Page 56 of His Reckoning

Sawyer grabs the back of his neck again, which I’m starting to notice is something he does when he’s uncomfortable.

His shoulders shift faintly, like he’s trying to shake off tension. “That seems unlikely.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he says carefully, “the details are … specific.”

I grin. “You sound very concerned.”

“I’m not concerned.”

“You look concerned.”

“I’m analyzing.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

He absolutely is. It’s faint, but the color around his neck gives him away. Sawyer exhales slowly and looks at the ceiling for a second, like he’s questioning every life decision that led him here.

Then his gaze drops back to me.

“So, you sit in this apartment, while I’m in it,” he says, voice lower now, “and write scenes like that?”

“Yes.”

“Regularly?”

“Somewhat,” I lie, embarrassed to admit the truth that it’s not nearly as regularly as it should be thanks to my writer’s block.

He studies me and something in his expression shifts. It’s not judgment, but something else. Something more complicated.

His posture changes, shoulders tightening, as if he’s suddenly aware of the space between us.

“Fascinating,” he says quietly.

“Why?”

He shakes his head once. “No reason.”

But the way his jaw flexes tells me there’s definitely a reason.

I push the book further away from him. “You didn’t have to keep reading.”

“I didn’t realize what I was reading.”

“You made it several pages in.”

He clears his throat. “That was before I understood the situation.”

I laugh. “Oh my God.”

Sawyer straightens and grabs a glass of water like he suddenly needs something to do with his hands.

“You should probably warn people,” he says.

“Why?”