Christmas with a Bad Boy (Feuding Hearts Christmas)

6. Billionaire Gigaloo?!

SIX

BILLIONAIRE GIGALOO?!

SARAIYAH

I stare at the screen, my eyes widening as I scroll through the search results on Zale Fulton. Headlines scream at me, each one more outrageous than the last.

"Real Estate Mogul Zale Fulton Spotted with Supermodel at Cannes Film Festival."

"Inside Zale Fulton's Billion-Dollar Property Empire."

"Who is Zale Fulton's Latest Fling? A Look at the Billionaire's Dating History."

My mouth goes dry as I read the last one aloud to Malik. "Listen to this: 'Zale Fulton is no stranger to beautiful women on his arm. The real estate tycoon has been linked to a string of models, actresses, and socialites over the years.'"

"Da fuck!"

"I know. Listen to this: 'Sources close to Fulton claim he's a notorious commitment-phobe, more interested in conquests than relationships.'"

There's a pause on the other end of the line before Malik speaks. "Damn. Leave him alone. Not unless you just want to let him hit."

"Malik!"

"I'm serious. A man with options isn't trying to settle down. And you're not the second fiddle type."

"I know but…," I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to process everything I'm reading. "But there's something about him, Malik. Something different."

"Oh yeah? Like what? The fact that he's a billionaire trying to buy up half of SoHo?"

His words sting, but I can't deny the truth in them. "You think he's in on this whole Austin Henry thing? Trying to take over Ruth's Brew?"

Malik sighs. "I don't know, but it's too much of a coincidence, don't you think? This rich white dude shows up, all charming and mysterious, right when your family's business is struggling? Seems suspect to me."

I lean back in my chair, my mind racing. Could Zale really be working with the Henrys? Is this all just an elaborate scheme to get me to let my guard down?

"Maybe you're right," I murmur, my heart sinking. "Maybe I should just steer clear of him altogether."

"That's what I'm saying," Malik says, his voice softening. "Just ignore him and he'll find another willing subject."

"A willing subject? Why do you sound like an eighty year old man?"

"That's better than a thot, thirst trap, fuck buddy?—"

"Damn, okay. I get it."

We laugh, and when the laughter dies down Malik's tone is serious again.

"Don't invite that kind of drama in your life. It's not worth it."

I nod, even though he can't see me. Deep down, I know Malik is just looking out for me, but a part of me still wants to believe there's more to Zale than meets the eye.

"You're probably right," I concede, forcing a smile into my voice. "I should focus on keeping this place afloat, not getting tangled up with some billionaire playboy."

"Exactly," Malik says, relief evident in his tone. "Just stay away from that mess, okay? You've got enough on your plate without adding a dude like Zale Fulton to the mix."

"Yeah, you're right." I glance back at the screen, at the headlines painting Zale as some kind of heartless womanizer. "I'll steer clear. No more distractions."

But even as I say the words, a nagging voice in the back of my mind wonders if I'm making a mistake. If there's more to Zale than just the tabloid rumors and his bank account.

I shake my head, pushing those thoughts aside. Malik is right—I can't afford to get caught up in whatever game Zale Fulton is playing. Not when everything I've worked for is on the line.

"Thanks for keeping me grounded, Malik," I say, forcing a lightness into my tone. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

He chuckles, the sound warm and familiar. "Probably end up falling for the wrong guy, that's what. But don't worry, I've got your back."

I smile, grateful for his support, even if a feeling still lingers that I'm missing something when it comes to Zale.

But for now, I'll heed Malik's advice. I have too much at stake to get distracted by a man who's probably only interested in one thing: taking what's mine.

We end the call and he promises to stop by later in the week.

I head back out to the front, rolling up my sleeves. The afternoon crowd will be coming in soon, and there's work to be done. As I step behind the counter, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the polished espresso machine.

My hair is a mess of curls, barely contained by the colorful headwrap I threw on this morning. There are dark circles under my eyes, evidence of how I'm burning the candle from both ends—opening every morning and closing most night.

The other night I thought I'd take Austin on his offer to have drinks and get to know each other. But that was a bust until I met Zale. And now he's a certified gigaloo.

I laugh.

"What's so funny boss?" Jamal stops sweeping with a smile.

"Do you know what a gigaloo is?"

Jamal bursts out laughing. "No. That makes you sound like my grandma."

I laugh. "Yeah, I probably do."

We return to preparing for the afternoon rush. Jamal is the lobby, cleaning tables, and restocking napkins and condiments. While I clean and restock behind the counter.

I may not have all the answers yet, but I'm not giving up. Ruth's Brew is more than just a coffee shop—it's my way of being close to my grandmother. And I'll fight with everything I have to keep it alive.

