Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Kayla
I’m halfway through a paragraph when the apartment door opens.
I don’t look up.
I’ve been in this exact position for most of the evening—curled into the corner of the couch with my laptop balanced on my knees, typing and deleting the same three sentences over and over again.
The document remains aggressively empty.
Sawyer’s voice cuts across the room. “You’re doing it again.”
I glance up briefly.
He’s standing near the kitchen, jacket off, tie loosened, looking annoyingly polished for someone who probably spent twelve hours ruining other people’s afternoons in meetings.
“Doing what?” I ask, already turning back to the screen.
“Typing. Deleting. Typing again.”
“That’s called a creative process.”
“That’s called avoidance.”
I sigh and keep typing. “You’re home late.”
“I had something to take care of.”
“Did you?”
Out of nowhere the couch dips slightly. I don’t notice he crossed the room until he reaches over and closes my laptop. The screen snaps shut with a quiet click.
I stare at it, then slowly look up at him. “Excuse me?”
Sawyer’s expression is unreadable. “You can stop pretending.”
“I wasn’t pretending.”
“You were.”
I fold my arms. “You interrupted my work.”
“You weren’t working.”
“I absolutely was.”
“You were thinking about the same thing you’d been thinking about for the last twenty-four hours.”
My stomach flips slightly.
“And what would that be?” I ask.
Sawyer scoots closer—too close. “The kiss.” The composed control in his voice hasn’t changed, but there’s something sharper underneath it now.
The room goes very still after that.
My entire train of thought derails instantly.
“That shouldn’t have happened.”
Sawyer’s eyebrow lifts slightly. “Was it?”
“Yes.”
“Then why do I have a feeling you haven’t written a single page all day?”
“That’s not—”
“You were stuck for weeks,” he says calmly. “Now you write every time I get near you.”
“That’s coincidence.”
“It isn’t.”
He reaches down, grabs my laptop from the couch, and sets it on the coffee table. Then he takes my hand. Before I can react, he pulls me to my feet.
“Hey—”
The next thing I know, my back is against the tall glass window overlooking the city.
Sawyer’s hand lands against the glass beside my shoulder, trapping me between him and the cool surface.
The skyline stretches behind me, lights everywhere, but my attention is completely locked on the man standing far too close in front of me.
“You can keep denying it,” he says quietly, “or you can be honest.”
“About what?”
“About the fact that I help.”
My breath catches slightly. “You don’t help.”
Sawyer leans closer. Just enough that I can feel the warmth of him through my shirt.
“You come alive when I’m around.”
“That’s not true.”
“You stop overthinking the second I walk into the room.”
“That’s unrelated.”
He watches me for a moment. A slow smile appears. “You’re a terrible liar.”
My heart is beating way too fast for this conversation.
“You’re arrogant.”
Sawyer’s hand shifts slightly against the glass beside my head. The movement sends a small rush of nerves down my spine.
“You’re blocked,” he says quietly. “And somehow, I get through anyway.”
“That’s not how writing works.”
“Then explain what’s happened since you moved in”
I open my mouth and close it again. The annoying part is that he’s not entirely wrong.
Sawyer notices the hesitation immediately. “Exactly.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
“That’s insufferable.”
He shrugs slightly. “Here’s a solution.”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m afraid to ask.”
“Stop pretending the tension between us isn’t useful.”
My stomach flips again. “That’s a terrible pitch.”
“I disagree.”
Sawyer’s voice drops slightly. “We both know this isn’t random anymore.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Yes, we do.”
He studies my face for a moment before continuing, “You’re stuck creatively.”
“I’m fine.”
“And every time something happens between us, you suddenly start writing again.”
“That’s coincidence.”
“It’s inspiration.”
My ability to think rationally is deteriorating rapidly. “What exactly are you suggesting?”
Sawyer straightens slightly. Just enough space for me to breathe, but not enough to escape the moment.
“An agreement.”
My eyebrows lift. “That sounds ominous.”
“Clear boundaries.”
He meets my eyes. “Sex.” The word lands quietly between us. “No expectations. No emotional complications. Just”—he gestures slightly between us— “this.”
I’m suddenly very aware of how close he still is.
“You think sleeping with you will fix my writer’s block?”
“I think you already know it will.”
“That’s unbelievably conceited.”
Sawyer smiles faintly. “You’re already considering it.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
I push lightly against his chest. He steps back immediately.
The second he steps back, the room feels strangely cold.
“You’ll think about it,” he says.
“I don’t need to.”
