Page 88 of His Reckoning

“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.

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.”