Chapter 5
Monica
This Man Had Me Blushing Like I Don’t Pay Bills
There are moments in a woman’s life when she has to stop and ask herself a very important question.
Am I helping because I’m a good person?
Or am I helping because this man is fine, emotionally available, and standing under vandalized glass looking like somebody’s wounded king?
Unfortunately, my answer was yes.
All of it.
I had pulled up to Loyalty that morning because I was on my way to grab coffee before my first client. That was the plan. Coffee, maybe a croissant if the Lord had one waiting for me, and then a full day of lashes and pretending my lower back wasn’t filing for divorce.
I did not plan to see red spray paint across Eric’s front window.
I did not plan to see him standing there with his jaw tight, shoulders stiff, and eyes carrying the kind of anger that didn’t need to yell.
I definitely did not plan to step into his mess like I had a clipboard and a title.
But there I was.
Taking pictures.
Giving orders.
Asking for keys.
Bossing Dre around like he was on my payroll.
And the most concerning part?
Everybody listened.
Dre came back from the supply closet with gloves, towels, a half-empty bottle of glass cleaner, and one lonely roll of paper towels.
I stared at him. “This is it?”
He held up the roll. “It’s two-ply.”
“Dre.”
“I panicked.”
“This is a lounge, not a bathroom in a gas station. Where are the cleaning supplies?”
He pointed toward the back. “Storage room.”
“Then go back there and bring me something that looks like it believes in removing paint.”
He looked at Eric. “She always like this?”
Eric was watching me with this expression I did not appreciate.
Soft.
Proud.
Interested.
“Worse when hungry,” he said.
I snapped my head toward him. “You know me for two days.”
“And I’ve learned plenty.”
“You’ve learned rumors.”
“I’ve learned patterns.”
Dre clapped once. “Look at y’all. Trauma flirting before breakfast.”
“Go,” I told him.
He went.
Eric almost smiled.
Almost.
The almost made me want to work harder for the real thing, which meant I needed to take several emotional steps back.
I turned toward the glass again. “You called the police?”
“No.”
“Eric.”
“I took pictures.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know who did it.”
“You think you know who did it. That’s different.”
His eyes narrowed, not at me, but at the situation. “Calling the police on Marlo might turn it into something bigger.”
“And not calling turns your business into a community chalkboard.”
He looked at me.
I looked right back.
I was not scared of Eric. Not in the way I should’ve been, considering he had just told me he was safe for me and dangerous for everybody else. That kind of line should’ve made me grab my purse and clutch my pearls.
Instead, my stupid heart had whispered, That’s kind of romantic.
My heart was clearly unwell.
Eric’s voice softened. “You worried about me?”
I scoffed. “I’m worried about this expensive glass looking like a bad music video.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“Then stop asking questions before coffee.”
He stepped closer.
Not too close.
Just close enough for his cologne to reach me and start tampering with my decision-making.
“I’m going to handle it,” he said.
“I believe you.”
“You don’t sound like you do.”
“I believe you can handle it. I don’t know if I believe you’ll handle it in a way that won’t have me watching the news saying, ‘I went on one date with him, Your Honor.’”
His mouth twitched.
There it was.
A piece of the smile.
I pointed at him. “Don’t smile. I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“Men always want to handle stuff by being mysterious and brooding. Meanwhile, women have to make phone calls, clean glass, and update the group chat.”
“You got a group chat about me?”
“No.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“Not yet,” I added.
Dre returned with a bucket, gloves, more towels, and some kind of industrial cleaner.
“Found the grown-up supplies,” he announced.
“Good,” I said. “Now read the label and make sure we don’t create fumes that send us to glory.”
Dre held the bottle away from his face. “You think I know chemistry?”
“I think you know how to read.”
“Barely before noon.”
Eric reached for the bottle. “I got it.”
As he read, my phone rang.
Tameka.
I already knew I should not answer.
So of course I answered.
“What?” I said.
“Where are you?”
“Busy.”
“That is not a location.”
“I’m helping somebody.”
“Somebody named Eric?”
I looked at Eric, who was pretending not to listen.
“Yes.”
Tameka gasped so loud I had to pull the phone away from my ear.
“Monica Hayes, you are helping a man before breakfast?”
“His lounge got vandalized.”
A beat of silence.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
“Is he okay?”
I looked at him again.
He was standing by the window with a bottle of cleaner in one hand, sleeves pushed up, expression serious, sunlight catching the side of his face.
“No,” I said quietly. “But he’s pretending.”
Eric looked over at me.
I turned away fast.
Tameka’s voice softened. “You want me to come?”
“No, I got it.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. But remember you have an eleven o’clock.”
