Page 40 of His Reckoning

“Good night, Kayla.”

The door closes behind her a second later. The gym is quiet again.

I stare at the closed door for a second longer than necessary.

Chapter Seven

Kayla

Apparently, running at midnight was a terrible idea because now I’m wide awake.

I take a sip of my water and try to slow my breathing.

“Okay,” I whisper to myself, “that was fine.”

Just a casual late-night workout where I accidentally stared at my extremely attractive temporary roommate doing pull-ups.

No big deal.

Except now my brain won’t stop replaying it.

The way his shoulders moved when he lifted himself up. The sweat running down the back of his neck.

I push away from the door and pace across the room.

“This is a problem,” I mutter.

Because my brain decides that now—after weeks of refusing to cooperate—is the perfect moment to start producing ideas again.

I stop beside the bed, then glance at my laptop.

The same laptop that has been mocking me for days with the same three terrible sentences.

I stare at it for a long moment, then sigh. “Fine.”

I grab the laptop and sit cross-legged on the bed. I open the document. The blinking cursor waits patiently.

For the first time in weeks, my fingers move without hesitation.

He pulls himself up effortlessly on the bar as I watch the muscles in his arms bulge. Sweat trails down his back before disappearing beneath the waistband of his shorts.

I catch him in the mirror and do everything in my power to look away.

My fingers fly across the keyboard.

He drops from the bar and turns toward me slowly. My throat goes dry.

I grin to myself as I keep writing.

“Finally,” I whisper.

The words keep coming. For the first time in weeks, the story is actually moving again.

I pick up my laptop and walk out into the living room, stopping in the kitchen for a late-night bag of chips, before settling in on the couch where I continue to write.

I lean forward, completely absorbed in the moment, as the words come back to me.

He steps closer while I swallow the saliva building up in my mouth. He wipes his forward with a towel. Sweat?—