Chapter 6
six
. . .
Witt
Routine isn't a limitation. It's the foundation everything else is built on.
Five o’clock. Why isn’t anyone on time?
Sunday dinner at my dad’s house starts at five o'clock and it’s 5:05 and guess who’s the only one here other than Dad?
Me.
The rest of the family will file in late, and it drives me fucking crazy. Sutton and Greyson pull up, holding hands. Their children dressed in their Sunday best.
By six every seat around the table is filled.
Birdie is passing food. Dad is telling a story he's told at least seven times.
Noelle's youngest is attempting to feed mashed potatoes to the dog. Greyson and J.D. are arguing about preseason projections. Since Greyson retired a couple of years ago, he’s now the Vice President of Player Development.
Nothing changed since J.D. is still the head coach, Matt, my brother-in-law is the Offensive Coordinator and Parker is a wide receiver on the team.
Normal.
Predictable.
Exactly how Sunday dinner is supposed to be.
“Witt? Witt?” I vaguely hear my name. “Witt.” Sutton notices something is off before anyone else. "What's wrong?"
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth.
"Nothing."
She doesn't even blink. "Your napkin has been folded three different ways."
I glance down and she’s right.
Parker immediately perks up. "Oh, this should be good."
"It's nothing."
"Witt." Dad leans back in his chair. "You alphabetized the condiment shelf earlier. You haven’t done that since…"
"It was chaos."
"It was salt and pepper."
Several people laugh. I don't because now they’re easier to find.
Parker points his fork at me. "You've been checking your watch all night."
I look at my watch, then immediately wish I hadn't. Because that proves his point.
Birdie gasps dramatically. My sister-in-law thinks because I’m her favorite that she knows me inside and out. "He's hiding something."
"I'm not."
"That's exactly what someone hiding something says."
Noelle nods. "True."
I glance toward Birdie. Even though she’s married to J.D., she’s like the mother I never had.
She smiles. “Witt has more on his plate than any of us. Now who’s getting the dessert?”
Noelle hops up. “I made Hoho Cake,” she says as she takes the aluminum foil off the pink, polka-dotted dish painted with her last name, Stricker. Matt cuts the cake into squares and Noelle passes them out.
“Who’s surprised our little Noelle has learned to cook?” Dad asks, beaming.
Matt gasps, “Bake. She can bake.”
He leans over kissing her softly. There’s a fourteen year age difference but because we all had to grow up a little faster than normal, and they seem close to the same age.
“It’s good, Noelle,” I admit.
“Good? It’s soft and fluffy and I miss you calling me Noe.”
“I was three.”
She protests. “You called me Noe until you were sixteen.”
We exchange a simple nod and now I’m wondering what caused me to start calling her by her full name. That fact will bug me until I figure it out.
The conversation shifts to football, which is significantly safer territory.
Greyson starts discussing training camp while J.D.
argues about offensive schemes. Parker insists the receiving room is being underestimated again.
Dad offers advice nobody asks for, and somehow everyone talks over one another while still managing to hear every word.
I usually enjoy listening. Football is full of patterns and systems, but today my attention keeps drifting.
Tomorrow.
Eight a.m.
Maci Hart.
The realization is irritating.
I have investor meetings scheduled this week.
A board presentation on acquiring a small gaming company.
Three development reviews.
One potential licensing agreement.
"Earth to Witt." Parker snaps his fingers.
I mentally rerun the conversation. "What?"
A grin spreads across his face. "There you are.”
Unfortunately, now everyone is looking at me.
Parker leans back in his chair. "Did you hire the person from the resume?"
I immediately know which resume he's talking about.
Maci.
"Yes."
The table goes suspiciously quiet.
Parker's grin grows. "Witt hired someone."
"I hire people all the time."
"You personally interviewed her," he says and an unusual blanket of hush falls over the table.
He’s right, that's different for me. But in my defense, I’ll have to work side by side with this employee. God help me. I like to work alone.
"She starts tomorrow."
Birdie's eyebrows shoot up. "A she?"
I sigh. "Yes. A she."
The reaction is immediate.
Noelle laughs.
Sutton smirks.
Greyson shakes his head.
Dad looks shocked but interested.
"You all are ridiculous," I say, rolling my eyes, and shaking my head.
"Nobody's excited," Parker says.
"You're all excited."
Annika pats my arm. I flinch. "We're just curious, Witt."
"Same thing."
Birdie rests her chin in her hand. "What's she like?"
Competent.
Confident.
Annoyingly intelligent.
I clear my throat.
"Qualified."
The table erupts.
"That's not an answer, and why do you keep checking your phone at the table?”
Inside I’m rolling my eyes. My family is too nosey so I add one last thing that will give them something to talk about after I leave. "Oh, and she’s staying at the penthouse.”
Birdie chokes.
Noelle drops a fork.
Parker immediately says, “Absolutely not.”
“It’s temporary.”
“That’s how every disaster starts,” Parker leans back and rubs his jaw. Annika, elbows him in the ribs.
Right now, I want this dinner to glitch so I can turn it off and go home. Thankfully, it’s bedtime for the kids so everyone but Parker and me have left the table, gathering their diaper bags, and toys.
Parker and I get up and walk out onto the balcony and he throws his arm around my shoulder. “Witt, I just know how you like your personal space and if she’s that impressive, you need to make sure you don’t run her off. Staying with you might not be ideal.”
“It’s eight thousand square feet. We’ll rarely see each other except at work.”
“Yeah, it’s a lot of space. Just don’t snap at her if she walks into your gaming cave.”
Every time someone disturbed me playing, I would scream for them to get out. They were always moving my controllers to sit down or turning down the volume.
“She won’t be.”
He squeezes my shoulder and says, “You’re the genius. Just hope you know what you’re doing.”
By the time I leave, the sun has disappeared below the Austin skyline.
The drive back to the penthouse takes less than twenty minutes.
Long enough for my family to send three group texts.
Long enough for Parker to send a GIF that simply says:
WORK WIFE.
For everyone's safety, I mute the conversation.
The elevator carries me to the top floor. The familiar quiet settles around me the second the doors open.
Better.
Much better.
Everything appears exactly as it should as I step inside.
The living room is clean, although it always is. Everything has a place.
The lights are dimmed.
Perfect.
I head straight to my bedroom and change into a T-shirt and athletic shorts before returning toward the kitchen.
From the living room, I see a mug sitting beside the coffee maker.
I own six mugs. All black. All identical.
This one is not mine.
Worse, it has tiny pixelated hearts around the rim.
My gaze shifts.
A cardboard box rests near the island.
Black marker stretches across the side.
MORE IMPORTANT STUFF
I stare at it.
Then stare at the mug again.
Evidence.
Proof.
Someone else is here—in my space.
The thought sends an uncomfortable awareness through my chest. Maybe Parker and my family were right.
I don’t like people in my spaces and maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to Dara’s plan.
When she asked, I said OKAY thinking about how easy it would be for her to work fourteen hours a day if she didn’t have a commute.
A soft sound reaches my ears, breaking me from my thoughts.
Footsteps. Bare feet against tile.
I close my eyes briefly. Because Dara didn't just put someone in my penthouse. She put someone in my penthouse who owns decorative mugs.
This is how empires collapse.