Page 11 of Under Locke & Key

Molten honey. The natural highlights in his hair and the flecks in his brown eyes are molten honey behind his roundish tortoise glasses.

The teenaged me that was into history and archeology can’t help but make the comparison to Indiana in his buttoned up scenes.

What might he look like a little scuffed up?

My feet carry me toward the table and I have my hand out to shake his out of habit more than thought.

His eyes are shadowed with what I have to guess are sleepless nights and his mouth pulls down at the corners, just slightly, as if he’s forgotten how to smile.

Bryce stands and I look up. And up some more. I’m not tall by any means but my heels make up the difference most of the time. Today is not one of those. His hand swallows mine, so large and strong and warm from being wrapped around the cup of coffee. And it heats more than just my hand.

Double fuck.

“Rachel?” His voice is a little rough around the edges as if he’s not spoken much for the day.

“Bryce?” I want to kick myself for how breathless it sounds.

He swallows and I realize we’re still touching.

My eyes catch on our hands, the difference in sizes and shades.

His have freckles, similar ones dotting the bridge of his nose.

Denim gathers at his elbow, the shirt folded up over his forearms. More sprinkles of color, more freckles, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s covered in them.

For god’s sake, girl. Get a grip. If this goes well, he’ll be your boss. The last thing you can afford is to screw this up because you haven’t gotten laid properly in months. That bad rebound after Riley barely counts it was over so quickly.

Slipping my hand from his, it feels even colder than it did outside with the bite of the early spring wind whipping against it. Bryce slides out the chair for me and I hop up onto the seat, wobbling a little, my feet off the ground. He tucks me in before I can protest.

“I—coffee.” Is all I manage as I attempt to shuffle back out but it’s awkward with this style of table and chairs.

Whoever thought that bar-style seating for anything other than a freaking bar was a good idea, was a fool.

I need to get away from him for a minute.

I need to get my stupid breathing under control.

He blinks a few times before he stays me with a hand. “Don’t stress about it. I’ll grab some for you. How do you take it?”

“Americano is fine.”

You hate Americano. What the hell are you doing? It’s going to make you jittery and you’re already nervous.

But it's the simplest thing I could think of and after days of running myself ragged, the caffeine is welcome.

His soft lips purse into something I can’t place since I don’t know him at all to know what it might mean, but he nods and ambles away. All long limbs and big strides, and strong forearms. And almost my fucking boss.

Don’t mix business with pleasure.

Hands that big . . . would definitely be a pleasure.

Shut up!

Bryce is back, the mug looking tiny in his grasp and when he folds himself into the chair, his knees bump against mine under the table. Bryce jerks like I’ve shocked him even though I’m just sitting here, trying to pull myself together.

“So, escape rooms?” It’s awkward but the best I can manage when my mind is misbehaving.

Clearing his throat, he nods, and his left hand wraps around his mug, lifting it for a sip before he answers.

White gold glints on his ring finger and my stomach drops to my feet.

Married. Of course. I should have checked before I let myself thirst like a fool.

Unfairly hot in a disheveled way. Your boss—maybe? Married. Triple fuck.

“Yeah, it’s a market that’s been on the rise for a while. Dulaney is a great town but it’s lacking in that regard. The closest to this kind of entertainment is laser tag out by the old mall, but that’s nowhere close to what I’m hoping to pull off.” It’s like a switch has been flicked on.

Bryce changes from kind of tired-looking and worn to awake, gesturing with those hands I’ll be thinking about for a while.

“I’ve been to a few and they always feel kind of formulaic. Usually confined to one room, with the objective of finding a way out of the room . . . which I mean, escape rooms—it’s kind of in the name, but I don’t know. It gets tired after a while,” he says.

I take a sip of the scalding coffee, bitter and watery, and not what I wanted but in keeping with my D.C.

image. No one takes you seriously when you drink hot chocolate at a meeting.

Coffee is a necessary evil. Though maybe I’ll be able to ease into myself here.

Bryce’s denim shirt is kind of casual, right?

My blazer is out of place here, surrounded by people in jeans and cardigans, and posters of the Backstreet Boys and Alanis Morissette.

