Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
NovaPlay Studios is an indie video game company specializing in immersive horror and action RPGs (think Dead by Daylight meets Cyberpunk 2077). I’m a lucky gameplay systems engineer.
I arrive at 8:59 a.m., which my boss likes to call “fashionably late” and HR likes to call “a pattern,” and make a beeline for the last inch of dark roast sloshing at the bottom of the pot.
A hand gets there first.
“Don’t,” I say, even though it’s already happening.
Gage Dawson tilts the carafe like he’s hydrating a victory plant and watches the coffee arc into his mug in slow motion. The mug—because of course—is matte black with an embossed lightning bolt. He looks like every campus bad decision grown into a man in a Henley.
“You snooze, you lose, Quinn.” He doesn’t look at me when he says it. He inhales. “Mmm. Beans of triumph.”
“You don’t even like coffee.” I hear the defensive whine in my voice and want to go back in time and shove a cupcake in it.
“I like depriving you of joy,” he says, and winks. It’s an awful wink. Objectively effective, but morally bankrupt. And oh, of course, incredibly gorgeous.
I reach for the empty carafe and hold it up between us like exhibit A. “You know there’s a war crimes tribunal for people like you.”
He leans an elbow on the counter, easy and smug. He’s not tall-tall, just tall enough to loom when he wants to. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Dark soul. “Guilty. Go file it with HR.”
“I might,” I snap, which is ridiculous because I literally have a meeting with HR at 10:00 a.m. to “discuss my tone in Slack,” and I don’t need to give them extra ammo.
Gage tips his head toward the stack of paper cups. “There’s decaf.”
“I’d rather lick the fax machine.” I open the cabinet for a new bag of beans. Empty. Because of course.
“You mean the printer?” he asks, faux-innocent. “It’s not 2004.”
“Neither is your haircut, but here we are.”
He grins. It’s unfairly nice on his face. “Careful, River. Your tone is showing.”
“Let me see your tone then,” I say, and it comes out flirty even though I meant stabby. I hate that my mouth does that around him—betrays the sharp thing I’m aiming for with a softer shape. I hate that I notice the way he smells like honey and a bad idea. I hate that the last cup is in his terrible, beautiful hand and my hands are empty.
“You okay?” he asks suddenly, the grin slipping, like he’s seen behind the curtain. My stupid stomach flops because his voice goes low in that way that makes ordinary questions sound like secrets.
“I’m great.” I shove the empty cabinet shut with my hip. “Thriving. Put it on LinkedIn.”
He studies me. Gage has this look he does where he’s still and quiet and you can feel his brain whirring like a server room behind his eyes. I hate that look the most.
Then he sips his coffee and the mask snaps back on. “Make a new pot, Quinn. Team player.”
“Choke on a scone,” I say sweetly, and squeeze past him to the sink. My shoulder bumps his bicep and I pretend I don’t feel it.
Back at my desk, I sit down too hard and my chair rolls back two inches. My monitor blinks awake and immediately insists on showing me an avalanche of notifications: twelve new comments on last night’s thread, three emails from Legal, one calendar invite to an all-hands I can’t pretend to be sick for, and twenty-seven texts.
Twenty-seven.
My phone screen is a collection of bad vibes.
Unknown: u think we don’t know where u live
Unknown: curvy pig girl
Unknown: nice curtains lol
Unknown: tonight ;)
There’s a photo, too. Grainy. Taken through glass. My living room window, blinds half-closed. The angle is wrong, like someone held their phone against the pane and hoped for focus. I can make out the corner of my couch and the plant I keep forgetting to water.
My hands go cold and hot at the same time. I chew the inside of my cheek until it stings. I put the phone face down on the desk like that will make the messages go away.
“Everything good over here?” a voice trills, and I almost vault out of my skin. It’s Helena from People Ops, wearing a sweater the color of therapy and a smile I don’t trust.
“Peachy,” I say. “If peaches were allergic to sunlight.”
She laughs like I told a joke and not the truth. “Don’t forget about our ten o’clock. We value you. This is just a quick chat so we can all get on the same page tone-wise.”
“I look forward to aligning my vibe,” I say, and she air-guns me. I air-die.
Gage drops into his chair across the aisle with an unnecessary amount of leg. He clacks his keyboard like it owes him money, then glances over the top of his monitor at me. He does this thing sometimes where he watches me type like he’s trying to learn my muscle memory. It’s creepy. It’s flattering. It’s both.