Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Kayla
The second the door closes, every ounce of control I had disappears. I press my back against the door and suck in a sharp breath.
Oh. My. God.
Did I really just do that?
My hand flies up to cover my mouth as a laugh burst out of me before I can stop it. A borderline hysterical laugh bursts out before I can stop it because ten minutes ago I stormed out of here furious, determined to prove a point.
And now?
Now my heart is racing like I just ran a marathon.
I shove myself away from the door and start pacing across the room.
“This has officially gotten out of control,” I mutter.
Sawyer Maccini does not get to look that smug and arrogant and completely convinced he understands me better than I understand myself. And he definitely doesn’t get to run around, turning everything into one of his stupid theories.
He deserved a little payback.
I drag a hand through my hair as the scene replays in my head.
The look on his face and the moment he realized he wasn’t the one controlling the situation anymore.
My lips slowly curve. God, that was satisfying.
For the first time since this whole ridiculous “experiment” started, Sawyer actually looked surprised. Completely unprepared for me to flip the situation on him.
Which means I finally managed to crack that that carefully controlled expression of his.
Good.
He deserves it.
I drop onto the edge of the bed with my laptop. Now that the adrenaline is fading, another familiar feeling is starting to creep in.
The one that’s been coming and going for weeks.
The itch.
I flip the laptop open. The document from earlier stares back at me—a half-written scene.
I stare at the blinking cursor for a moment, and then my fingers start moving.
Fast … faster than they have in weeks. The words come too fast for me to keep up with them. I barely even register what I’m writing. I barely have time to think before the next sentence appears.
Minutes blur together. They turn to an hour.
When I finally pause long enough to take a breath, my hands are slightly shaky.
I glance down at the word count and blink. Three thousand words … in one sitting.
Reality settles heavily into my chest. I know exactly what just triggered that.
Sawyer.
My eyes narrow at the screen.
“You are not getting credit for that,” I mutter.
But even as I say it, I know it’s a lie. Whether I like it or not … Sawyer Maccini is still the most effective cure for my writer’s block.
That is a very dangerous problem.
I stare at the screen for a long moment after the last sentence appears.
My fingers hover above the keyboard, but the rush that carried me through that writing sprint finally starts to fade.
And once it does … the adrenaline finally fades enough for reality to catch up with me.
My shoulders slowly sink as I lean back against the headboard.
“Oh my God,” I whisper to the empty room.
My eyes slide toward the bedroom door. I’m completely stunned, but a small, wicked smile threatens to creep across my face.
I clamp down on it immediately.
No. Absolutely not. I refuse to enjoy that moment. Even if the memory of his expression is incredibly satisfying.
My laptop sits warm against my legs as I reread the last paragraph I typed.
The scene is strong. Strong enough to make me immediately resent him again.
Which makes the pit in my stomach deepen.
Now I have evidence. Proof I can’t argue with anymore. Sawyer’s stupid theory is working.
I slam the laptop shut. “Nope.”
I slide off the bed and start pacing again. This apartment has officially turned me into a pacing person, which I blame entirely on Sawyer Maccini and his ridiculous confidence.
The man honestly thinks he understands my brain better than I do. That he somehow unlocked my creativity like I’m a puzzle he solved.
The arrogance of that thought alone should be enough to make me furious.
And yet … my pacing slows.
Beneath the irritation is another feeling I don’t like acknowledging.
Curiosity.
Sawyer didn’t look arrogant tonight.
Not at the end. He looked … thrown.
My lips press together as that realization settles in.
Good.
Serves him right.
Let him sit out there for a while and think about what just happened.
Maybe next time, he’ll think twice before running his mouth about experiments.
I glance toward the door again.
Silence fills the apartment. He’s probably still out there, processing, trying to convince himself he didn’t just lose that round.
The idea makes my pulse jump slightly.
That’s annoying because the last thing I want to do right now is walk back out there and see him.
Not when the air between us is still this charged or when my brain keeps replaying the way he looked at me right before I left, like he was equal parts impressed and furious.
And for some reason … that thought sends a strange little thrill through my chest.
I groan and drop back onto the bed.
“This is a disaster.”
Living with Sawyer was supposed to be simple. A convenient arrangement until I got my life sorted out again.
Instead, it’s turning into a constant battle of egos and tension that neither of us seems capable of ignoring.
And the worst part?
I’m starting to enjoy it.
I stare up at the ceiling. Then sigh. “Fantastic.”
Now I have two problems.
One aggressively confident billionaire who apparently treats my sanity like a competitive sport, and a brain that apparently writes better when he does.
I roll onto my side and pull the blanket over my legs.
Tomorrow.
I’ll deal with him tomorrow.
Tonight, he can sit out there and stew in whatever confusion I left him with.