Chapter 21
LIAM
The conversation upstairs—the vulnerability she allowed me to see, how she trusted me with the ugly truth about her ex—was the first brick in a bridge we are building between us.
I’ve traded the suit for gray sweats and a white Henley.
I left the top buttons undone and rolled the sleeves up because the house runs warm.
She didn’t veto Henleys, but from the surly glances she’s throwing at my forearms and exposed throat, I might have violated another one of her unspoken dress code rules.
She should look in a mirror.
Her oversized sweater keeps sliding off one shoulder, exposing the pink strap of her bra.
I guess I should just be glad she’s wearing all her underwear now.
Peyton’s hair is piled on top of her head in a messy knot, with a few dark curls escaping to frame her face. It’s all very cozy. Very domestic.
The kind of scene this kitchen was built for and never got to witness.
I slice through the tender chicken roulade she made with Mrs. Gable, dragging a forkful through the herb-flecked sauce.
Across the island, Peyton is attacking her potatoes with gusto.
“This is incredible,” I say, gesturing with my fork. “You enjoy cooking?”
Gosh, small talk is excruciating.
“Yeah, but I’m not great at it. Mrs. Gable did the heavy lifting. I just chopped things.” Peyton takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “So how was your day?” she asks, then lifts her hands and adds, “No, sorry, I can’t do it.”
“Do what?”
“Eat dinner and talk about the weather like a boring married couple in the suburbs.”
“Okay, if you want a juicier topic…” I take a sip of water. “What did you think about the strategy I was discussing with my father earlier? The e-commerce push versus the local curation idea.”
I read her CV, and I want to see if her analytical skills are as impressive as they were on paper.
Peyton wipes her mouth with the cloth napkin and gives me her full attention.
“From a numbers perspective, your dad isn’t wrong,” she says.
“E-commerce is attractive on paper. Lower fees per transaction, broader reach, twenty-four-seven revenue potential.” She ticks points off on her fingers.
“But the inventory overhead required to guarantee quick shipping times is a massive hidden cost. You’d need regional fulfillment centers, sophisticated logistics, and a returns infrastructure that eats into margins fast. The big players already have that built out.
You’d be competing on their turf with a fraction of their scale. ”
I nod, slicing another piece of chicken. “Exactly. It’s a race to the bottom. How would you measure whether the regional curation strategy is working if we piloted it in select stores?”
“You need a baseline first.” The sweatshirt slips off her shoulder again; she ignores it this time.
“Current sales per square foot, average transaction value, customer retention rates. Then track the same metrics post-implementation.” She pauses, tapping a finger against her lips.
“But I’d also add new KPIs specific to the repairs model.
Workshop attendance. Repeat service customers versus one-time visitors.
The conversion rate from service visits to product purchases.
And qualitative feedback about the in-store experience. ”
Her answers are impressive. She’s a sounding board for everything I’m thinking.
“Yeah, for it to be a success, we need at least a 15 percent increase in customer lifetime value within the first year.”
She picks up her fork, twirling it absently. “Sure, and you can also factor in improved staff retention. Employees stay longer when they’re empowered as experts rather than just cashiers pushing whatever corporate stock.”
I finish my last bite and set the plate aside. “Staffing is my biggest concern, too. We’d need to hire and retain managers who know the local market. It’d be great to have metrics to also evaluate employees.”
“That’s feasible. And I’d still keep a centralized data dashboard to monitor performance across stores and pick national bestsellers.”
I’m about to ask how she’d model a decrease in overall sales against an increase in sales per square foot when her eyes pop wide.
“Wait, is this a sneak job interview?”
I smile. I don’t even try to hide it.
“I read the CV you sent over,” I say. “It was impressive.”
She blinks, processing.
“I need someone with your skill set to evaluate the new strategy,” I continue. “My father will be looking for any excuse to kill it. But he won’t be able to if I have solid data to prove I’m right.”
Her mouth opens, then closes.
“I understand if working for me on top of being married to me is too much,” I add quickly.
“The job would be separate from our arrangement. Your employment would never be linked to the marriage or the divorce. It would be a legitimate position with a competitive salary and benefits.” I hold her gaze.
“And if you decided to leave Rockwood Outdoors for any reason, I’d provide an excellent reference. ”
“Even if I suck at my job?”
I smirk. “I’ve a feeling you wouldn’t suck, or I wouldn’t have offered you the position.
But if you’d prefer something else, I can most likely find you a position with one of the large food distribution companies in the area.
You’d have a short commute. But less family drama.
And no risk of mixing business with our complicated personal situation. ”
“Can I think about it?”
“Of course.” I lean back on the stool. “But I’m going to need to fill the position soon. Now that my father has warmed up to the idea, I want to make the pilot happen. You have two weeks to decide.”
She scoffs. “Do you get a thrill from putting deadlines on everything?”
“It’s how my life works.” I shrug. “Decisions delayed are opportunities lost. If you want something, you move on it. If you don’t, someone else will.”
“Save your alpha-male energy. I’ll think about it.” She stands, clearing her dishes.
I grab mine and join her at the sink. I load the dishwasher while she puts away the leftovers.
The domesticity is surreal.
I’ve lived in this house for three years, but I’ve never cleaned up after a meal with someone else moving through the space beside me, our paths crossing and adjusting without collision.
Peyton leans against the counter when we’re done. “This is so weird.”
I close the dishwasher and turn to face her. “Mmm?”
“Sorry, I can’t get over the two of us playing house.”
It is weird. Two days ago, I was scrambling to explain a stranger’s presence to my father. Now I’m loading her plates into my dishwasher and offering her a job.
“I know I pushed for this arrangement.” I need to leave the door wide open for her, make sure she knows there’s no lock on it. “But I also want to make sure you know you can change your mind.”
Her brown eyes search mine, still guarded, yet asking.
“If this becomes too much, or you meet someone real, or you decide you’re done, you can leave. Anytime.”
Her lips part, but I press on before she speaks.
“No questions, no guilt, no lawyers making it difficult,” I promise. “I’ll make sure the postnup protects your parents regardless of how or when we end this marriage. I won’t keep you in a cage the way Matt wanted to.”
Peyton’s throat bobs as she swallows. She takes a step toward me.
“I appreciate that.” Her voice is thick. “But I’m not going anywhere until this works for both of us. I made a deal, and I keep my word.” She’s fierce in her determination, and inconveniently attractive. “But thank you for saying it.”
She squeezes my arm. The contact is brief, but enough to burn. It sears through the fabric of my Henley, branding the skin underneath. It’s a mindless, meaningless gesture, but my body reacts as if I’ve leaned the Ducati too far into a corner I can’t pull out of.
She rights it for me.
Peyton drops her hand, whispering, “Goodnight.”
She slips out of the kitchen, padding upstairs to our bedroom, where I’ll have to join her soon.
I stay put, listening to her footsteps fade.
When did I start caring so much about whether she felt trapped?
And why is the skin on my arm still tingling where she touched me?
The questions have no answers. Or maybe the answers are too tricky to examine.
I rub the spot where her fingers were, staring at the empty doorway. My pulse is thrumming in my ears, a rhythmic warning I’m choosing to ignore. I told myself I was leaning into the curve. But this feels more like I’ve already let go of the handlebars.