Chapter 22
PLEASE HOLD WHILE I SELF-ACTUALIZE
IZZY
I sit on Callahan's bed.
His actual bed.
And it's so much worse than I thought it would be.
Because it smells like him. Like clean laundry, cedar, and something masculine that I don't have a name for but would 100% buy in candle form if that were an option.
The scent wraps around me, as though the mattress itself has absorbed his presence.
And he's standing there, watching me, like he's trying very hard to figure out if we're about to make a huge mistake.
I clear my throat, pretending like I’m unaffected. "So, the security brief," I say, crossing my legs like I'm totally unbothered. The casual pose feels forced, even to me.
He blinks like he forgot why we were here. Then he shakes his head, pulls out his phone, and starts scrolling before finally sitting down next to me.
The mattress dips under his weight. And that's when I realize just how small this bed is. Because suddenly, he's very close. Close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body, the slight shift in the bed whenever he moves. Close enough that my breath catches in my throat for half a second.
I grab my tablet from my bag, because I don't go anywhere without it, and then I lock my eyes on it, pretending like I'm absorbing all the numbers and graphs in front of me, but all I can think about is how aware I am of him.
The way his broad shoulders take up too much space.
The way his thigh is inches from mine.
The way his scent lingers in the air around us.
I force myself to focus, taking a deep breath that only fills my lungs with more of his scent.
"Right," he mutters, his voice gruffer than usual. "The security brief."
We spend the next twenty minutes going over store security plans for the upcoming holiday season.
Yes, it's March.
Yes, that means Christmas is nine months away.
And yes, that means we have to start planning now, because Christmas in retail is basically a war zone, and only the prepared survive. The thought of the coming chaos makes my breath quicken with preemptive anxiety.
Callahan leans back against the wall, his arm resting behind him, his shirt stretched perfectly across his chest as he talks through the biggest security concerns. The fabric pulls taut over his muscles with each gesture, a reminder of what I glimpsed this morning in my kitchen.
"Holiday season means bigger crowds, bigger transactions, and more theft," he says. "Both petty and organized."
I nod, already pulling up the last quarter’s trend reports on my tablet. "Yeah, I flagged a spike in team-based losses last year. Mostly high-end merchandise, gone before the cameras caught anything useful."
He gives a small, appreciative nod. "Exactly. We’re talking professional-level theft rings. They send in people who blend into the crowd, work in coordinated units, and clear out entire displays before anyone even realizes what’s missing."
I glance up at him. "You think we’re already seeing signs?"
"Not full-scale yet," he says. "But yeah. I think someone’s testing the waters. Patterns in movement, item targeting, timing. It’s just too clean."
A chill runs through me despite the warmth of the room. I cross one leg over the other and scan the latest analytics. "So, what’s our play?"
"For now, I keep watching. Track repeat foot traffic, analyze purchase habits, isolate blind spots. Build a net before they realize we’re onto them."
I bite the inside of my cheek, thinking. "Sounds like we’re not dealing with amateurs."
"We’re not," he says, straightening. "You ready for Christmas in hell?"
I groan, slumping forward. "Kill me now."
He chuckles, shaking his head. "It'll be fine."
I scoff, feeling the pressure of responsibility settle across my shoulders. "I'm not so sure about that."
His attention is unwavering, focused entirely on me as he waits for me to elaborate.
I sigh, the sound heavy in the quiet apartment. "It's my first Christmas as the store manager."
That makes him pause.
I chew on my lip, suddenly anxious. My teeth worry the sensitive skin there, a nervous habit I've never been able to break. "It's all on me. The sales, the staffing, the freaking window displays. And if things go wrong—"
"They won't."
But I shake my head, looking away. “I don’t know. There’s so much I wasn’t told before. Corporate never looped me in on any of this when I was assistant manager,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “And the last store manager… he kept things need-to-know, and apparently I never needed to know.”
“I’ve read the reports now. I’ve gone through the shrink logs, tracked the patterns, built out a response plan—but I’m still playing catch-up. And if you hadn’t filled me in about the theft rings, I’d still be flying blind.”
Something tightens in my chest. Not panic. Not incompetence. Just that cold, persistent pressure of responsibility pressing down.
“I can handle it. I will handle it. But it’s a lot. Coordinating staff, covering for gaps, prepping for the Christmas rush—which is always chaos even without the looming possibility of organized crime in the building?”
I rub my temples, feeling the early warning flare of a headache pulsing behind my eyes. “It’s just… a lot to hold all at once.”
