Page 92 of His Reckoning

The screen lights up.

The document remains blank out of pure spite.

“You heard him,” I mutter. “Apparently, this is all your fault.”

Now I’m sitting here, thinking about it again. Not the offer, but the arrogance of the offer.

The calm way he said it, like he was proposing a business merger instead of suggesting we sleep together so I could fix my creative process.

I type a sentence and delete it immediately.

“Oh my God,” I groan.

I push the laptop away and fall back against the cushions.

My parents would love Sawyer, which alone should be a warning sign.

But I reject the notion that I need a man with money. They are all convinced the world works better when they are in charge.

Sawyer Maccini just proved the point perfectly.

Of course he did. Of course the billionaire thinks the solution to my problem is … him.

I sit up again and glare down the hallway toward his room.

“You are so full of yourself,” I say to myself.

Apparently, he thinks I’m just going to wander down the hallway later like,Hello, billionaire roommate. I would like to redeem one creativity session, please.

I let out a frustrated laugh. Unbelievable.

The worst part isn’t even the offer. It’s the way he looked completely convinced I’d consider it, as if he already knew the answer.

My jaw tightens. “Well, he can think again.”

I open the laptop and start typing with more force than necessary.

If Sawyer thinks I’m going to give into him just to write a couple of pages, he’s about to be very disappointed.

I hammer out two sentences.

Pause.

Read them.

Delete them.

My head falls into my hands. “This is ridiculous.”

The real problem—the one I absolutely refuse to acknowledge—is that a tiny, traitorous part of my brain keeps replaying the moment he had me pinned against the glass.

The confidence in his voice.

The way he said my creativity improved around him, like he’d already figured me out.

I slam the laptop shut. “No.”

Absolutely not. He does not get to be right about this.