Page 34 of Glitched Play

"No."

"But you kept it."

"My nephew made it."

His answer is so simple it shouldn't affect me, but it does anyway.

Because suddenly the penthouse feels less like a billionaire's perfectly controlled bunker and more like a place his family has slowly invaded on purpose. The mug rows and labeled shelves are Witt. The colorful blanket and tiny handprint football are the people who love him refusing to let him disappear completely into systems and silence.

Something in my chest softens.

"With most of your family working in the same place, you must be close with them.”

He reaches for one of his black mugs and shifts it half an inch to the left before answering. "They're loud."

"That wasn't what I said."

"I know."

A smile pulls at my mouth. “So that's a yes?"

"Unfortunately."

I laugh again, quieter this time, and lean against the opposite side of the island. He's still standing there like he isn't sure whether this is a conversation or a security breach. I should excuse myself and go to bed, but something about him makes me want to stay a little longer.

Maybe it's the mystery.

Maybe it's the quiet.

Maybe it's the fact that he looks nothing like the untouchable genius who interviewed me and everything like a man who was caught off guard in his own kitchen.

"I really am sorry if this messes up your routine," I say. "Dara made it sound like it was a place to stay for visitors."

"I live here."

From the interview alone, I think Witt O’Ryan is particular and like any good coder or gamer believes everything has its place and if it doesn’t, something breaks.

“Oh, I didn’t know,” I say, clutching the towel tighter around my body. Just get me out of here.

“I have my own section. But I do use this space."

"It doesn’t look lived in, even the mugs don’t look like they’ve been touched."

His eyes narrow slightly. "There's a correct place for them."

"I'm sure there is."

This time the almost-smile lasts a second longer and his eyes drift over my bare shoulders.

Dangerous, not because he's my boss. Although that's a big, flashing warning sign.

Because there is something strangely compelling about a man who says exactly what he means and nothing extra. No flirting. No performance. No empty charm. Just Witt, standing in front of me with damp-looking hair, an Armadillos shirt, and an expression like my presence has created a problem he hasn't decided how to solve.

"I'll be out of your way as soon as I find a place," I promise.

"You start tomorrow."

I crack a smile. "That's generally how jobs work."