Chapter 20 #2
I pounce on the connection. “I do! It’s why I don’t teach.
I sucked. But I found a way to continue doing what drew me to the field in the first place.
My business lets me develop creative ways to work with books and gets me paid for it.
It’s all I wanted. Without the endless meetings, bureaucratic bullshit, and the general indignity of intercepting a note that reads ‘Miss Hayes has a apple head.’”
Ian laughs. “A what?”
“Apple head. My hair was rounder then. And I used the note in a refresher on when to use a and an, so I got some use out of it. But you can find a way to do that, too. You don’t have to do everything. Did Denny do his own taxes?”
“No.”
“And did he treat gentle suggestions like they were monuments to his fallibility?”
He glowers but shakes his head.
“Then why should you? You’ve got the most important part: the actual content of the gym. Find a way to delegate the bullshit.”
“I assume that you already have a list of ways I can do that?”
“Not just me. Your members are a wealth of untapped resources. Let Tom do the accounting! You’d be doing him a favor. Retirement has the guy bored out of his gourd.”
Ian grunts, but I press on. “You did just say that you hate that part.”
“I’ll talk to him.”
“That’s all I ask. Except not really.” I hold my hands up in supplication. “I am begging you, please let me redo the merch.”
Another grunt.
“Please? If I do it and you hate it, I’ll put it back—”
“Really?”
“No. That was a lie. But,” I add, generously, “I would give you veto rights to any arrangement I come up with.”
His arched brow asks the second really? for him.
“Just let me do it so I’ll lay off?”
“Now, that’s a compelling angle.”
“I could be offended by that, but I’m getting what I want, so I’ll let it slide. We can talk about website copy and community outreach later. Food drive, roadside litter cleanup, free workouts in a park once a month…”
“Hayes,” he warns.
“I said later! Most of those aren’t even my ideas.
Five a.m. has a Google Doc. Which you don’t get to be butthurt over,” I warn, just as he threatens to frown again.
“You’ve built something that has generated a whole community, and communities tend to get vocal.
It’s all out of love, you know. You’ve given them so much.
” I smirk. “The least you can do is make them itemize your deductions.”
He takes in a long breath. “As long as you filter the suggestions first, fine. I’m open. But…” He eyes me. “We’re good?”
He cares.
“Better than good. We’ve come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.” I reach out my hand, and he takes it in his for a shake. I allow myself the indulgence of thinking how easily he could pull on our joined hands and let the wheels of my chair roll me right onto his lap.
I give an exploratory tug, inching forward enough that I know the scenario is physically possible. When I let go, it is an act of pure self-preservation.
“Okay,” he says, and puts his hat back on. He stands to leave, and I follow him to the door, leaning against the doorframe as he steps back into his shoes.
“Speaking of mutually beneficial arrangements,” I say, “why won’t you help Diego with the Built Box stuff?”
He straightens, brows low. “Are they trying to renegotiate?”
“What?”
“I went over their contract with him. It was pretty boilerplate, not too different from agreements I’ve signed in the past. They were definitely undervaluing him, though. That’s why I pushed him to require the coupon code and a cut of sales.”
“I had no idea. I—” I shake my head at myself. “He told me that you hadn’t been interested, back when they asked about you. So I assumed—”
His lips quirk at the word. “That I was just being a dick?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I should have asked.”
He nods, expression thoughtful, and his posture changes. He brings his hands to the top of his head, the movement causing his T-shirt to pull against his pectorals, flaring out his lats, his biceps bunching. Does he have any idea what even the slightest shift does to his body?
“I don’t want Diego to think he’s gotten something because of me. He earned that sponsorship. Built Box didn’t even connect us until after they reached out to him.”
“He made it seem like you were a major part of the draw.”
“They got more enthusiastic after he told them that he worked for me. That knocked some of the wind out of his sails, and…” He shakes his head.
“It’s just business for them, but he was questioning himself after that, why they wanted him, if it had all been a scheme to get to me.
I hated seeing it.” He tugs on the rim of his cap.
“It made me not want to reward them with my presence.”
I hug my arms around myself, lest I launch myself at him.
It’s too much. His reasoning, his care, his stupid lats.
I have to laugh; it’s either that or lick his face.
“That was quite the journey. You started out noble”—hot—“then got spiteful”—also hot—“with just a touch of ego at the end.” Back-on-the-sexy-bite-train hot.
“Would you mind if I plotted that into a unit? It would be a great fit for character arcs.”
“Jesus, Hayes,” he grumbles, but he’s half smiling. “Is your brain ever off?”
“Not if I can help it. That’s when the invasive thoughts close in.”
His expression goes serious. “Is that more of your admitting-weakness thing?”
“I’m sure you’re loving it,” I tease, recalling his sour comment at the gym earlier.
“No,” he says firmly. “Not for you.”
Heat floods my face and chest. I’m desperate to ask him why, while also recognizing how thoroughly any number of responses from him would undo me. The silence that follows is heavy.
He pushes his hands into his pockets and goes down the steps. “Goodnight, Lady Bird.”
“That does not get to be your parting shot!” I follow him out. He’s already on the gravel path I weeded. “What even was that?”
He throws his head back in a laugh, and if that’s as close as I get to drawing a roar out of him, then so be it. I feel it in my bones. “You don’t celebrate the legacy of Lady Bird Johnson? Some Texan you are.”
“I’m a transplant. And, duh. I know she was First Lady.”
“Look her up. I think you’ll agree that the comparison fits.”
“Hmph. Does that mean I’m no longer queen?”
His eyes glitter in recognition as he continues down the path, walking backward. “Hayes, please. This is America. Pretty sure we fought a war so we didn’t have to acknowledge royalty.”