Chapter 9 #2
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.
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.
"No."
"Why?"
He presses the button. "I need my space."
That makes me laugh. The billionaire genius hiding from his friends and family is somehow the most relatable thing I've learned all week.
A few minutes later, the elevator opens.
A woman steps out carrying a diaper bag and holding the hands of two kids.
Chaos enters the penthouse.
Immediately.
"Please watch them for an hour."
Witt sighs. "It's Thursday."
"I know."
"Margarita night is Wednesday."
“Birdie had a songwriting session, so we changed it."
The little boy immediately takes off running and his little sister follows, chattering, “Wait for me.”
Witt catches him before he reaches the couch. Clearly this isn't his first rodeo.
“Where’s Parker or Dad or any other sibling?”
The woman says, “Stop. You know you love them.”
He nods.
The woman finally notices me.
"Oh! You must be the new creative strategist."
I smile. "Guilty. Maci."
"It's nice to meet you." She shifts the diaper bag higher on her shoulder. "If you get tired of being trapped in a quiet house, come over sometime."
Witt groans. "Noelle."
"What?"
"Stop recruiting."
She grins and I realize how different Witt is from his family.
Twenty seconds later she's gone. Just like that. Leaving behind two children and absolute mayhem.
I expect Witt to be annoyed, instead, something completely different happens.
The little girl launches herself at him and without an hesitation, Witt catches her like he’s done it a thousand times before.
The little boy starts telling a story that makes absolutely no sense. Something involving dinosaurs, cookies, and an unfortunate goldfish.
Witt listens as though every word matters.
My chest tightens unexpectedly.
Because this version of him doesn't exist at work.
The man who terrifies executives and challenges billion-dollar companies is currently helping a six-year-old build a blanket fort in his living room.
It's unfair, honestly.
I was doing fine being attracted to the mysterious genius. The kind uncle thing feels like cheating.
An hour later, one child is asleep.
Curled against Witt's side.
The other is watching a movie.
I realize I've been staring.
Unfortunately, Witt notices. "What?"
I tilt my head considering what to say. "Nothing."
"That's inaccurate,” he says as he lifts his brow.
A smile escapes before I can stop it.
"You're different with them."
His gaze drops to the sleeping child tucked against him.
For a long moment, he says nothing.
Then, quietly he mutters, "They don't expect me to be normal."
The words land somewhere deep and suddenly I understand. Not everything but enough.
Enough to know that underneath the systems and routines and perfectly organized mugs is a man who has spent a lifetime feeling different.