Chapter 11
Nebulous Realm
David leaned over and thumped his forehead against the wall with a dramatic exhale. Across the desk, Lena stifled a laugh behind her fingertips while Nick didn’t even attempt to hide his amusement.
“Why am I here again?” David asked, lifting his head enough to scowl at both of them. “I have absolutely nothing to add to this conversation.”
He should be neck-deep in code or tracking digital breadcrumbs left by Chester—the world made so much more sense in ones and zeroes. But in here? In this nebulous realm of job titles and office structure? He was lost.
He hated feeling lost.
Nick and Lena had been ping-ponging staff configurations for eons now, dissecting every tiny nuance of the Rooms Division hierarchy like they were playing a high-stakes game of chess. No one was in danger, unless you counted David’s last nerve. His lips pinched together.
“Why do you people make things so difficult?” The words burst out as he threw his hands up in an exaggerated plea and closed his eyes, thunking his head against the wall again.
“Life is binary. Yes or no. Do we need a Resident Manager? Yes, and thank god we already hired her. Front Office Manager? Obviously. Someone needs to oversee the three-ring circus. Department heads? Big nope. Supervisors make more sense—they’re versatile and easier to schedule.
If you want peak efficiency, schedule them to only work frontline shifts when coverage is tight.
Otherwise, let them manage. Lena knows what works best. Done. Can I go now?”
He opened his eyes, triumph prepared… and discovered Lena staring at him like he’d sprouted wings and flown around the room. “What?”
Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again in a great fish impersonation. Nick was full-on laughing, bent over with a hand on his stomach.
“Stop laughing at me,” David muttered, glaring at him.
Nick sprawled back in his chair; a wide grin stretched across his annoying face. “Why do I not give you more of this shit to do?”
David didn’t dignify that with a response, since he was still trying to figure out why Lena was gaping at him. He shifted in his seat as unease twisted in his gut.
“In less than a minute,” Nick continued, “you nailed everything Lena and I have been debating for the past hour. That is why you are here. Lena, do you agree with David’s analysis?”
She blinked as if pulling her brain back online and nodded. “Uh… yes. I do. I agree with the supervisor option. If we schedule them for a couple of regular shifts a week and leave their management hours flexible, we’ll cover gaps and ensure consistent oversight.”
Her voice trailed weakly, like she wasn’t quite paying attention to her own words. Her eyes remained fixed on David with that strange, unreadable expression. Had he grown horns or something?
Nick rose smoothly to his feet, ignoring the energy zapping between the two people across the table from him.
“Okay, I’m done. David, sketch out those job descriptions with Lena since it’s your plan.
Emma and Gail can polish them up. Lena.” He nodded at her, his lips still twitching, and then strode out the door.
David groaned and let his head fall back against the wall. “Great. Now he’s dumped this on me. Super. This should totally be his job. I’m a tech genius, not an HR drone. There isn’t a single piece of SQL in this entire project.”
She chuckled, and the sound hit him like a bolt of static electricity. “Tech genius, huh? Is that your official title? Shall I ask our HR ladies to update your business card?”
“Well,” he drawled, crossing his arms and smirking at her, “I prefer Tech God, but that annoys the religious zealots. Besides, if I don’t use the right titles for myself, who will?”
As he spoke, he realized she was still giving him that peculiar look—like he’d transformed into some kind of fascinating exhibit behind glass. Maybe it was the horns. He narrowed his eyes. “What’s with the funny look?”
“What funny look?” She straightened, shuffling papers on her desk, too innocent by half. “Who exactly were you referring to with your charming ‘you people’ comment?”
He waved a dismissive hand. “You know, non-tech humans. You organize things with feelings and gut instincts. It’s chaos. Computers are so much easier to deal with.”
Lena’s head snapped up and her mouth dropped open. “Did you just call me illogical?”
She looked half-annoyed, half-amused, and he realized he had—in his very own David-esque way of putting his foot in his mouth. Oops.
