Page 66 of His Reckoning

“Yes.”

“What did you say?”

“That you’re Melissa’s friend.”

“That’s it?”

“What else should I say?”

“That I’m a brilliant author who writes scandalous literature.”

His eyes flick toward the book sitting on the counter. “I’m still processing that discovery.”

“Oh, please.”

“I still can’t believe you wrote that.”

“You’re taking this much harder than my readers do. I’ve written dozens like it.”

Sawyer goes very still. His fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the counter, like he suddenly regrets asking.

“Do you read all your friends’ work this carefully?” I ask.

“No.”

“So, I’m special.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“But you didn’t deny it.”

He looks at me again—really looks—and the air in the kitchen shifts slightly. The silence stretches just a little too long to feel casual.

Sawyer clears his throat and opens the refrigerator. “I need sugar after this conversation.”

I blink. “I did not expect that sentence from you.”

“I had dinner with my mother.”

“That explains everything.”

He pulls out a carton and grabs two spoons, then slides the container across the island toward me.

“You’re sharing?”

“I was raised correctly.”

I laugh and take the spoon.

For a minute, we eat quietly, which should feel awkward, but it doesn’t.

Sawyer leans against the counter, looking more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him.

“So …” I say.

“So …”

“What was your family really like tonight?”