Chapter 3 #2
He takes a step toward me, and suddenly we’re standing inches apart, both of us right next to the worn wooden door.
I can feel heat radiating from him. He’s wearing a long-sleeved black shirt that clings to his thick arms and makes him look even more intimidating as he peers down at me.
“You would be if you rode a bicycle in the dark in twenty-degree weather with ice on the roads.”
“Yeah, that would be pretty stupid. Kind of like considering leaving your job of four years for no better reason than that your sister asked, so you can work for a woman whose entire staff just quit.”
To my surprise, he laughs again, and this time his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Yeah, but you’re the one who said you’re not stupid. I never made that claim about myself.”
He holds out the coat again.
“If you give me that, you won’t have one,” I object.
“And I’ve got probably a hundred pounds on you. I’ll be fine.”
I can tell he’s not going outside with me unless I put on the coat, so I do, my hands trembling slightly.
So much has happened at once, and I’m still reeling.
The coat smells a little spicy and is warmer than the hoodie.
Once I’ve got it on, Liam opens the door again and leads the way to a run-down blue-green truck.
His mouth inches up into a half-smile as he unlocks the passenger-side door, using the actual key, not a key fob, and opens it for me. “It’s all yours, Princess.”
The nickname puts a bitter taste in my mouth, but I climb in without comment.
Liam gets into the driver’s side and puts the truck into drive, leaving Big Catch behind.
He maneuvers through the crowded streets of downtown Asheville, cursing liberally as pedestrians casually stroll across the street in front of the truck without waiting for the crosslights.
I expected Liam would want to talk business once we were on the move, but he doesn’t say anything. He just turns on the radio, finds Christmas music on two of the stations, and then turns it off with another curse.
I’m the one who finally breaks the silence. “I have lots of ideas for the brewery.”
“That’s great,” he says. “Do you want to keep it organic?”
“Yes. It’s one of the main draws.”
He whistles through his teeth. “If that’s the main draw, you’ve got a problem on your hands.”
“There aren’t many fully organic breweries.”
“Because it’s BS, and most people know it. There are better ways to stand out.”
“Like what?” I turn in my seat to look at him, not entirely convinced he’s not trying to piss me off.
He gives a careless, one-shoulder shrug. “We’ll talk about it some other time. Once we come to an agreement.”
“If you don’t want to know what my plans are for the future, what do you want to know?”
“Let’s talk shop when we get there.”
I want to ask where, but something tells me he wants me to ask so he can be withholding.
I’ve experienced enough turmoil for one day, so I don’t say anything.
We just sit in strained silence—strained on my part, at least. He seems perfectly at ease.
I look out the window at the lights we’re drifting past, trying to comb my hair with my fingers without looking like I care about my appearance.
Finally, after pulling onto the highway and then off on Tunnel Road, he parks in the lot of a brick building with no lights on inside.
He turns toward me, his profile illuminated in a way that makes me half tempted to trace my finger down the bridge of his nose—slightly off-center, suggesting it’s been broken at least once—and says, “We’re here.”
“We could have just talked in the car,” I point out.
“Not the way I prefer to do business.”
He gets out of the truck, and I do the same, following him to the front door of the building. There’s a weathered sign above the door that reads: Ring Your Bell Boxing Gym. It looks like a brisk wind would send it flying.
“Why are we at your boxing gym?” I ask in confusion.
But Liam just busies himself with unlocking the door, which unleashes another question in my mind—why does he have a key?
Inside, he flicks on the light switch by the door.
The reception area smells musty and a bit like feet.
There’s an ugly red-and-gold-patterned carpet on the floor and a front desk with an ancient desktop computer parked on top of it.
Several award plaques hang on the wall behind the desk, and a couple of old, doughy-looking armchairs sit in the corner.
They might have been white once, but now they’re slightly beige.
I shrug off the coat and hang it from a tilting coat rack.
“We can sit in those chairs,” I suggest, gesturing to them. Immediately hoping he says no, because they look like they could be the source of the smell.
He shakes his head and walks to the opening behind the desk, flicking on another fluorescent light as he goes.
“You don’t believe in open communication, do you?”
He glances over his shoulder with a smirk. “Is that important to you in an employee?”
“Yes.”
I’m surprised by how steely my voice sounds, but my former business partner’s betrayal cut deep. I’d had plans then, too, and my life had been blown apart by her dishonesty. I’d barely pulled any of my pieces back together before they were blown apart again by Jonah’s dishonesty.
So, yes, integrity is important to me.
I only wish I were better at identifying it.
My mind whirling, I follow him down a short hallway that opens into a large room lined with blue mats.
A couple of boxing rings sit in the middle, and heavy bags—long, solid-looking blue cylinders—hang from the ceiling on either side of the gym.
Smaller speed bags, mounted on swivels, line the back wall.
Liam pauses in front of a floor-to-ceiling rack stacked with worn-looking gloves, then surprises me by taking my hand. A shiver of awareness jolts me as he traces its shape and then carelessly drops it. He frowns and then pulls a pair of gloves off the bottom shelf.
“Here,” he says, trying to hand them to me. “These are probably still too big, but they’ll have to do.”
“Do for what?” I ask, refusing to take them. My voice sounds harsh and grating in the open space.
To my surprise, Liam smiles. “I know what a person looks like when they need to hit something. You, Princess, need to hit something.”
I gape at him. “No, I’m not angry. I’m…”
Sad. Defeated. Broken.
He plops the gloves into my hand. “Maybe you should be angry.”
“Anger is a dark emotion.” I shove the gloves back at him. “I don’t want any part of it.”
“It’s only a dark emotion if you let it take root inside of you.” He pushes the gloves back at me, the corner of his mouth hitching up. “Look at that. You just got six months of anger management classes for free. You’re welcome.”
“You took anger management classes?”
His half-smile widens. “I’m surprised my sister didn’t tell you the whole story. She loves giving me shit.”
“All she told me is that she loves you, you’re the best brewer in town, and you’re an asshole.”
Not entirely true. She also said he’s emotionally unavailable and never dates a woman for longer than a few weeks. She made Sophie and me promise never to date him, particularly since his casual relationship with one of her former friends imploded in a messy way.
But I don’t think he’d appreciate it if I brought any of that up.
“Well, there you go.” He’s full-on smiling now. “I am an asshole. That’s why I took anger management classes.”
“And they told you to punch someone?”
“The best way to avoid blowups is to let it out. I have a feeling you’ve been carrying everything in here.
” He taps his chest with one hand, holding the gloves with the other, and my gaze follows the movement, transfixed.
He has so much more physicality than anyone else I know.
He’s all muscle and movement. “My sister told me what Bubba and the others did to you at Big Catch. How they humiliated you. Your father watched and did nothing to stand up for you. Doesn’t that piss you off? ”
Tears burn in my eyes. “You and Hannah were both right. You are an asshole.”
“Can’t say you weren’t warned,” he replies, his smile softer as he offers me the gloves again.
I ignore them. “Will you stop messing around and tell me if you’re really willing to consider working at Silver Star? I know Big Catch offers better benefits, but we’ve been turning a healthy profit, and I was thinking I could offer you—”
“I’ll take the job because my sister asked me to.” All the humor has dropped from his face. “I don’t need another reason. But if you show me you’ve got some fight in you, then I’ll be a hell of a lot less pissed off about being told what to do.”