Callahan is silent, and then he leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. The mattress shifts beneath his weight, bringing us closer together.
"You're not alone in this, Izzy."
I’m startled by the way he says it—so steady, so sure. His eyes hold mine, unwavering.
"I know it feels like all of this is on you, but it's not. You have me."
A lump forms in my throat. I look away, unable to meet his stare. The warmth of his words settles somewhere deep inside me.
"I don't know if that's enough," I admit, voice quieter.
The muscles in his face visibly tense.
"It is," he says. "Because I know what I'm doing. And you? You're smart as hell, and you give a damn about this store more than anyone else does."
I let out a shaky breath, the compliment catching me off guard.
Callahan tilts his head, watching me. "The old manager—he was an ass, wasn't he?"
I let out a half-laugh, half-scoff. "You have no idea."
He waits, so I continue, finding the words coming easier now.
"He was one of those old-school, traditional retail guys. The kind who thought women should be sales associates, not in management. He kept stuff from me on purpose."
Callahan’s expression darkens. "You deserved better than that."
I blink at him, caught off guard by how serious he sounds.
"I'm serious, Izzy," he says, leaning in slightly. "You're good at this. You belong in this position."
And the way Callahan says it—like it's not even a question, like it's a fact, like I'd have to be insane to doubt it—hits me in a way I wasn't expecting.
"I'm just afraid of failing," I admit, voice quieter.
"You won't," he says immediately.
I let out a shaky breath, rubbing my thumb over my knee. "I just—I put so much into this job. If I screw up, it's not just me that suffers. It's the whole store. It's the employees who rely on me. It's—"
"It's pressure," he finishes, watching me carefully.
I nod. "Yeah."
He falls silent, watching me closely, as if he’s trying to understand how much I’m holding together. Then, slowly, he exhales.
"Do you trust me?"
I freeze.
Because the way he says it—like it's a real question that actually matters—hits somewhere deep and unsteady inside of me. I lick my lips, shifting slightly on the bed. "I—"
His eyes hold mine, demanding honesty.
"Yes or no, Izzy."
I swallow, the question sinking into me.
And then, quietly, truthfully—
"Yes."
"Good," he says.
I frown slightly, uncertain. "Why?"
"Because," he says, leaning in just enough to steal the air from my lungs, "if you trust me, then you’ll trust me when I tell you that I’ll be there with you and I won’t let you fail.”
"Thank you," I say, softly, because what else am I supposed to say? The words feel too small, too fragile, compared to the enormity of his promise.
Then he leans back slightly, his expression shifting.
"So," he says, his words light to break the tension. "Are we done panicking, or do I need to find a paper bag for you to breathe into?"
I snort, rolling my eyes. "Shut up."
His smirk grows. "That's a yes."
I exhale, shaking my head. "Okay, I think that's enough Christmas PTSD bonding for one morning."
Callahan lifts an eyebrow, amusement tugging at his mouth. "Oh, we're calling it bonding now?"
I roll my eyes. "Trauma bonding, then."
He chuckles. "I feel like that applies to a lot of our conversations."
I laugh, shaking my head. "God, that's actually true."
"So, what do you do for the holidays?" he asks, shifting the conversation.
I shrug. "The usual. Big family gatherings. My parents are very Catholic, so tomorrow, I have to go to Palm Sunday Mass."
His brow lifts slightly. "You sound thrilled."
I groan. "Look, I don't hate church, but when you grow up with three overprotective brothers and a mom who still calls to remind you that Jesus is watching, it gets...exhausting."
Callahan chuckles. "And after Mass?"
I roll my eyes dramatically. "Big family dinner. Loud. Chaotic. My Nonna asks when I’m getting married, my mom criticizes my outift, my brothers attempt to grill me about my love life, and my dad just sits there looking mildly disappointed in all of us."
Callahan shakes his head. "Sounds fun."
I raise a brow. "Fun?"
He shrugs. "Better than spending it alone."
I pause, tilting my head. His words carry a weight that suggests experience.
"Is Evan going with you?" he asks.
I scoff. "No. He and my family don't get along."
Callahan’s mouth curves in a wry half-smile. "Gee, I wonder why."
I roll my eyes, but I don't argue. Because he's right. My family hates Evan. And honestly? They have a point. My brothers saw through him from day one, a fact I've been ignoring for far too long.
Before I can think too much about that, I shift the conversation. "What about you?"