Page 47 of Glitched Play

Witt is standing at the island, one hand braced against the counter, staring into space like he’s trying to solve an equation only he can see. The row of black mugs sits in front of him, perfectly aligned except for one he has turned a fraction of an inch off-center. I notice because apparently living here for five days has damaged me. Apparently, we keep meeting in kitchens.

"You know, my employment with you might be short lived."

His head spins so fast he may have whiplash. “What? Why?”

I hop up on the white stone, streaked with tans and black, feet swinging. He watches my feet and I can tell that sitting on his island like this makes him uncomfortable. His mouth is slightly parted like he doesn’t know how to tell me to get down.

“Because if I solve all of the problems as fast as I have then you won’t need me,” I say with an ear-splitting grin.

“Hmm.”

"I’m right. Aren’t I?”

His gaze lifts—actually lifts—and settles on my face, not my eyes, but not the countertop, the mugs, or some safe spot near my shoulder. Not quite my eyes, but closer than usual. Close enough that I notice the pause, the way his jaw works once like he’s editing himself, the way his fingers flex against the edge of the island and then go still.

Witt O’Ryan looks controlled even when he isn’t, but for one second, I can see the answer before he says it. He’s deciding whether to give me a two-word response or to give me a “win.” And that makes my stomach dip in a way I am absolutely not prepared for.

The room shifts around us, or maybe I do. The kitchen is still huge, still spotless, still full of glass and stone and all of Witt’s ridiculous order, but suddenly none of that matters. There is only the island between us, the wineglass in my hand, and the strange, charged quiet of a man deciding whether to tell me the truth.

Finally, he says, "I thought it would take longer." The words are quiet, not cold. Almost reluctant. Like admitting I surprised him costs him something personally.

I set my glass down with my palms on the cold stone. This is Witt when he’s being honest. "So, you were testing me."

He doesn't answer. Which is answer enough.

I take another sip of wine and mumble, "Well that was rude."

"You passed."

"Still rude."

One corner of his mouth lifts. Why does that seem dangerous?

Neither of us moves or speaks, but Witt seems like he’s struggling to for some reason. He must hate being wrong. And why did he hire me if he thinks I couldn’t solve the problems.

“So, do you want a glass of wine? And I can solve another one of your problems.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that?”

“You need to relax. You’re wound up tighter than a baseball.”

He drops his head and blows out a puff of air. But when he lifts his head, he’s not checking the room or studying the pattern in the stone countertop. Instead, his focus is on my neck, then my lips.

For the first time since I've met him, my pulse pounds hard enough to bruise me from the inside out.

Suddenly I realize how close we are. Close enough to notice the scar near his jaw.

Close enough that if either of us moved⁠—

BUZZZZZZ.

I practically jump out of my skin.

"Witt, buzz me in." A woman's voice.

I immediately hop down, creating a healthy distance, a necessary distance.

"Don't your girlfriends have the code?" I ask.