
Her hands gripping my shirt, the surprised look in her eyes, and the way she kissed me back before either of us had time to think about it.
I lean back in my chair and rub a hand across my jaw.
This is why I avoid personal entanglements.
It’s inefficient. Unnecessary.
And now, apparently, it’s impossible to stop thinking about.
By the time the office empties in the evening, I’m still sitting at my desk, pretending to review a report I finished hours ago. The lights outside my office dim as the rest of the floor shuts down for the night.
Which means the knock on my door a few minutes later isn’t a surprise.
Dean walks in without waiting for an answer. He looks around the office once, then back at me. “Well, this is familiar.”
I don’t look up from the screen. “What is?”
“You.”
“I’m here every day.”
“Not like this.”
I finally glance at him. “Like what?”
Dean leans against a bookcase. “Working late again?”
“I work here.”
“You escaped this place before dinner three nights in a row. I noticed.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
I close the laptop. “And you know that how?”
“Because we own the company together.”
“That doesn’t mean you monitor my schedule.”
Dean shrugs. “I notice patterns.”
“That sounds like a hobby.”
“Before.”
The word makes me pause. “Before what?”
Dean’s smile widens slightly. “Before your girlfriend moved in.”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Sure.”
“She’s Melissa’s friend.”
“Living in your penthouse.”
“Temporarily.”
“For several weeks now.”
“That’s irrelevant.”
Dean pushes off the bookcase and crosses farther into the office. “No, what’s irrelevant is the fact that you’re suddenly pretending to be the old Sawyer again.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Really?” He gestures toward the laptop. “You used to work like this every night.”
“That’s called ambition.”
“And then, suddenly, you started leaving at five.”
“That’s called efficiency.”
Dean laughs quietly. “You’ve never left this office before sunset unless you had somewhere better to be.”
“That’s not true.”
“Except for the last several weeks.”
I stare at him because the irritating part is I know exactly what he’s implying… and he’s probably right.
“You’ve been going home,” Dean continues casually. “Earlier than normal.”
“So?”
“So, that means something.”
“It doesn’t.”
Dean crosses his arms. “You’re not a man who suddenly decides to start enjoying evenings.”
“I never said I was.”
“Then why have you been rushing home every day since Kayla moved into your apartment?”
The question hangs in the air between us. I don’t answer.
Dean studies my face for a moment. “Oh,” he says slowly.
Something about the tone makes me narrow my eyes. “What?”
“Now I’m curious.”
“About what?”
Dean tilts his head slightly. “What happened last night?”
I lean back in my chair. “Nothing.”
“Sure.”
“She lives in my apartment.”
“That’s not nothing.”
“She’s Melissa’s friend.”
“That’s not a defense.”
Dean’s grin widens. “You look like a man who made a mistake.”
“I didn’t.”
“Or like a man who did something he really enjoyed and now doesn’t know what to do about it.”
I stare at him.
Dean raises his hands. “Relax. You don’t have to tell me.” He turns toward the door. “But if you’re suddenly working late again”—he glances back over his shoulder— “I’m guessing things at home just got interesting.”
The door closes behind him before I can respond.
I sit still for another minute, staring at the laptop, then lean back in the chair again.
Things at home just got interesting, and I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to do about it.