Chapter 11 #2
He’s not even trying to resist me, his attention focused on Clive, who’s a sweaty, begging puddle on my black-and-white-checkered floor.
“We seem to be having a miscommunication issue. What did you say?” Fitz’s eyes are scary dark.
“I, uh… no, uh… f—”
The boot grinds into his arm.
“Fitz, please. Someone’s going to call the police.”
“What did you say?”
“Uh… no, uh… no goddesses. She’s too good for me.”
“Mm-hmm. That’s what I thought you said. I used to play football in college, see.” Fitz taps the side of his head. “Took a couple bad hits to the head. Messes up your brain sometimes, makes you a little violent and crazy. You think you hear things.”
Clive groans when Fitz takes off his foot.
“Stay the fuck away from my girl. She has a number of cafés in the area. Know where they are, because I don’t want you within five blocks of any of them. I’ll know.”
Clive gulps as he scrambles up.
Fitz hands him his flowers. “And next time, I’ll make sure you’re not able to jerk off that tiny little pathetic excuse of a dick.”
I don’t miss the furious look of humiliation and anger Clive throws at me as he leaves.
“And, you.” Fitz turns to snarl at me. “I own your shop. Therefore, I own you. Don’t you fucking forget it.”
The word fuck in that deep voice? Lord. Help. Me.
For a second, I almost—almost—believe it’s real, that Fitzgerald Svensson isn’t playing some cruel trick on me.
But of course he is. Fitz is practically licking his chops, pleased. “I like watching them squirm like a plump worm on a hook.”
“Please don’t use that kind of language around me.”
“Worm?”
“Plump,” I hiss out.
He raises an eyebrow at me. I’m angry, overwhelmed, a little embarrassed.
“I don’t need you. I handle my own business,” I snap.
“She does need you,” Carolina says. “We all do.”
“That’s a funny way of saying thank you.” Fitz’s mouth twitches.
“Oh my gosh.” Carolina fans herself.
“I’m assuming behavior like this is why she doesn’t have a boyfriend?” he asks her.
“Yep.” Carolina nods, totally under his spell.
“I don’t have a boyfriend because I am not built for a soft man.
I don’t listen, am mean, will talk back, talk shit for fun, and have about five different personalities.
All of them bad.” I know I sound shrill.
I know I sound mean. But that’s better than flirting, than letting him see I am a teeny-tiny bit attracted to him. “You need to leave.” It’s abrupt.
“Just a word of dating advice,” he says as I point him to the door. “I know this is counterintuitive, but maybe you should raise your standards, Creampuff.”
“Oh, you mean like you?” I spit out.
“I did just save you from getting kidnapped and skinned. Maybe make me a sandwich for my troubles. Add in a free creampuff. Extra plump and gushing.”
The smirk plays on his mouth. I could slap him. Or kiss him.
“I hope you’re not implying things about a woman’s vagina.”
Usually men freeze up when I use the V-word.
Not Fitz.
“Why? Is it nice and plump and”—he pauses, lips parted— “dripping?”
If it wasn’t before, it is now. Curse my mom for throwing out all my undies.
“Yes,” Carolina swoons.
He flutters two fingers under my chin before I have time to react.
“Might want to go get that looked at then, cream pie. Or puff. You might have caught something nasty from your date.”
“You’re lucky you have that pretty face,” I shoot back, “because you really wouldn’t have gotten far in life without it.”
There’s that stupid, sexy, shit-eating grin again. “It’s nice when a woman wants me for my body instead of my money.” He winks.
There’s that flutter in my heart.
He swipes the door open right as a crying blonde is fumbling in her purse. Kathy almost runs into him.
“I got you,” he murmurs.
He steadies her as she exclaims in surprise, her big blue eyes wide, her cheeks pink from the crying. She’s like a fairy princess with the tears glimmering on her eyelashes.
I hate my sister.
No, you love your sister, I remind myself fiercely.
Fitz cocks his head, clearly intrigued. “Younger sister, I presume.” The prettier is silently implied.
The flutter dies and decays in my gut.
They look so fucking perfect together, just the perfect couple. Posed there in the doorway, their hands almost touching, they look like they could be on the cover of one of the romance books that I used to sneak from Gran’s collection.
