Page 97 of His Reckoning

I stare at the laptop. Nothing happens. Not a single word.

“Oh, come on.”

I type a sentence.

Delete.

Another.

Delete.

I lean back against the couch and groan. This is humiliating.

The moment Sawyer walks back out of his office a minute later, the words start flowing again.

My fingers move across the keyboard before I even process the thought.

Sawyer pauses near the kitchen. I can feel him watching me again.

“You hate that I’m right,” he says calmly.

“I hate that you’re smug.”

“Same thing.”

I slam the laptop shut again. “This proves nothing.”

“It proves something.”

“It proves coincidence.”

Sawyer grabs his briefcase. “Whatever helps you sleep.”

I point at the door. “You should leave.”

“I was already planning to.”

He walks toward the elevator, pausing before he steps inside. “You can’t stop writing every second I’m in the room.”

“That’s unrelated.”

“Sure.”

The doors close behind him. I open the laptop slowly.

The cursor blinks, and I wait …

Nothing. Not a single word appears.

I stare at the screen for a long moment, then drop my head back against the couch cushion.

“Oh my God.”

The most arrogant man I’ve ever met might also be the most inconveniently useful writing tool in existence.

Which is absolutely not something I’m prepared to admit out loud.

Even if my word count is starting to suggest otherwise.