Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Sawyer
By the time I get to the office, I already know two things.
First, Kayla is furious with me. Second, she wrote nonstop while I was in the room.
Neither of those facts should’ve amused me as much as they did.
I drop my briefcase onto my desk and loosen my tie slightly.
Jordan looks up from his computer at his desk just outside of my office. “You look pleased about something.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?”
“I assure you, you are.”
Jordan leans back in his chair. “Did something good happen this morning?”
“No.”
“Something worth celebrating?”
I sit down and open my laptop. “That depends on your standards.”
“Something that explains why you look like you just won a negotiation.”
“I didn’t.”
Jordan studies me for another moment, then shrugs and goes back to typing.
“Whatever it is,” he says, “I hope it improves your mood.”
“I’m perfectly functional.”
“You were rude to three people yesterday.”
“That sounds exaggerated.”
“It’s not.”
I start answering emails, but my brain isn’t fully cooperating. Because every time my attention drifts, it goes right back to the same moment.
Kayla standing in the kitchen. Pinned between me and the glass. Arguing with me like she wasn’t at all aware of the way her pulse jumped when I leaned closer.
The kiss itself—the way she kissed me back before either of us had time to think about it.
I rub a hand over the back of my neck. This is exactly why I avoid unnecessary complications. Except, apparently, I brought one home.
The irritating part isn’t that I kissed her. The irritating part is how quickly she recovered afterward.
Kayla gets angry instead of nervous, which somehow makes her harder to ignore.
By mid-afternoon, I’ve completed exactly half the work I planned to finish.
Dean walks into my office without knocking.
He glances at the screen, then at me. “You look distracted.”
“I’m working.”
“You’ve been staring at that spreadsheet for ten minutes.”
“I’m thinking.”
“Historically, that expression leads to problems.”
Dean drops into the chair across from my desk. “So …”
“So …”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You definitely are.” Dean studies my face for another second, smiling slowly. “Oh.”
“What?”
“Oh, this is about a woman.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re jumping to conclusions.”
“You’re not denying it very convincingly.”
“There’s nothing to deny.”
“It looks like you’re thinking about a woman.”
“I’m thinking about work.”
“Sure.” Dean leans back in the chair. “So, how’s the roommate situation going?”
“Fine.”
“She still living there?”
“Yes.”
“You two still pretending you don’t want to kill each other?”
“That was never the situation.”
Dean shrugs. “You snapped at Jordan yesterday, worked late, and now you look like someone just challenged your ego.”
“I’m very capable of controlling my ego.”
“That’s exactly what someone would say if their ego was currently being challenged.”
I lean back in the chair. “She’s stubborn.”
Dean smiles again. “That explains a lot.”
“It’s irritating. She refuses to admit something obvious.”
“What’s that?”
“That I help her write.”
Dean blinks slowly … then laughs. “You’re serious?”
“Completely.”
“And your evidence for this theory is, what?”
“She writes more when I’m around.”
Dean rests his chin on his hand. “This may be the funniest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“The evidence supports me.”
“You think your presence inspires her creativity?”
“Yes.”
“And you said this to her?”
“I offered a solution.”
Dean’s eyebrows lift. “What kind of solution?”
I don’t answer immediately.
Dean sits up straighter. “Oh, this just got interesting.”
“What?”
“What exactly did you offer her, Sawyer?”
I glance toward the window and back at him. “A mutually beneficial agreement.”
Dean stares at me as he bursts out laughing. “Of course you did.”
“It’s logical.”
“You suggested a casual sex arrangement to the woman living in your apartment?”
“Yes.”
“And how did she take that?”
“She was … upset.”
Dean wipes a hand across his face. “Upset.”
“That’s an oversimplification.”
“She yelled at you, didn’t she?”
“She strongly disagreed.”
Dean leans forward. “This is the most predictable development in the history of human behavior.”
“It’s not predictable.”
“You basically proposed a merger.”
“It was practical.”
“She’s a writer, Sawyer.”
“The outcome remains the same.”
Dean grins. “You really think she’s going to take you up on it?”
“Yes.”
He laughs again. “Oh, I hope she does.”
“Why?”
“Because the fallout will be incredible.”
I close the laptop. “This conversation is unproductive.”
Dean stands. “I disagree.” He walks toward the door, then pauses. “You like her.”
I don’t answer.
Dean smiles. “That’s the real problem.”
He leaves, closing the door behind him. I sit here for another minute, staring at the screen. The irritating part isn’t Dean’s assumption. It’s that he might be partially correct.
Not about liking her. That would complicate things unnecessarily. But about one thing: Kayla is definitely a problem.
