Page 67 of His Reckoning

He considers the question. “Loud. Too much food. Multiple arguments happening at once.”

“So aggressively Italian.”

“Painfully.” His mouth twitches again. “You’d fit in.”

I pause mid-bite. “With your family?”

“Yes.”

“Because I argue?”

“You don’t filter yourself around me.”

“That sounds like a dangerous quality.”

“It’s unusual.”

I tilt my head. “Are people usually intimidated by you?”

“Yes.”

I study him briefly then shake my head. “Wild.”

“Why?”

“Because underneath the billionaire thing, you’re basically just a grumpy Italian man with family dinners.”

Sawyer lets out a quiet laugh. A real one this time. I don’t think I’ve heard him laugh like that before.

I scoop another bite of ice cream.

“You know,” I say, “this is not what I expected when I moved in here.”

“What did you expect?”

“Cold billionaire who only eats takeout and talks to his assistant.”

“That also happens.”

“I’m discovering layers.”

Sawyer watches me for a moment. There’s something about the way he does it that makes my stomach do that weird little flip.

Which would be less of a problem if the tension between us would stop escalating every five minutes.

I scoop another bite of ice cream and watch him over the rim of the carton.

“You know what I’m trying to figure out?” I say.

“Should I be concerned?”

“Probably.”

Sawyer leans against the counter, arms loosely crossed now. The sleeves of his shirt are still rolled up, which I’m discovering is extremely distracting.

“What are you trying to figure out?” he says.

“How did you end up the way you are?”