Page 46 of Glitched Play

I kick off my shoes, change into my PacMan pajamas, pour a glass of wine, and call Chase. I'm stretched across the couch explaining the rookie program.

"So, you solved it."

"I think so."

"You know that's hot, right?"

I laugh, looking down at my fuzzy pants "No one has ever said analytics are hot."

"You clearly haven't met enough nerds."

A chuckle escapes my throat, and I take another sip of wine thinking about all the so-called nerds, like me.

The front door opens and my stomach immediately does something weird. Because I know exactly who just walked in.

Witt rounds the corner and his eyes sweep the room and eyes land on everything but me.

The wine.

My phone.

Then my feet stretched across the couch.

"Using my couch?"

Excuse me? I sit up immediately. "Your couch?"

"That's what I said."

“I didn’t know you were so possessive of… a… couch.”

His eyes narrow.

I smile sweetly. "Because I distinctly remember being told I could stay here."

"You can."

"Then I'm unclear on the couch regulations."

"There are no couch regulations."

"Good." I settle deeper into the cushions. Chase starts laughing through the phone.

Traitor.

Witt notices, of course. Brilliant people notice everything.

"Who's that?" he asks, sounding annoyed.

I arch a brow and turn to him, because the edge in his voice is too interesting to ignore. "It's Chase." I say his name evenly, like it should mean nothing, like I am not suddenly aware of Witt standing there in his perfectly controlled penthouse, looking at my phone as if it has personally offended him.

He nods once, a small, clipped motion, and walks into the kitchen with his black mugs and all that rigid control. Good. That should be good. Except my attention follows him anyway, tracking the set of his shoulders, the precise way he opens a cabinet, the pause before he reaches for the tea. Which is ridiculous. I mean, the man probably alphabetizes tea bags. Or sorts them by caffeine content.

Whatever. Same difference.

Chase keeps talking in my ear, warm and easy and normal, and I answer in all the right places. I laugh when I’m supposed to. I make a joke about rookie programs and pretzels. But part of me stays tuned to the kitchen, to the quiet clink of ceramic, to the strange awareness that Witt O’Ryan has somehow become louder in silence than most people are when they speak.

A few minutes later, I end the call and carry my wine glass into the kitchen before I can talk myself out of it.