Labor Dispute, Hold the Mayo
Maisie
The Great Boyfriend Show was already two days behind me, and Devon and Sierra had yet to resurface.
No surprise visits to the shop.
No strolling past, hand-in-hand.
No awkward encounters over fudge or ice cream.
And yet, I still couldn't relax.
It wasn't because of them. It was because of him .
More accurately, it was because of myself. I felt like some kind of sweatshop miser, letting Griff work for free. That was the problem.
Okay, it wasn't exactly free. He was technically working for food and bike access. But the longer this went on, the more lopsided it felt, like I was tricking him – or worse, taking advantage.
I wasn't okay with that.
So I did what any responsible business owner would do. I gathered up the tax forms to make all of this official – a W-4, the I-9, the whole shebang. I'd even printed off a blank direct-deposit form, just in case.
I arrived at the shop early and laid out the forms on the same back table where I'd placed the baked goods just a few days ago. And then I waited.
Just like the other day, I didn't have to wait long before the door flew open and Griff stood there looking at me. He cocked an eyebrow. "Open again ?"
Obviously, he meant the door, which I'd left open barely a crack. "Yeah. Because I was right here."
This made him frown. "You think that makes it better?"
"Of course it makes it better. Nothing was unattended."
"Yeah, except for you."
I gave a confused shake of my head. "What?"
He gave me a serious look. "You know what I mean. The world's full of crazies, no need to invite trouble."
I tried for a joke. "If anyone's trouble, it's you.
" I sealed it with a laugh, but I wasn't completely kidding.
Standing there in dark denim and rolled sleeves, with his tattoo peeking out on his forearm, Griff looked like a different breed of trouble, the kind that could break your heart without skipping a beat.
His sharp eyes skimmed the room with a quiet confidence that would've been comforting if only it didn't feel like overkill. Seriously, what was he expecting? Someone with a hatchet to come screaming out of the shadows?
There were no shadows, because for one thing, it was morning for God's sake.
Finally, he said, "Just keep it closed, alright?"
"But – "
"Call it a favor." He flashed me a sudden grin. "You owe me, right?"
I knew exactly what he was referring to – that whole fake-boyfriend show he'd put on for Devon and his bride-to-be. Technically, I'd already "paid" him by confessing that Devon was my ex.
But who was I kidding? I wasn't fully paid up, not by a longshot.
Even when it came to information, it's not like I'd told Griff the whole humiliating story of how I'd been cheated on and dumped.
And I sure as heck hadn't mentioned how my romantic replacement was the same blonde who'd been tormenting me in my own shop.
But knowing Griff, he'd guessed plenty. He was smart. Really smart. I knew that just from watching him work.
Right. Work.
Back to business. I cleared my throat, recalling why I'd come in early. "I know I owe you, which is why I brought in paperwork."
He moved forward and shut the door behind him. "What paperwork?"
I pointed. "That paperwork. We need to fill it out so I can pay you for real."
His mouth tightened as he glanced at the papers. For a guy getting upgraded from sandwiches to a salary, he looked anything but thrilled. "You're already paying me."
"You mean the sandwiches? Come on. We both know that's not enough."
" And the bike."
"It's still not enough."
He crossed his arms. "It's what we agreed."
"Yeah, but…" I sighed. "You want the truth?"
"Sure, hit me."
"I didn't realize how much you'd be doing – or the fact you'd be so terrific at it."
His mouth twitched. "Is that a complaint?"
"No." I rolled my eyes. "It's a compliment, obviously."
"But…?"
"But in the beginning, I wasn't even sure you could do it…the job, I mean."
His eyebrows lifted. "Is that so?"
"Well…not everyone is great with bikes."
He smiled. "You're telling me."
I refused to be distracted by his smile, even if it was pretty darn distracting. "Just listen, okay?" I took a deep breath and tried to put my thoughts in order. "In the beginning, you sold this as a win-win, remember?"
He nodded. "I remember."
"But the only one winning is me."
He frowned. "How do you figure?"
"Even if I made you a hundred sandwiches—"
"Don't forget the bike."
"I'm not," I insisted. "But let's be real here. I'm totally taking advantage."
He didn't even blink. "Nope."
I gave him an exasperated look. "Yep."
"Nope," he said again.
I resisted the urge to repeat my "yep" on an infinite loop until he got bored and gave up. But I had the sneaky suspicion that Griff could hold out a lot longer than I could.
I tried again. "In the beginning, I wasn't even sure you'd last. But here you are."
"Here I am," he agreed, looking less than agreeable.
I gestured toward the paperwork. "So, I'm just saying…we should probably make it official."
He dropped his arms and sauntered forward until he was within easy reach of the forms. His hand hovered above the papers before slowly returning to his side. With a shake of his head, he told me, "Forget it."
"Why?"
"Because there's no need."
"To fill out the forms? Of course they're needed, unless…" I bit my lip. "You're not saying…you want cash instead?" I considered the risks. "I can see why you would – no taxes and all – but I don't want to get in trouble, legally I mean."
"Me neither."
"So…you're saying, what exactly?"
"That I don't want it."
I squinted in confusion. "You don't want money?"
His jaw flexed. "If I wanted money, I'd have said so."
"But I can't let you work for free."
The more I talked, the less happy he looked. "We just covered this."
"Yeah, but it makes no sense." I tried to laugh. "You're not, like…in witness protection or anything?"
His voice grew flat. "Witness protection."
"It was a joke." Or at least, I was pretty sure it was a joke . "But seriously," I persisted, "I don't even have your full name."
"Yeah? And I don't have yours. Not a big deal."
"But that's not true," I protested. "My last name's Pickett – just like it says on the sign." To drive the point home, I pointed to the lettering on my own shirt. "See? Pickett's Pedals – which makes me Maisie Pickett."
He shrugged. "Yeah, well, not everyone wears their name on their chest."
"What kind of answer is that?"
He said nothing. But his look said it all. It's the only answer you're gonna get.
I couldn't help but groan. "Oh, my God. You are in hiding, aren't you?"