Page 15 of His Reckoning

Coffee. Actual, understandable coffee.

Steam curls from nearby coffee cups while quiet conversation hums through the crowded café.

Ten minutes later, I’m sitting by the window with a large cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin I didn’t technically need but emotionally required.

My laptop sits on the table in front of me. The document is still open—same document from last night. The one that now contains exactly three sentences.

All of which I still hate.

I stare at the blinking cursor for a minute. After another sip of coffee, I close the laptop again.

Nope.

Not today.

Instead, I pull out my phone and check the time.

If I’m going to get the rest of my stuff moved, I should probably start soon.

Melissa and I still technically have the apartment for two more weeks, which means all my things are currently sitting there, waiting to be dealt with.

Eventually, most of it will end up in a storage unit, but first, I have to actually move it.

I glance out the window toward the street.

I’m living in a billionaire’s penthouse while slowly relocating my life into a storage unit.

If my parents could see this, they’d think the universe had finally decided to reward them for years of subtle matchmaking attempts.

Too bad they’d be wildly misunderstanding the situation.

I finish my coffee, pack up my laptop, and head back toward the penthouse.

If I’m going to live there, I should probably at least attempt to look like I belong. Or at the very least retrieve more than one suitcase.

* * *

By the time I reach Melissa and Colton’s place that evening, the sun is already starting to dip behind the buildings.

Colton answers the door.

“Hey,” he says, stepping aside so I can walk in. “Penthouse life treating you well?”

“That depends on your definition ofwell.”

He laughs and closes the door behind me.

Melissa’s voice calls from the kitchen, “Is that Kayla?”

“Yes,” I say as I drop my bag by the couch. “And I have complaints.”

“Already?” she asks, appearing in the doorway.

“It’s been almost twenty-four hours,” I say. “That feels like a reasonable time frame for complaints.”

Colton walks past us toward the kitchen. “Should I be concerned?” he asks.

“That depends,” I say. “How loyal are you to your best friend?”