Page 72 of His Reckoning

She takes another bite. Completely calm, like this entire conversation is just another normal day.

“You’re overthinking it,” I say.

“You’re under-thinking it.”

“That’s not possible.”

“It is when you’re avoiding the obvious answer.”

“And what’s that?”

Kayla shrugs lightly. “You care.”

The word sits between us. That’s ridiculous and totally incorrect.

I immediately shake my head. “I don’t.”

“You cooked me breakfast.”

“You needed food.”

“You noticed.”

“I notice things.”

She laughs softly. “Sure.”

My grip tightens slightly around the coffee mug because the problem is, I can’t actually argue with her logic, and it’s irritating.

Kayla finishes the last bite of eggs, then slides the plate back across the counter. “Thanks, Sawyer.” Her voice is softer now, more genuine.

She grabs her laptop from the couch and sits at the island.

Before I know what just happened, she is already opening it and typing again, like the conversation is over.

I stand here for another moment, watching her.

None of this fits neatly into the life I’m used to controlling. Which is probably why the last thought that crosses my mind before I grab my keys is the most annoying one yet.

Tomorrow, I should probably pretend this never happened.

Instead, I’m already thinking about what she’ll eat for breakfast.

Chapter Thirteen

Kayla

Sawyer Maccini cooking is not something I had on my bingo card when I moved in.

Not every day, but enough that it’s noticeable. The first morning, I assumed it was a fluke. The second morning, I suspected coincidence. By the third, I’m fairly certain the man is deliberately feeding me.

Which feels wildly inconsistent with everything else about him.

I’m halfway through a chapter at the island when the cabinet above the stove slams shut.

I glance up.

Sawyer is standing in the kitchen, already dressed for work. Dark slacks. Crisp shirt. The sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, like he got distracted halfway through getting ready and never corrected it.