Page 12 of Under Locke & Key

It’s a statement from him. Not a “thank you” or a question, or anything other than a passing remark that sings through me.

No one has ever called me kind before. I’m too hard for that, too reserved and judgemental, and driven.

Except, I feel a little fragile myself and I’m only extending a courtesy I wish would come my way.

Maybe I wouldn’t be this detached if I wasn’t forced to be by the landscape of my industry.

My peers already consider me lesser for my sex. I’ve tucked away the too-feminine, too-forgiving parts of myself to prevent them from getting crushed under Italian dress shoes that cost more than a month’s salary.

“Bryce,” I say and the taste of it on my tongue feels foreign.

Like a new word I’ve learned but haven’t quite translated properly into my careful little boxes.

“I get it. I need out. The job I had was going to be the death of me if I kept at it, and even after all the years I gave them, it feels like I have little to nothing to show for it.”

He watches me, a studious quality to his eyes made all the more intense by the glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. Pushing them up as an afterthought, he clears his throat before he speaks.

“I can’t pay what you were making in D.C.

” He says it as if I didn’t already read the job listing, but before I respond with that he carries on.

“This isn’t a straight-forward position.

It requires many hats. We’ll be researching other escape rooms, noting what works and what doesn’t.

I’ll likely need to do remodeling on whichever space I procure—you won’t be expected to do that but I want you to know the scope.

I’m building a business from scratch and I’m not sure how to make it worthwhile for whoever comes to work for me. ”

If it is as involved as he says, then the daily rate makes more sense than an hourly programming or developing fee.

“So you’re looking for a developer, a research assistant, a sounding board, a collaborator . . . basically a creative partner with a background in developing?” Many hats, like he said.

“It’s an unfair ask, so if you don’t want it I totally get it.”

If I don’t want it?

“Wait, does that mean I got the job?”

Bryce looks at me like I’m the silly one for sounding surprised. “Yeah?”

“You didn’t ask me anything about my previous job experience, or my goals, or what I’d bring to this endeavor.

” It comes out involuntarily and I could kick myself for trying to give him reasons to walk back on his offer.

But I feel like a kid that studied only to be told there was never any test to prepare for. Dressed up with nowhere to go.

“Your resume was extensive and I reached out to your reference who had nothing but good things to say about the quality of your work. You were five minutes early. You’re professional, and you care enough about the project to ask questions about it rather than just trying to butter me up with qualifications that matter less than a willingness to work. ”

Well.

When he puts it like that.

“I—I want to say yes.” But I’m scared to and I’m not sure why. The task is going to be daunting but that’s never kept me from trying before. Maybe because for the first time in a long time I am out of my depth and not sure I can pull it off.

“What’s stopping you? I’m willing to do what I can to get you on board, within reason of course. This is something I’d like to get underway as soon as possible if I’m going to make the deadline.”

“Insurance, for one. It wasn’t mentioned—there was no benefits section on the posting—and that’s something I’d be uncomfortable going without.

” Especially living in a strange town and working with a strange man doing all sorts of unlisted activities that didn’t make it onto the job description.

I cannot afford uninsured trips in the wee-wah wagon—not that I can afford insured trips either but . . .

Bryce pulls out his phone, typing something into what I assume are his notes.

“That’s a good point. I hadn’t even thought of it for myself but it’s a necessity for sure. What else?”

“A daily max of hours. The time was vague.” After years of eight hours being the minimum, not the regular, I can’t imagine doing that to myself anymore—especially not at a flat rate.

“Eight hours maximum, I swear. Some days might be less, depending on what we have going on but you’ll still get your full daily fee regardless.

Plus no Mondays or Sundays, unless there’s an emergency or clear need.

If your job was anything like my previous one, then let me reassure you the last thing I want to do is overwork you. ”

He’s careful in how he phrases it and I know by the way he says it that he’ll be overworking whether I do or not.

It’s his business. His problem.

Quirking one of his brows up as if to encourage me to keep going, I can’t help but stare at how his hands envelop the phone he’s been typing into.

“I’d like a share. Nothing huge, but if I’m going to be collaborating and contributing creatively as much as you say, I’d like to feel that.” It’s a huge ask and could be make or break, but I’d be mad if I asked for anything less than what I deserved for hard work provided.

His chest rises with a big breath and shudders on the exhale as he thinks it over.

“You don’t have to accept my terms.” I steel myself for the rejection. “I’m sure there are others out there just as qualified without as many asks, but I’m not going to take less than I’m worth.”

His hand wipes over his scruff as he considers and then he sighs, mind apparently made up.

“Do you want to know why you? I mean, I mentioned knowing your qualifications but it’s more than that.” His voice is quiet, as if divulging a secret he’d rather not.

Leaning forward on my elbows to absorb what he’s about to say, I wait on tenterhooks.

