He abruptly turns his gaze from me to Fallon, and I note that his eyes seem warm and human again. He interrupts her monologue without an ounce of remorse. “I’m sorry, Fallon. I had hoped to be able to stay longer, but I have another appointment. I can’t be late for it. Perhaps I’ll come by for a private tour of your gallery another time.”
Fallon gushes her gratitude. “It would be my sincerest honor, Mr. Byrne.”
“Please call me Carrick,” he says with a charming smile, sticking his hand out to her. They shake, then he turns to shake Blain’s hand as well. His body swings slightly toward the group that had been standing around in awe as he talked, and his gaze briefly moves over every single person there as he nods a farewell.
Every single person but me.
He pointedly refuses to look at me, and I’m baffled by the snub.
Worse yet… I’m actually sort of… hurt?
Which is ridiculous because I don’t know this man. Moreover, I have skin thicker than cowhide. My feelings and ego are secure. It would take much more than a rude man to cause an ache in my chest, yet I feel like I’ve been let down by the most important person in the world.
I shake my head because that’s utterly laughable.
He’s an ordinary man.
Nothing special.
I narrow my eyes at him. Opening myself up and focusing my energy, I look for something weird way beneath the surface I hadn’t picked up on before, but nothing stands out.
Fallon walks him to the door, shaking his hand one more time before pressing her business card into it. I watch as he steps onto the sidewalk only to be met by a short, balding man carrying an umbrella he holds high over Mr. Byrne’s head. There’s a dark sedan with tinted windows parked at the sidewalk and they disappear into the backseat, first Carrick Byrne and then the bald man, who deftly closes the umbrella before shutting the door.
Huh?
That was strange.
I take stock of my feelings. The ache in my chest is gone, and I must have imagined it. I’m completely nonplussed that, for whatever reason, Mr. Byrne did not like me.
And now that he’s gone, I can take my leave feeling secure that I have done my duty in supporting Fallon on her big night.
CHAPTER 5
Finley
I’ve worked so hard this week that I simply can’t feel guilty for taking a few hours of “me” time, so I’m getting in some gym time this morning before heading into work. I know a lot of people say working out gives them extra energy, but that’s never been the case for me. Instead, I sort of get a mellow sense of well-being after I’ve spent time pummeling and pounding things. I guess you can say it makes me feel zen, and I could use some of that right now.
This past week, I decided to throw all my extra energy outside of managing One Bean into figuring out how I could buy the place from Rich. True to her word, the day after her gallery showing, Fallon sat down with me and we made a list of options and potential resources. She pledged to give me twenty-five thousand dollars, which actually made me cry. It was a lot of money and after my tears dried up, I insisted it would be a loan with interest. She argued with me about that.
Once.
Then graciously accepted my offer to pay her back with interest.
But that left me still needing a hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars and as you can imagine, a coffee shop manager doesn’t have that type of financial portfolio. It meant I had to turn outward for help.
Over the last week, I’ve met with my bank about a business loan, but I need an appraisal on my house for collateral, which could take weeks. I considered, but quickly turned down, an offer by Fallon to ask Blain for the additional money—as a loan, of course, because he’d never just give it to me—but I didn’t want to be indebted to him in any way. I immediately discounted other lenders who could easily qualify me but would charge exorbitant interest rates I’d never be able to pay off in my lifetime.
In the end, I focused on my best shot at success, and that was applying for small business philanthropic grants. I filled out a total of five applications, and I was able to secure an appointment with one where I’d have to make a business pitch.
The organization is called Olympic Dreams, and I’m not sure if it’s because they grant huge wishes to want-to-be business owners or in honor of our beautiful Olympic mountains just to the west of Seattle. Before my interview this afternoon, I’m going to try to look up the answer to that question just in case they want to grill me about my knowledge of their organization.
But first… I fight to become zen.
A back fist catches me on the right temple. Luckily, my headgear absorbs most of the impact, and I manage to block a left Thai kick coming in quick succession. Following my block, I launch a flurry of punches at my opponent.
Jab, jab, cross, left hook, right uppercut.
Every single one is deflected, and I growl in frustration.
Planting my left leg hard, I raise my right knee and launch a push kick right at my opponent’s midsection. It’s caught in gloved hands and with a sharp twist, my body spins in the air for a brief moment before crashing down onto the mat, face-first.
Something pokes me in the back of my leg, and I glare over my shoulder to find my coach nudging me with his foot. “Get up.”
“I’m tired.” But my mouth guard makes it sound like um thard.
He pulls his own mouth guard out, bouncing lightly from foot to foot. “Tough shit. You’ve gotten lazy lately. No stamina. You need to build it back up.”
Rolling over on my back, gasping for air, I pull my mouth guard out before pleading for mercy. “I’ve been working my ass off, Duane.”
“Not here in the gym,” he retorts.
Duane’s been my MMA coach for the last three years and I used to train with him at least four times a week. Lately, I’m lucky if I get in one day because I’ve been so busy at work, and he’s right… my stamina sucks these days. I used to be able to hang with him for three-minute sparring rounds, but now I can barely survive a minute without getting knocked on my ass. The only thing that makes these failures bearable is the fact I really don’t do anything with these newly honed fighting skills. I don’t compete at karate and jujitsu like I did when I was younger. I was just a kid then, and I had no responsibilities that took priority. I had all the time in the world outside of school to practice, and, well, I had my dad always urging me on.
Now I don’t have the time to commit to serious competition training. No, the mixed martial arts is just for my own joy and satisfaction in knowing I could adequately defend myself if needed. Plus, it’s a great way to stay in shape, particularly because I eat way too many of One Bean’s chocolate croissants.
There’s also the added benefit that punching and kicking things is a huge stress reliever, which, in turn, makes me zen. Duane also teaches me fun stuff like how to use nunchucks, fight with staffs, and defend against knife attacks, so it’s always a good time.
Duane sits facing me, and I push up to my elbows to at least make eye contact. “Your head isn’t in it today,” he observes.
“I know,” I mutter, sitting all the way up and pulling at the Velcro straps holding my gloves on.
While he can be a tough-as-hell coach, Duane is probably the nicest person in the world. He genuinely cares about people and even when riding my butt to do better, it’s always done in a way that lifts me up rather than knocking me down. His brown eyes are soulful and watchful in a way that tells me he understands.