And the worst part is … I’m starting to enjoy it.
* * *
I leave the office later than usual. Not because the work required it, but because Dean is now watching me. Which means leaving early again would raise questions I’m not interested in answering.
The elevator ride down is quiet. The city outside is already dark, the streetlights reflecting off the glass of nearby buildings. Normally, the drive home is the easiest part of my day.
Tonight, my brain keeps circling the same irritating realization.
Kayla is furious with me.
Not slightly annoyed or mildly irritated. She is actually angry, which should make this situation easier.
Angry people avoid each other.
Except Kayla doesn’t seem to avoid anything. She challenges it and argues with it. Occasionally, she storms down hallways because of it.
I pull into the garage beneath the building and shut off the car. For a moment, I sit there, staring at the steering wheel. Then I shake my head. This is absurd.
She’s a temporary guest.
This entire situation will resolve itself soon when she moves out.
I grab my briefcase and head upstairs.
The apartment is quiet when I step inside. The lights in the living room are on. Kayla is sitting exactly where I expected she would be.
Curled into the corner of the couch, laptop open, and typing.
She doesn’t look up when I walk in, which is new. Usually, she notices everything.
Tonight, she’s too focused on the screen.
I set my briefcase on the counter and loosen my tie.
No reaction.
Her fingers keep moving across the keyboard.
The cursor flickers rapidly as line after line appears on the screen.
I walk into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water.
Still nothing.
She hasn’t even acknowledged that I’m home.
This means one of two things is happening.
Either she’s ignoring me deliberately or she’s completely absorbed in what she’s writing.
Neither possibility should appeal to me as much as it does.
I lean against the counter and watch her for a moment.
Her brow is slightly furrowed. Her fingers are moving quickly. The kind of focused concentration people usually only reach when they’re deep in thought.
Then she suddenly stops and looks up, catching me watching her.
Her expression immediately shifts.
“Oh no,” she says.
“What?”
“You’re here.”
“I live here.”
“And you’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“The weird staring thing.”
“I’m standing in my kitchen.”
“You’re watching me write.”
“That wasn’t my intention.”
Kayla narrows her eyes. “You’re testing your theory.”
I take a slow drink of water. “That’s a strong allegation.”
“You look unbearably pleased with yourself.”
“I look correct.”
She glances down at the screen again, then back at me.
“You know what’s really annoying?” she says.
“What?”
“I just wrote two paragraphs.”
“That seems like progress.”
“I wrote nothing all afternoon.”
“That does sound frustrating.”
“And the moment you walk in the room”—she gestures toward the laptop— “this happens.”
I push off the counter and walk closer. Just enough to glance at the screen. The page is filled with dialogue.
A scene clearly mid-development.
“You’re welcome,” I say.
Kayla glares at me. “You are unbelievable.”
“I’m correct.”
“You’re arrogant.” She folds her arms. “You really think you’re the reason I’m writing?”
“I think the pattern is becoming difficult to ignore.”
“You are not evidence.”
“I appear to be.”
Kayla looks down at the laptop again. “You’re enjoying this entirely too much.”
“A reasonable amount.”
She exhales sharply. “You’re the most conceited man I’ve ever met.”
“And yet you’re still writing.”
She groans and drops her head back against the couch. “This is humiliating.”
I sit down in the chair across from her. Completely composed and comfortable because now the pattern is obvious.
She types again, her fingers moving quickly. The moment stretches for a few minutes. Then Kayla stops typing and slowly lifts her head, eyeing me with pure irritation.
“Stop sitting there.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re existing.”
“That’s unavoidable.”
“You’re doing it on purpose.”
“I’m relaxing.”
“This is your fault.”
“That’s a strong endorsement.”
Kayla stares at me for a long moment, then points toward the hallway. “You should go to your room.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re making this worse.”
“Worse for you?”
“Yes.”
“Your word count disagrees.”
Her jaw tightens. “You are insufferable.”
“And yet”—I gesture toward the laptop— “you’re still typing.”
Kayla closes the laptop with a sharp snap. “Okay. We’re done here.” She stands, glaring at me. “You do not get to sit there like some kind of billionaire muse.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“That’s exactly what you said.”
She grabs the laptop and walks toward the hallway. Halfway there, she stops and turns back.
“And for the record,” she says, pointing at me, “I’m still mad about that ridiculous proposition.”
“I can live with that.”
“I can’t.”
She disappears down the hall. Her bedroom door closes a second later.
The apartment goes quiet again.
I lean back in the chair and take another drink of water.
Despite her protests … the anger … the insults … Kayla wrote while I sat across the room.
She can deny it all she wants.
Her word count is starting to disagree with her.