“Your cover letter. I—there was such a?—”

Desperation ? Bitterness? My snarky little mind-gremlin remarks and I hate that she’s right. It was those things. I’ve never felt more like Meredith Grey doing that whole “Pick me. Choose me,” thing since I sent out my first applications in college.

“—hunger to it.” Bryce doesn’t sound put off, and I like the way he phrased that.

I am hungry. For praise. For validation. For being someone’s first choice when it comes to work.

And other things?

Married. He’s married and I’m not looking to get into a relationship now.

There’s too many pieces in the air; if I started dating on top of all of it I would lose my focus.

If I have any hope of this being a way to prove to myself, and others like Andrew, that I have what it takes to lead a project from the ground up—then I need to stay on track.

“It resonated with me. This isn’t just a trivial project for me. I have . . . people that have doubted my ability to tackle something like this. I’ve been accused of being too meek and compliant .” Bryce spits the word like it’s poison and I can’t fathom that being true.

He might not be the most forceful person I’ve met but there’s a quiet way he holds himself that feels capable. Solid. Steady and dependable and so much like how I try to come across that I wonder if my inner doubt is what people see instead.

“I aim to prove them wrong. This isn’t a joke to me. I’m sinking every penny of my money into this and I plan for it to succeed. So I need someone as hungry as I am to make that happen.”

Something I can relate to, considering I’ve thrown a bunch of money into moving before I even knew I had the job. So, I stop pretending this isn’t what I want and stick my hand out across the table.

Bryce blinks at it for a second before he realizes what I’m saying with that gesture. His large hand folds around mine again, and we shake on it. Lips quirked into the beginnings of a smile, those golden flecks in his eyes almost seem to sparkle.

“When can you start? Do you plan to commute or do you need help finding someplace nearby? I might be able to put some feelers out for you.” His words come out in a rush, excitement an undercurrent to the haste.

My chuckle stops Bryce for a moment and he sits back as if he’s realized he’s overstepping—and with the tug between us notices he’s still touching me.

Our fingers release and his hands knit together on the table top as he schools his expression back to the neutral-if-sad one from when I first clapped eyes on him.

“No need. I’ve got it handled. Is tomorrow too soon to start?” No point mentioning how overeager I am that I’ve already got an apartment for a job that wasn’t mine at the time.

“Would Saturday work for you? I need some time to put things together—a contract and that sort of thing. I also need to reach out to a realtor to find the right space and viewing venues on a Saturday when we can get a good idea of weekend foot traffic would probably be best.” His smile is careful but devastating because I can tell just how much it would change his face if it was a full-on grin.

Potential is always painful. Unfulfilled usually, and a word that says “not good enough.” Although I hate to think it and lean into the stereotype of being unsatisfied with what he’s given, I want a real one of those.

A smile that goes all the way and not just a mirage of what it could be.

Why, I couldn’t say—or am not willing to.

One thing’s for sure. When I get back to the apartment I have two phone calls to make. First, Sebastian and Farren to thank them and update them, and figure out if my apartment has been leased so that’s one less bill I have to worry about this month. And then ángel.

Who is going to flip his lid when he finds out.

“Saturday is great. Would you like my phone number?” I ask, and then clarify, “Just to coordinate.”

He slides his phone across the table with the “new contact” screen open so I do the same and it feels weirdly intimate to give someone my unlocked phone.

Typing my name, number, and email into his phone, a message comes through on the little notification preview and I’m quick to hand it back over before I can read further than:

Mom

How did it go?

Is she nice?

I hope you?—

My cheeks flame a little and I tuck my chin down as if I’m examining his contact in my phonebook.

But he doesn’t notice because he’s moving to stand, his phone dropped in his pocket. Our coffees are done and so is the interview now that we’ve reached an agreement. Bryce walks over to my side of the table and holds out a hand for me to take while dipping down off the bar stool.

It makes me think of that stupid scene in Beauty and the Beast, though that could just be because it’s such an old-fashioned thing to do that it reminds me more of a fairytale than reality.

Whoever his wife is, she’s lucky to have someone with good manners.

The last time I went on a date they slammed the car door before I was fully inside and part of my dress got caught in it, flapping along for the entire drive.

And then they rushed ahead of me into the restaurant, not even glancing back to see whether or not I was following.

Bryce and I stand like that for a second, my hand in his and my feet a little unsteady now that I’m back on solid ground.

“I’ll see you Saturday,” I croak and he drops my hand like it’s burned him.

“Saturday.” He agrees and then strides from the coffee shop.

And when he walks by the window, his mind on something else entirely and his gaze locked on the path ahead, he flexes his hand.

That was so hot.

Oh, I am in trouble.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck me.

And I kind of wish he wasn’t married so he would.