Page 14 of Welded Defender
Phil shifts, thrown off by how unbothered she is. “I’m not paying this today. I’ll settle up next week.”
“Policy is payment on pickup,” she replies, sliding the terminal closer. “We take debit, credit, or I can set you up with a two-instalment plan. First one clears today.”
He leans farther over the counter, crowding her space. “Or I wait for the owner and talk to him.”
My jaw clenches tight enough to crack a molar. Three strides and I'm beside the desk, my palms landing on the wood with a soft thud. The muscles in my forearms cord as I lean my weight forward. "You're talking to my front desk." The words barely rise above the hum of the shop behind us, but Phil's eyes flick to mine, then drop. "What she says is shop policy."
Phil barks out a laugh he thinks sounds confident. “Well look who it is. Thought maybe I can get a reasonable answer.”
“She gave you a reasonable answer,” I say. My tone stays level, but I shift enough that there’s no way he can keep leaning over her. “Card or instalment plan. Your choice.”
Across the counter, Marcy’s eyes cut to me—surprise, then heat. I ignore it and hold Phil’s stare.
He wilts first. “Fine.” He slaps his card down. “Run it.”
I slide the terminal back to Marcy, and she completes the sale, professional as ever. The slip prints; she tears it clean and sets it before him with a pen.
“Signature at the bottom,” she says. “Thank you.”
Phil scribbles so hard the pen digs through. He pockets the card, scoops up the keys, and stomps out. The bell jangles, the door swings shut, and the lobby exhales.
For half a heartbeat, I think we’re good.
Then Marcy looks at me. “I had it handled,” she says. Not loud. Not sharp. Just precise enough that it lands harder than a shout.
The words hit the place in me that’s been coiled since this morning. “He was crowding you.”
“And I was handling it.” She sets the terminal back in its cradle, movements neat, contained. “He was paying.”
“He wasn’t paying until I?—”
Her eyes flash, steel-grey steady. “He was about to. You stepping in told him I needed you to fix it.”
The counter edge presses into my palms. I force myself to ease off it, to breathe. “I didn’t like the way he leaned over you.”
“I didn’t like it either,” she says, softer now, but she doesn’t look away. “But I need to be able to handle my own fights. Especially the easy ones.”
Easy. Phil Henderson. I huff out a breath that’s not quite a laugh. “Phil’s not easy.”
“He was today.” A beat. “Let me have the win.”
My jaw tightens. I rub my palm over my bearded jaw and nod once. "You're right." The words scrape my throat like I've swallowed a handful of pennies. I want to step closer, but plant my boots firmly where they are. "I'm sorry. I should've waited until you asked."
She nods. “Thank you."
We stand there, the hum of the shop threading between us—impact gun whining, radio faint through the bay door. I want to reach out, to touch her wrist, to show I wasn’t trying to take anything from her, but I keep my hands at my sides.
“For what it’s worth,” I say, quieter, “you were… really good. Phil’s been making a sport of dodging us for years. You read him clean.”
Something like pride flickers through her. It softens the line of her mouth. “Thanks.”
From the doorway, Wes appears like he’s been there long enough to catch the vibe, but not the words. He lifts his brows, grin cocked. “Phil pay without a blood sacrifice?”
I nod. “Miracles do happen.”
“Only if that miracle’s name is Marcy,” Wes winks.
Marcy ducks her head but I don’t miss the blush that seeps up her neck into her cheeks.