“You might.”
He grabs his water from the counter, then starts toward the hallway.
Halfway there, he pauses. “If you decide you want the inspiration”—he glances back at me— “come find me.”
Then he disappears down the hall. Leaving me standing in front of the glass window with my heart racing and my laptop still sitting on the couch.
The hallway goes quiet after Sawyer disappears.
For a full three seconds, I just stand here, staring at the empty space where he was standing.
Then my brain finally catches up.
“Are you kidding me?”
The words bounce off the glass behind me.
I shove my hands through my hair and start pacing the living room.
Sex.
His solution to my writer’s block is sex.
Not even normal sex.
No, no.
An “agreement.”
Sawyer Maccini thinks he’s doing the world a public service by offering himself up like some kind of billionaire creativity supplement.
Irritation crackles through me immediately.
“That man is unbelievable.”
I grab my laptop from the couch and drop back onto the cushions harder than necessary.
The screen lights up.
The document remains blank out of pure spite.
“You heard him,” I mutter. “Apparently, this is all your fault.”
Now I’m sitting here, thinking about it again. Not the offer, but the arrogance of the offer.
The calm way he said it, like he was proposing a business merger instead of suggesting we sleep together so I could fix my creative process.
I type a sentence and delete it immediately.
“Oh my God,” I groan.
I push the laptop away and fall back against the cushions.
My parents would love Sawyer, which alone should be a warning sign.
But I reject the notion that I need a man with money. They are all convinced the world works better when they are in charge.
Sawyer Maccini just proved the point perfectly.
Of course he did. Of course the billionaire thinks the solution to my problem is … him.
I sit up again and glare down the hallway toward his room.
“You are so full of yourself,” I say to myself.
Apparently, he thinks I’m just going to wander down the hallway later like, Hello, billionaire roommate. I would like to redeem one creativity session, please.
I let out a frustrated laugh. Unbelievable.
The worst part isn’t even the offer. It’s the way he looked completely convinced I’d consider it, as if he already knew the answer.
My jaw tightens. “Well, he can think again.”
I open the laptop and start typing with more force than necessary.
If Sawyer thinks I’m going to give into him just to write a couple of pages, he’s about to be very disappointed.
I hammer out two sentences.
Pause.
Read them.
Delete them.
My head falls into my hands. “This is ridiculous.”
The real problem—the one I absolutely refuse to acknowledge—is that a tiny, traitorous part of my brain keeps replaying the moment he had me pinned against the glass.
The confidence in his voice.
The way he said my creativity improved around him, like he’d already figured me out.
I slam the laptop shut. “No.”
Absolutely not. He does not get to be right about this.
I swing my legs off the couch and stand, then march down the hallway.
I stop outside his door and stare at it.
My hand lifts slightly, and then I catch myself.
“Oh, no,” I say aloud. “You do not get the satisfaction.”
I turn around and storm back toward the living room.
Sawyer Maccini is the most arrogant man I’ve ever met, and there’s no way I’m letting him know that he’s right.
Even if— I stop mid-step and groan. Unfortunately, another thought has snuck into my brain.
What if he is right?
I point at the hallway like he can somehow hear me.
“Don’t get used to that idea.”
I grab my laptop and sit back down. I refuse—absolutely refuse—to let a smug billionaire think he’s the reason I can write again.
Even if the evidence is starting to get a little suspicious.
* * *
I wake up the next morning with a plan.
A very simple plan.
A very reasonable plan.
I am going to write an entire chapter today without thinking about Sawyer Maccini.
Not once.
Not even a little.
Which should be easy, considering I am an adult woman with a functioning brain and not someone whose creative process depends on the smug billionaire currently sleeping somewhere down the hallway.
I open my laptop and stare at the blinking cursor. The cursor stares back judgmentally.
“That’s fine,” I tell it. “We’re warming up.”
I type a sentence.
I walk into the room and—delete.
Nope.
I try again.
The tension between us has been building for weeks—delete.
Absolutely not.
I lean back against the couch and glare at the screen.
This is ridiculous.
I have written entire books without any help from Sawyer Maccini. I wrote three chapters on a delayed flight to Chicago once. I wrote half a novel during a family vacation, where my mother spent the entire week asking when I was going to meet a nice, wealthy man like my sisters had.
I am perfectly capable of writing under pressure.
This is not pressure. This is just … annoying.
I type again.
He leans closer—delete.
“Stop leaning,” I mutter.
The cursor blinks again. I open a new document.
Fresh start.