“I know.”
“And Monica?”
“What?”
“Don’t fall in love while cleaning graffiti. That’s how Lifetime movies start.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me. Send pictures.”
I hung up.
Eric was still looking at me.
“What?” I asked.
“You said I was pretending.”
“You are.”
“You know that from two days?”
“I’ve learned patterns.”
He stared at me for a second.
Then nodded once.
Not offended.
Seen.
That made my chest feel too full.
I turned back to the window. “Let’s clean.”
We worked for the next hour.
And when I say we, I mean I supervised with strong participation.
Eric and Dre handled most of the scrubbing because the paint was stubborn and I had lashes to protect.
But I helped where I could. I cleaned the inside glass, wiped the door handles, swept up little flakes of dried paint, and kept reminding them not to scratch the window.
At one point, Dre started singing an old gospel song while scrubbing.
“Please stop,” I said.
“I’m encouraging the paint to surrender.”
“You’re encouraging me to leave.”
Eric chuckled.
I looked over at him and caught him smiling for real.
It was quick.
Small.
But real.
And because I was a foolish woman with working eyes, I smiled too.
By nine-thirty, most of the paint was gone. The glass still had a faint red shadow, but it looked a thousand times better. Eric had already called a company to come deep-clean and polish it later. He had also called his insurance agent because I stood there with my hand on my hip until he did it.
When he hung up, he looked at me. “Happy?”
“I don’t experience joy before noon, but yes.”
Dre leaned on the bucket. “I’m hungry.”
“You’re always hungry,” Eric said.
“Scrubbing crime scenes burns calories.”
“This is not a crime scene,” I said.
Dre pointed at the glass. “Emotionally, it is.”
Eric’s phone buzzed.
The mood changed before he even looked at it.
I watched his face.
There he went again.
Still. Controlled. Locked down.
“Quan?” I asked.
He nodded.
Dre suddenly remembered something in the back again.
Coward.
Eric didn’t answer the call. Instead, he slipped the phone into his pocket.
“You don’t have to shut down around me,” I said.
His eyes came to mine.
“I’m not shutting down.”
“Eric.”
“What?”
“You get quiet when something bothers you.”
“So?”
“So I’m standing right here, not across town reading comments under somebody’s messy post. You can just say what’s going on.”
He looked at me for a long second.
Then he exhaled.
“My brother went to talk to the dude he owes money to after I told him not to. That’s why this happened.”
“Quan?”
“Yeah.”
“How old is he?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Old enough to know better. Young enough to think knowing better is optional.”
Eric’s mouth shifted. “Exactly.”
“You going to pay the money?”
“I told Marlo I would.”
“Is that what Quan needs?”
“No.”
“But it’s what keeps him safe right now.”
“Yeah.”
I nodded.
I understood that kind of love. The kind that frustrated you because it came with responsibility nobody asked for. The kind that had you cleaning up after somebody while also wanting to shake them.
“You can pay the debt and still make him accountable,” I said.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He looked at me, and the edge in his eyes softened just a little.
“My mama already worries enough,” he said. “I don’t want her scared behind him.”
That hit me.
Because family was family.
Even when they were wrong.
Even when they made you tired.
Even when their choices spilled into your morning before coffee.
I stepped closer without meaning to. “That’s a lot to carry.”
“I’m used to it.”
“That don’t mean it ain’t heavy.”
His eyes held mine.
The air between us changed, quieting around the edges.
Then Dre came from the back, saw us standing too close, and turned right back around.
“I ain’t seen nothing,” he called.
I stepped back fast.
Eric smiled.
“Don’t look pleased,” I said.
“I’m trying not to.”
“Try harder.”
“I like you bossy.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I am not bossy.”
“You took my keys, ordered Dre around, made me call my insurance agent, and threatened to fight industrial cleaner.”
“That is called leadership.”
“Bossy leadership.”
“Don’t flirt with me while I’m volunteering.”
“I can pay you.”
“With what?”
“Lunch.”
My stomach betrayed me by growling.
Eric looked down at it.
I pointed at him. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say nothing.”
“You said it with your whole beard.”
He laughed.
Dre yelled from the back, “Feed that woman before she unionizes!”
I grabbed my purse from the bar. “I have clients.”
“What time?”
“Eleven.”
“I’ll get you there.”
“I drove.”
“I know. I’ll follow you.”
“Why?”
“Because your car made a sound when you pulled up.”
I frowned. “My car did not make a sound.”
“Monica.”
“What kind of sound?”
“An expensive one.”
I closed my eyes. “Lord.”
Eric grabbed his keys. “Let me look at it.”
“No.”
“Why?”