It’s softer in Dulaney. Maybe I can be softer here too.

“What did you have in mind to shake things up?” I ask, actually interested in this now that we’ve gotten talking.

“Part of what I’m hoping to do is for all the rooms to have multiple spaces to unlock, not just escaping the main room.

I’d also like to incorporate more of a goal-oriented outcome, an achievement beyond just being let out of the room at the end of it.

There are enough escape rooms out there that stick with the original premise. ”

I think back to the escape room “team-building” exercise Andrew made us go to earlier this year and I can concede that he’s right.

It felt futile, too many overly loud voices arguing.

One fucking genius swept the room and gathered all the clues and locked items into the middle of the room, completely negating the exploratory aspect of it in favor of winning “quickest time” to escape.

“Where does the development come in? Why are you hiring, I guess is what I’m asking?”

His plush lips tuck into an unhappy line for a moment and he sips his coffee before he responds.

“Honestly, this project is still in its infancy and I might have been hasty in posting that listing, but I thought it would keep me accountable if I knew I was paying someone to help this happen. Mostly, I’d like interactive aspects that I could use to customize the experience based on how it’s going.

I want magic mirrors, and hidden messages, and an app or program that I can use on my end to mess with the lighting and ambiance depending on the group and their wants. ”

It does sound like a challenge that could be pretty fun to work on, but the lack of a plan is a little alarming.

“Am I right in assuming that you’re looking for a collaborator rather than just a straight-up app or software developer?” Better to get the expectations out before it goes too far.

He winces and then nods. “I’m not trying to mislead anyone with the posting, but this job is definitely more than just regular development.

Don’t get me wrong, I need a good developer, but at this point it’s just me and the business part of my brain.

I could use a creative touch and someone to bounce ideas off of. ”

God, I’m about to do it again. I’m about to say yes to a project that’ll ask far too much of me and I’ll excuse it under flattery at being considered so capable that I can juggle it all.

“Do you have experience in the escape room scene?” I ask.

How has this become an almost reverse interview?

I’m not complaining but it does feel a little strange for the shoe to be on the other foot when I was the one that came here nervous out of my mind and trying to plan for every outcome or question.

Somehow me asking the questions wasn’t on my bingo card.

“Not at all.” It sounds almost morose and I’m surprised to see so much doubt and hurt on his face.

“What made you want to get into it?” I pitch my voice kinder, less like an interviewer and more like an actual person asking a genuine question.

“I just got out of a long-time job in the corporate sector. It was exhausting working in that space and having every day feel the same. Mostly, I wanted a fresh start and it was a half-baked, almost manic idea that came to me when I was desperate enough to take a risk.”

Good god. Are we the same person? I can’t ask that of course. It’s unprofessional but—I feel that answer in my bones. Instead I just nod.

“I understand that. I’m just recently out of the corporate space as well—contractor—and I’ve been looking for something a little less”— filled with assholes, my brain quips—“spiritless, I suppose?”

He lifts his coffee mug and it takes me a second to realize he wants me to clink mine against his, cheering our mutual disdain for soul-sucking, cog-in-a-wheel, capitalistic oblivion that our cubicles enforce.

“So, do you have any questions for me?” I lean over and pull my resume out of my bag as I ask, since he has nothing in front of him, not even a notebook. What the hell kind of interview is this anyway?

Hands swallowing the paper, Bryce only gives it a cursory glance before he trains those whiskey and honey eyes on me again.

“I’ve never done this—interviewed someone. It’s pretty obvious, right?” It’s said with a wry smile, one that doesn’t reach the eyes and tells me he’s self-deprecating without the humor.

“I think you’re doing an okay job so far.

It doesn’t always have to be done a particular way.

” Why am I being so nice to this man? It’s not just that I want the job.

Rachel from D.C., Rachel the ball-buster, would’ve made a snide inner comment about how she had to be prepared.

It’s only fair that the potential employer should have prepared as well.

Rather, I watch as he swirls the dark liquid in his cup around, his eyes transfixed on the little whirlwind within it. “You’re kind.”