And maybe if I was watching this on the Hallmark Channel, I’d swoon at the love at first sight.
But this is not a Netflix rom-com. It’s my life, dammit, and it’s the same rehashed story of my sister getting every single guy I ever liked, whether she wanted him or not.
“Are you all right?” Fitz asks hesitantly. “You’re crying.”
There’s none of the bite, the teasing, that I—once again, stupid me—almost mistook for flirting. This is how a guy treats a girl he’s interested in. Like she’s a precious piece of porcelain.
“Here, come sit down. I think your sister will make you some tea.”
“She won’t. She’s mad at me.” More wailing from Kathy.
Fitz doesn’t even look at me. It’s like I don’t exist.
He offers Kathy the literal hand-embroidered handkerchief he has in his pocket. I’m going to burn it.
“What happened?” he asks gently.
“That’s my sister. I’ll take care of her,” I bully in. “Just leave.” I shove him out the front door then lock it and flip the sign over. I don’t want to see another human being today, especially not him.
“Sorry, Winnie.” Kathy sobs pathetically. Olive hurries over with tea. “I just couldn’t today, Winnie. I just couldn’t be my bubbly self.”
“Sometimes you have to suck it up. Job hunting’s not easy.” The things I do for my sister, who is currently not helping and is instead crying over her ex-boyfriend.
“Knox’s mom won’t talk to me. She keeps sending me to voicemail, and all the other WAGs—they blocked me on Instagram.” Kathy hiccups.
Carolina dabs at her face with napkins. “Yeah, the great Pittsburgh troll? Thank god, good riddance.”
“My friends won’t talk to me,” she sniffles.
“I bet it’s because the troll’s alienated all your friends,” Darolina tells her. “That’s why.”
“But why would they listen to her?” Kathy’s shocked. “I was helpful. I babysat their kids, and pet-sat, and I’d come over to help them when they were sick.”
“Because they’re bitches, and not the cool kind. They were using you,” Carolina explains. “They didn’t respect you, because Knox wouldn’t marry you or give you a baby.”
Kathy’s sad. “Even if I do get engaged, they won’t care. They are out of baby mode. I don’t have anything to my name. I don’t even have a podcast. He didn’t even let me have an Instagram account. Oh! That’s what I can do.” She brightens. “A podcast.”
“I mean, you’d need somewhere to record, sponsors—probably ShiftGrid and HarborMade. I invested in their companies,” I rattle off. “They’d probably do me a solid.”
“Aaaand now Winnie is in fix-it mode. Kath,” Carolina says firmly, “Winnie is not helping you produce a podcast. She is busy. There was a man in here who was interested in Winnie, and you are giving her an excuse not to invest in her romantic future.”
“Clive just wanted free sex.”
“Um, no. Clive needs to be thrown into a pit of raptors. But Fitz was totally hitting on you.”
“Guys like him don’t hit on girls like me. And I’m glad,” I argue. “I don’t want to cater to a man like that. You see where it got my sister. I craved a spot at a table I should have fucking flipped.”
My sister sees right through it. “You like him! You like him,” she squeals.
“Fine.” I spit. “Just a little bit.”
“Oh, you should totally ask him out.” Kathy is sincere.
Right. Because for her, it’s just that easy.
After taking pity on the stragglers waiting outside, I let them in, tell Olive I’ll finish her shift, and send Kathy with Carolina.
Now it’s just me and Fidget in the empty, half-lit café, listening to the drizzle of the rain until finally, it’s time to leave.
And I can’t even go home to wallow in my self-loathing, to ruminate on the past, because my freaking family is in my sanctuary.
“That’s such a good word, ‘ruminate,’” I tell Fidget as I coax her over the puddles.
I grab the steering wheel, scream to release my stress like that self-help girl on Instagram tells you to do, then yelp when something pricks my finger.
“What the hell?” After fumbling for the overhead light, I wince in the brightness. Woven through my steering wheel, not yet wilted from the chilly Seattle-night air, is a dark-red rose. It perfumes the car.
There’s a note.
It’s from him.
Typewritten, it has that sharp scent of fresh ink alongside the slight scent of leather. I run my fingers over the indents from the typewriter.
I prefer my flowers with thorns.