“May I remind you,” she went on, narrowing her eyes at him, “who fixed our broken reservation blocks? Me. That’s who. Using a logical, sensible system. Even you said it was good.”
His cheeks warmed as he muttered, “Yeah, that was good. You’re better than most.”
Her expression shifted. The illusion of a smile slipped away, and something more genuine took its place. A hint of… hurt?
Damn it. Would he ever get rid of his case of foot-in-mouth?
He sat forward in his chair, running both hands through his hair, tugging like he could pull answers from the ends. “Great. What did I say now?”
She said nothing. Just regarded him with those stunning turquoise eyes that saw too much—and expected honesty in return.
David’s stomach knotted. This right here?
This was why he stuck to systems and hardware.
They didn’t have feelings. They didn’t flinch when you fumbled your words or said less-than-perfect things.
People though? People got hurt. At least his family understood how his mind worked, even if no one else did.
“Ignore me,” he blurted, jumping to his feet. His chair scraped against the floor with a screech that made him wince. “This is why they don’t let me out in public. I say the wrong thing, push the wrong button—even when I’m not touching a laptop.”
He tried for a joke, aiming for that self-deprecating charm that sometimes worked with his brothers, but the words came out hollow. The air in the room pressed against his skin like a weight he couldn’t shake, thick and heavy.
Lena opened her mouth, hesitated. Her fingers stopped their aimless paper shuffling.
David couldn’t bear to hear her rebuke—couldn’t stand to see whatever formed behind those eyes. His chest tightened, ribs constricting around lungs that suddenly couldn’t pull in enough air. “I’m heading back to my office. I’ll mock up some notes on the job descriptions and email them to you.”
He spun toward the door, movements jerky and too fast. His shoulder clipped the doorframe—a dull thud that sent a spark of pain down his arm—but he didn’t slow down. Couldn’t slow down. His feet carried him down the corridor faster than necessary, each step echoing against the tile floor.
Behind him, he thought he heard Lena call his name, but he didn’t turn around. He wasn’t strong enough for that right now. Heat crawled up the back of his neck, burning beneath his collar. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms.
Why couldn’t he talk to her like a normal person? Why did every conversation feel like navigating a minefield blindfolded?
He pushed through the door to his office and let it swing shut with a solid click.
The comfortable hum of servers and the soft glow of multiple monitors greeted him like old friends.
He collapsed into his custom-built chair, the contoured shell molding his body, and dragged both hands down his face.
A door he could close. Screens he could control. Systems listened, did what they were told.
People? Not so much.
His trembling fingers hovered over the keyboard. The cursor blinked at him, patient and non-judgmental. He let out a shaky breath, trying to release the knot of tension lodged between his shoulder blades.
Lena’s face kept flashing through his mind—that moment when her smile died and something wounded flickered across her features. He’d put that there, with his stupid mouth and his inability to say what he meant without wrapping it in layers of sarcasm and awkwardness.
You’re better than most.
God, what kind of compliment was that? It sounded like he was grading her on a curve, awarding her a participation trophy. What he’d actually thought was that she was brilliant. Watching her organize chaos into elegant solutions made something in his heart do weird things he didn’t have words for.
Of course, those weren’t the words that fell out of his mouth.
They never were.
David’s jaw clenched as he forced himself to focus on the blank document in front of him. Job descriptions. He could do this. They were structured and logical—things he understood. Things that didn’t require him to navigate the treacherous waters of human emotion.
His fingers found the keyboard and started typing, the familiar rhythm soothing some of the jagged edges inside him. Each keystroke helped pull him back to solid ground, a tiny anchor in a churning sea.
But even as the words appeared on his monitor, clinical and precise, his thoughts kept drifting back to Lena’s office. To the way the overhead lights danced on her hair. To the flash of hurt in her eyes he caused without trying.
He saved the document with more force than necessary, the click of the mouse sharp in the quiet room.
He should stick to what he was good at. Code didn’t mind awkwardness. Servers didn’t get their feelings hurt.
They definitely didn’t look at you with turquoise eyes that made you want to be better than you were.