6. fallon
SIX
fallon
A s the store closes and it’s just Thomas and me, a detectable tension fills the air. He’s been avoiding me since Fitz & crew left, but I know he can’t keep it up forever. I drum my fingers against the counter, watching him close out the registers impatiently. A smirk plays on the corner of his mouth, but he continues his silent treatment, adding to the growing tension.
Finally, I break. “Thomas, what the fuck?”
He doesn’t even pause counting. “What?”
“What?” I repeat. “What?!”
“You said you’d hire someone this morning,” he explains far too calmly for my liking. “I was just speeding up the process. He offered, Mads. Whether you like him or not is irrelevant. We need someone now.”
“I could’ve interviewed someone from the dozens of applications I receive every week,” I argue. “You didn’t even give me a chance?—”
“Because you wouldn’t have done it,” he interrupts, powering down the iPad and finally turning to face me. “You would’ve continued finding excuses not to do it.”
I bite my tongue. Literally. Because he isn’t wrong. That’s precisely what I was planning to do. “I don’t like him.”
“Noted.” He places his hands on my shoulders and dips his chin to hold my eyes with his. “If he’s a problem, I’ll get rid of him immediately. Scout’s honor. But you owe me a drink if he isn’t and proves useful.”
I turn my head away, but he grabs my chin gently and pulls it back. “Fallon, we’re growing too quickly to continue running this store ourselves. I would sweat blood for this store seven days a week, and so would you. But it doesn’t mean we should. It’s okay to take a breath. We’re in this together, remember?” His words, a testament to our shared commitment and personal growth, resonate in the air.
I want to argue more than I want to take my next breath, but the logical side of me—the one I keep buried down deep—knows he’s right. We haven’t had a break since we opened. For our sanity, I suppose I could tolerate Fitz on the days we have deliveries. How bad could he indeed be?
“He’s on probation,” I lament, keeping my defiant side in check. “He doesn’t have three strikes, Thomas. He has one.”
Thomas squeezes my shoulders. “Understood. Now, let’s go get some food. You’re far too hangry .”
I open my mouth to retort, but my stomach chooses to growl this second. Traitorous bitch. “ Fine . But I get to choose.”
* * *
Thomas gaslit me into thinking my idea was the Mexican food we had for dinner. I don’t know how my asking for somewhere with a fat, juicy steak ended with us meeting Ansel at Huerta , but I can’t complain when chips and salsa are involved. But at this moment, I have never felt more bloated, which is how I ended up at the Pilates studio for the late-night class.
I always attend the five am class, but today’s exertion of mental energy and frustration has me wound up too tight. And since I have no man on rotation and only my trusty vibrator available for an orgasmic release, I figured I’d try something different tonight that doesn’t require me to think about our latest hire and how I’ll handle him moving forward.
Of course, that would be much easier if he wasn’t walking out of the liquor store next to the Pilates studio the moment class finishes. Immediately, I become aware of the very little I’m wearing and how disgusting I must look with my hair stuck to my face and neck from the sweat.
Maybe he won’t see me if I just turn?—
“Fallon.”
He doesn’t say my name like a question. He says it like he’d recognize me anywhere, even after only spending an hour with me. He’s changed since he left the store earlier and is in much more casual attire. Less prep, more athleisure, and I can't help but notice how attractive he is—especially when I look like this . It's an unexpected connection, one that leaves me feeling intrigued and a little off-balance.
“Fitz,” I reply, prying my wet bangs off my forehead.
He glances at the door I just came out of, then drags his gaze back to me, undoubtedly noting my attire. I guess this isn’t a great impression of the woman who’s supposed to be his boss. He’s seen more of me than any man has in a long time. My hot pink sports bra and black spandex shorts don’t exactly hide much. “Pilates,” I say, like he can’t read the name on the door. That’s twice I’ve implied he can’t read.
“You’re not cold?” he asks.
I should be. It’s nearly freezing, but I always exert so much energy in class that I don’t notice the temperature until the adrenaline dies. Bumping into him has jumpstarted my heart and will keep me warm for at least another five minutes. “I don’t live far,” I explain. “By the time I walk home, I will be.”
