Page 117 of His Reckoning

Probably woke up early, went to work, reorganized an entire corporation before breakfast, and didn’t give last night a second thought.

Meanwhile, I’m standing here, glaring at a coffee machine. I pour a cup and take a sip. I lean against the counter and stare out the massive floor-to-ceiling windows.

New York moves below like nothing in the world has changed. But something definitely has because my brain should be focused on writing. Instead, it keeps drifting back to the way Sawyer looked at me last night, like he enjoyed every second of watching me lose control.

Heat flares through me again instantly.

“Oh, he absolutely knew,” I mutter.

That’s exactly why I’m furious. Because Sawyer didn’t just prove a point last night.

He proved several … and I hate every single one of them.

* * *

The doorbell rings just as I’m halfway through aggressively reorganizing my thoughts in circles around the living room.

I swing the door open.

Melissa stands there, holding two iced coffees and a bag from the bakery down the street.

Her eyebrows lift immediately.

“Well,” she says slowly, stepping inside, “you look like someone who either didn’t sleep … or committed a crime.”

“Neither,” I say.

Then I pause. “Actually, both.”

She laughs and hands me one of the coffees.

“I had the morning off,” she says, kicking off her shoes. “Coltons at the hospital, so I figured I’d come check on you.”

I grab the iced coffee from her hand and take a long sip, like caffeine might somehow undo the last twelve hours.

Melissa watches me carefully as we walk farther into Sawyer’s apartment. When we get to the kitchen, she leans against the counter and folds her arms.

“Okay,” she says.

“What?”

“What happened?”

“What are you talking about?”

She raises one eyebrow. “That was the least convincing sentence I’ve ever heard.”

I turn away and start pacing the kitchen. “Nothing happened,” I tell her.

“Right,” she says calmly. “Because people who had perfectly normal evenings definitely pace their kitchens like they’re about to go to trial.”

“I am not pacing.”

“You’re pacing.”

I stop walking. “Fine. I’m pacing.”

She watches me for another moment, then casually asks, “Did you see Sawyer this morning?”