Page 94 of His Reckoning

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.

New energy.

New inspiration.

I have never met a man who—delete.

“Oh my God.”

Apparently, my brain has decided to go on strike.

The apartment is quiet this morning. Sawyer must have already left for work, which is good—excellent actually. Because if he were here right now, I’d have to deal with the smug look he’d give me if he saw the current state of my word count.

I sit up again and start typing faster.

Just write.

Don’t think.

The hero crossed the room slowly—delete.

“Why are you crossing the room?”

I rub my face with both hands. Maybe I need coffee.

Yes.

Coffee fixes everything.

I push myself off the couch and head toward the kitchen.

Halfway there, the front door opens.

I freeze.

Sawyer walks in, and my brain immediately short-circuits. He pauses when he sees me standing in the middle of the living room like someone caught in a crime scene.

“You’re home,” I say.

Sawyer raises an eyebrow slightly. “I live here.”

He sets his briefcase down near the kitchen counter and loosens his tie.

“I forgot a file.”