He lazily gestures toward the parking lot. “Let’s go. I have a car. I’ll take you home.”
I shake my head. “It’s only two blocks…”
“It wasn’t a question.” Without room for argument, he starts toward the parking lot and doesn’t look behind him to see if I’m following.
I am. I don’t know why.
He leads me to a sleek 2-door coupe and opens my door, giving me no opportunity to turn down his offer. But before I slide in, I note the sticker on the window. “Rental?”
He waits to reply until he’s beside me. “For going back and forth between here and Boston. I haven’t moved everything yet. I ride a motorcycle, which doesn’t hold room for boxes.”
Of course, he does.
I drum my fingers against my knees and stare out the window. We’ll only be in the car for five minutes. We don’t need to fill an awkward silence as short as that, right? The leather seats are not ideal for a creature as sweaty as me, and I’m hesitant to lean back and get comfortable. With my luck, I’ll get stuck, and he’ll have to pry me off.
“So… you’re from Boston.” I’m not great with lulls in conversations. Maybe it’s because I was an only child and would get so lonely that I always chatted with my stuffed animals and dolls while growing up. Or perhaps it’s the pressure of needing to ensure the other person is having a decent time with me. Not that Fitz being content should matter.
“Yes,” he replies.
One-worded answers are the bane of my existence. How do I keep a conversation going when you give me the bare minimum? “I visit often. I love how fast-paced and lazy it can be, depending on where you go. Of course, it’s my favorite during Autumn….”
I drift off when we stop at a light, and he asks, “Can you tell me where to take you?”
My cheeks redden. Sharing where I live is an important step in ending this awkward interaction. “Right…” When he flips the right blinker on, I snort. “No, I mean… right, as in… anyway, make a left at the next light. My building is the second one on the street.”
We say nothing else to one another. He follows my directions perfectly, pulls right next to the curb, and places the car in park before exiting. I blink, confused. Is he expecting an invitation inside? I don’t have much to offer unless he’s in the mood for protein shakes or an assortment of fruit. I should really carve out time to pick up some groceries.
When my door pops open, I startle and stare at him. Did he just… get out to open the door for me? A man hasn’t done that for me since I lived at home. My dad always opened doors for my mom and me. He said I shouldn’t date a man who doesn’t open doors for their significant others.
“Um, thank you,” I murmur, stepping outside and shivering as the cold air bites my bare skin. “And thank you for the ride home. I suppose it’s colder than I thought.”
He nods in reply, closing the car door behind me.
Fitz is not a man of many words.
I clear my throat and nearly trip over the curb as I step up. “So, I’ll just see you at the store then?”
He circles the car and leans against the driver’s side door. Even when he’s not at full height, a noticeable difference lives between us. I feel miniature beside him. And he’s realized it by the way he stares at me—like he could pick me up and place me in his pocket if he wanted. “Will you?” he asks with slight amusement. “I figured you’d find a way to talk yourself out of letting me return.”
I crack a small smile. “I still could.”
After sliding his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, he lifts a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I’m cheaper than you’d spend hiring security to escort me out.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Are you saying you wouldn’t leave willingly?”
For the first time since I met him, Fitz chuckles. The sound widens my smile. “I rarely do anything I’m asked.”
My expression conveys faux surprise. “Really? I hadn’t noticed that at all. You seem so… easy to get along with.”
“You’re in for some surprises then, boss.” He lifts his chin toward my door. “Head inside before you catch a cold. I doubt you want to leave the store to Thomas and me.”
That thought alone causes me to cringe, and I step closer to the door. “I hate to admit you’re right.” Before I punch in the security code on the pin pad, I throw him a look over my shoulder. “Goodnight, Fitz.”
He doesn’t return the sentiment, but I pause when I arrive at my apartment and glance out the window that overlooks the street. Fitz is staring directly at me, the corner of his mouth tugging in the smuggest smirk I’ve ever witnessed before he slips into his car and disappears into the night.
And I forget how to breathe.