8. fallon
EIGHT
fallon
I tap my fingers against the counter, unable to stop watching the door. Today is Fitz’s first day working at the store. I haven’t seen him since he dropped me off at my apartment the night I bumped into him. I’m half-expecting him not to show, but I fear he’s just stubborn enough to prove me wrong. My attempts to look for him on socials were unsuccessful. It would’ve helped had I asked his last name, but Thomas hired him so quickly that none of the necessary paperwork for a new hire was filled out. The mystery of his sudden appearance adds to the tension in the air.
“He could be a wanted felon,” I say, checking the time on my phone. “We could be harboring a fugitive.”
“He’s not moving in here,” Thomas replies dryly.
It doesn’t matter what the reason is I craft it in my mind. Thomas isn’t going to budge. He’s convinced we need help, and I agreed to give Fitz a chance. But that doesn’t settle the gnawing in the pit of my stomach. Something about him triggers my fight or flight. I want to know more about him while putting on my tennis shoes so I can run as far away as possible. “Okay, but the moment he does something wrong…”
“He’s out on his ass,” Thomas finishes. “Would you just breathe? Go in the back if you’re going to have a meltdown.”
My eyes narrow into a glare. I have a retort geared up and ready to go, but the sound of the door opening gives me pause. I can feel him before I see him. My heart starts to race, and I can feel a bead of sweat forming on my forehead. Without turning my head, I know he’s looking at me. His presence is heavy, as if each step tightens the air around me until I can’t breathe—like he would need to give me each next breath.
“Good morning, Fitz.” Thomas nudges me in the ribs with his elbow. “Fallon just told me how excited she is that you’re joining us.”
“Is that so?” Fitz’s voice, coated with honeyed sarcasm, drips down my spine. “I’d love to hear that directly from her.”
Look at him , you imbecile. I’m suddenly aware of everything I’m wearing. How my hair is styled. If my breath smells okay or if I should’ve skipped the coffee this morning. I did keep my outfit overly simple this morning once I realized I was standing in my closet for half an hour, wondering what I should wear for his first day. I regret the lapse in judgment when choosing straight-leg jeans and a long-sleeved black tee.
When I turned my head to greet him, I choked back my words. He’s in a loose, chambray button-down shirt, the top two buttons left undone to expose a smooth chest, and a fitted pair of slacks. A puffer jacket is draped over his arm. He looks like he just stepped out of a magazine or off a yacht. His hair is slicked back, his face cleanly shaven, and his shit-eating grin staring back at me.
“Did you order the entire catalog?” I ask, referencing my few-days-earlier dig at his J. Crew wardrobe.
“Christ,” Thomas mutters.
Without missing a beat, Fitz spins in a slow circle and extends his arms out to the side, giving us a full view. “I wanted to look exceptionally nice for my first day working with you, Fallon.” He pauses to widen his grin. “Your standards seem impossibly high to meet.”
Oh .
Thomas snorts before leaving me standing there alone with the man who just (teasingly?) insulted me—probably to avoid witnessing a murder. I might soon become a fugitive.
I gather my hair in my hands and put it in a bun on top of my head. A nervous habit, though I suppose it could seem like I’m readying for a physical throwdown with the giant standing before me. “You’re lucky there’s a counter between us,” I say, patting the countertop.
Fitz’s head tilts slightly. “You’re the lucky one, Fallon.”
My mind spirals, searching for the meaning behind those words. I’ve read too many books since I immediately imagined him throwing me across one. Why did he have to walk into the store looking like this? He’s like an untouchable tease. My time with him needs to be spent convincing myself that a man this beautiful cannot be good in bed.
Maybe Thomas was right. Perhaps I do need to look outside my trusty vibrator for release because working with Fitz will only worsen the physical ache. “Do you have a girlfriend?” I blurt out, my eyes widening after the words leave my mouth. My mother’s lessons about thinking before I speak went right out the window.
Fitz drapes his jacket across the counter, seemingly buying time before he gives me an answer. I could take it back. Never mind , ignore my attempt to pry into your personal life . Spare me the humiliation. Whichever answer he gives me won’t be satisfying. If he does have a girlfriend, I’ll always wonder about her and wait for her to drop by the store. I’ll have to watch them interact and be so cutesy, so demure .
