Page 32 of Enzo
“Then what the helldowe call him?”
I slammed the filing cabinet drawer shut harder than necessary. The sharp bang echoed through the room, and for a second, silence followed. Jamie blinked, Rio raised an eyebrow, and Enzo was shocked.
“How about you all shut the hell up and let me work?”
Silence. Then, a snort from Rio.
“Yeah, that one’s not gonna stick either,” Jamie muttered, and I heard them go right back to debating, as if I wasn’t there.
Assholes.
Head high, I grabbed everything I needed and headed into Logan’s office, placing the matched orders on the side of the desk. Logan was hunched over the old office computer, fingers moving across the keyboard, his face set in concentration. He didn’t look up at first, too absorbed in his work. I hesitated, ready to slip out, but then his voice cut through the quiet.
“Robbie, do you have a minute?”
My stomach dropped. This was it. I hadn’t been able to handle one freaking argument and he was going to tell me my time at Redcars was done. That me using their filing room as a tiny apartment was over, and I needed to leave and find something else to do. Panic clawed at my chest. This was my safe place—the only one I’d ever really had. If I lost this, where would I go? What if there wasn’t anywhere else? Where would I go? I’d always meant to leave the city, but where? Montana maybe? Be a cowboy? Was there work for a five-eight guy with no muscles to speak of? Did random, sexy cowboys need someone to sort invoices and recall part numbers accurately? Probably not.
“…so if that’s okay with you?” Logan’s voice broke through my spiraling thoughts.
“Huh?” I blinked at him.
He looked at me. “Can you?” He waved his hand as though he knew I hadn’t been listening.
I cleared my throat and tried to refocus. “You want me to…what?”
Logan smiled, something softer than I expected. “Are you okay?”
I was used to people asking me if I was okay, used to nodding and brushing it off. But I wasn’t okay. Not really. Two steps forward, one step back—that was what healing felt like. And today, I was stumbling more than I wanted to admit.
“Sure,” I lied, forcing the word past the lump in my throat. I was good at lying—had been for years. It was easier to pretend, to plaster on a mask of indifference rather than admit that my chest was still tight, that my hands hadn’t quite stopped shaking. Easier to let them believe I was fine than to risk the discomfort of the truth.
“Are you okay to sit down and chat?” Logan was so kind, it made my chest ache—made me want to cry. Fucking idiot.
What if he asked me why I got all upset and locked myself away? What if he made me talk about my feelings? No way was I going there. He patted the back of the old chair, and I noticed the plastic was more cracked than it had been yesterday when I’d caught my T-shirt on a jagged edge. Probably where it hit the wall during the argument. The thought sent a fresh wave of unease through me and. I swallowed hard and forced myself to sit, fingers curling against my jeans to keep them from shaking.
“‘Chat’?” I asked.
“If that’s okay.”
I hesitated for a moment before complying, my mind still catching up to what was happening. My thoughts were still tangled in everything that had happened earlier, the lingering weight of panic making it hard to focus.
Logan leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his jaw before exhaling. His gaze met mine, steady and serious. “Thing is I need some help with the accounts. Keep things running. And you already know the system inside and out.”
I blinked. That wasn’t what I expected. “I do? You want me to…”
He leaned forward in his chair, his gaze steady, his expression open. “I want you to take an official job, Robbie. You already keep this place from falling into a chaos of paper and crap. You’re good at it.”
I sat there, stunned. I’d expected rejection. Instead, Logan was asking me to be something more.
“But I have bad days.”
“Then you work the next one.”
To step up like I’d been asking him to let me. Like I’d been wanting to prove I could. However, stepping up to deal with customers and handle face-to-face interactions was a disaster. Answering the phone turned into a mess of stammered words and second-guessing myself. But this? Organizing, spreadsheets, finances—I could do that in my sleep. I didn’t need to deal with anyone outside of the four men in this garage—no strangers, no pressure, just numbers and logic, things that made sense.
And this meant I had a place here after all.
“Yes,” I said without hesitation. Then, “Hell yes.”