If he doesn’t have a girlfriend, then…
“No,” he answers after a minute has passed.
He doesn’t give me anything else. I mean, ‘no’ is a complete sentence and doesn’t require an explanation, but it still leaves me wondering why it took him so long to answer. Is it complicated with someone? Has he had his heart broken?
“Me either,” I say unnecessarily. “A boyfriend, I mean. Unless you count this store. I’m basically married to it…”
I drift off when Fitz circles around the counter and stands beside me. His commanding presence makes me fight the urge to shrink. I don’t cower. I raise my chin and hold his stare despite my stomach turning jelly from how his icy blue eyes hold mine. “No?” he repeats, questioning. “A customer seemed to think something was happening between you and Thomas.”
I can’t hold back my laughter and a partial cringe. “Me and Thomas? No. God. We’d kill one another. He has a boyfriend, anyway. Not that it’d matter if he didn’t.” I blow out a deep breath to rein in the rambling. “Thomas is my best friend. He’s like a brother to me.” Then, I have a question of my own. “Wait… did you ask someone if we were together?”
The corner of Fitz’s mouth barely twists, and he evades my question by tapping his knuckles on his jacket, still lying across the counter. “Where would you like me to put this?”
His communication could use some work.
Thomas reappears from the backroom at the perfect moment. “I need to stay up front since we’re about to open, but Thomas will show you and explain the delivery schedules. We won’t receive any new stock until later this afternoon, so you can spend the morning getting acclimated if you’d like. I’ll have paperwork for you to fill out later.”
Fitz grabs his jacket, then pauses. “Paperwork?”
I power on the iPads we use for checkout. “New hire paperwork. It won’t be too much. I’m guessing Fitz is a nickname? I can continue calling you that way, or I’ll use the name you write down. It’s up to you.”
“Don’t tell me your name is Fitzgerald Grant,” Thomas says upon approach. “I miss Scandal . Mads and I binged it on Netflix not long ago. Olivia Pope? GOAT.”
Fitz’s confused expression makes me grin. “It’s a show that isn’t on anymore,” I explain. “Is that your name, though? Fitzgerald Grant?”
“Fitz is a nickname, and that’s what you can continue to call me.” He gestures toward the backroom. “Lead the way.”
* * *
Hours pass before Fitz emerges from the backroom. The morning rush has just settled, and I’m returning books to shelves from customers who changed their minds at the last minute when they realized just how large their piles had gotten. I didn’t forget he was here, but my mind was elsewhere when he appeared behind me and made me jump out of my skin.
“Jesus fuck ,” I mumble, clutching the fabric of my tee between my fingers. “You’re a stealthy motherfucker.”
With a chuckle, he leans against the adjacent shelf. “Hearing words like that come out of your mouth is surprising.”
I loosen my hold on my shirt as my heartbeat slowly returns to normal. “It’s a habit I’ve been trying to break.” The stacks of rare classic novels are visible from where we’re standing, and when he motions toward them, I can’t help but grin. “Not getting another itch to touch them, are you?”
His eyes dance with amusement. “How long have you been collecting rare editions?”
I hum in thought, thinking back to when my very expensive hobby started. “I studied Literature in college, but my love for the classics started when I was young.” I continue shelving books from the pile in my arms. “There was a fair when I was ten. My mom pulled me out of school to take me with her. One of the booths was full of books.”
I turn to face him after I finish putting the books away and slide my hands into the back pockets of my jeans. “I hadn’t read classic novels yet. I had just finished the Harry Potter series. My mom struck up a conversation with the owner while I wandered around. I knocked over a tall stack of books.” I can’t help but laugh at the irony. “And that’s when I saw an edition of Little Women . The edges were torn, but the pages were readable. And I promised my mom that I’d finish all my chores if she could lend me the $45 to purchase it.”
By the time I finish telling the story, Fitz is smiling. “And is that edition included over there?”
I nod proudly. “It is.”
His smile softens. “I’d love to see it.”
The request falls over me like silk. “It’d be my pleasure.”