Then like clockwork, my mind drifts to Zale again. I wonder if he'll stop by today, with his piercing blue eyes and that barely-there smile that makes my heart race. Part of me hopes he does to ask him about the headlines, while another part dreads it. I'm nothing like the woman I saw in those pictures.

I look back at my reflection, taking in the woman looking back at me.

My dark skin glows, a few freckles dotting my nose and cheeks. My thick, natural hair is braided down beneath this sew-in. I trace the curve of my full lips, the arch of my brows.

I'm attractive but I'm not a model or an actress.

I don't have the kind of polished, glamorous look that seems to attract men like Zale. I'm more of a jeans and t-shirt kind of woman with a comfortable pair of sneakers.

The women in those pictures were all long legs, high cheekbones, and perfectly styled hair. A far cry from my curvy, athletic build and low-maintenance style.

A small voice in my head whispers that maybe I'm not good enough for someone like him. That the attraction I feel is one-sided, fueled by some passing curiosity on his part. After all, what could a billionaire real estate mogul possibly see in a struggling small business owner like me?

I shake my head, pushing those insecure thoughts away. This isn't about measuring up to some arbitrary standard of beauty. I'm confident in who I am—a strong, independent woman who doesn't need a man to validate her worth.

Still, I can't deny the spark of interest I feel whenever Zale is around. The way his intense blue eyes seem to peer into my soul. I've never experienced that before.

We literally talked for hours at the bar, and the other night in his car, and if I hadn’t had to work, I could have stayed even longer.

Maybe he is just curious about being with a Black woman. Or maybe there's something more there, something deeper that neither of us is ready to acknowledge yet.

Either way, I'm not going to waste my time comparing myself to the women in his past. I am who I am—take it or leave it.

With a deep breath, I get back to work. And no matter what happens with Zale Fulton, I'm not about to let some passing attraction distract me from what really matters.

I head to my office and drop my cellphone in my desk draw. And when I return to the front my gaze lands on the small potted plant sitting near the register—Gertie, my grandmother's snake plant. A gift from her, a reminder to stay grounded and focused on what's truly important.

I gently run my fingers over one of Gertie's leaves, feeling a sense of calm wash over me. This is my path, my purpose. And while the idea of Zale is intriguing, I won't let it derail me from the dreams and goals I've worked so hard to achieve.

The afternoon passes in a whirlwind of customers and coffee. Before I know it, it's closing time. As I flip the sign on the door to 'Closed', I can't help but feel a mix of relief and exhaustion.

I start my closing routine, wiping down tables and stacking chairs. The quiet of the empty shop wraps around me, both comforting and suffocating. This place has been my whole world for so long. The thought of losing it terrifies me.

But there's another thought, one I barely dare to acknowledge even to myself. What if losing Ruth's Brew isn't the end, but a beginning? What if there's something else out there for me, something that's uniquely mine, not just an inheritance?

The idea sends a thrill through me, followed quickly by a wave of guilt. This shop was my grandmother's dream.

Who am I to want something different?

As I finish locking up, my eyes land on the photo of my grandmother that hangs behind the counter. She's smiling, her eyes twinkling with that mischievous spark I remember so well.

What would she say if she could see me now?

I touch the frame gently, feeling a lump form in my throat. "I'm trying, Grandma," I whisper. "I really am."

But am I trying to save the shop, or am I trying to save a piece of her? And is there even a difference anymore?

This is when the very grown me wishes Christmas wishes were true. That I could sit on Santa's lap and wish away bills, dilemmas, and crooked real estate moguls.

I stare at the small Christmas tree tucked in the corner of Ruth's Brew, its twinkling lights casting a warm glow over the empty shop. It's late, well past closing time, but I can't seem to leave. Not yet.

The holidays were always Grandma Ruth's favorite time of year. She'd go all out decorating the place, filling every nook and cranny with festive cheer. Garlands, lights, even a miniature village scene she'd set up on the counter. To her, this coffee shop was more than just a business—it was an extension of our home, our family.

A place to create memories and spread joy.

But since she's been gone, that joy has felt...muted. Like the colors have faded, the magic dimmed. I've kept up the decorations, more out of obligation than anything else. A hollow nod to tradition rather than a true celebration.

My fingers trace the wings of a Black angel on my tiny tree, its branches weighed down by ornaments Grandma collected over the years. I smile sadly, remembering how she'd insist we all gather 'round and trim it together, Christmas carols playing in the background. Those were simpler times, before I just stopped living and started grinding. Before I let keeping this place afloat consume me.

The truth is, this place hasn't felt the same without her. The magic is gone, replaced by a constant worry that I'm failing her. That I'm letting this beautiful thing she built slowly wither away.

"I miss you, Grandma," I murmur, the words catching in my throat. "I'm trying to keep your dream alive, but...I don't know if I'm doing it right anymore."

I sigh and after a day of adulting, I'm tired, my feet hurt and ready to go home.

I wish I could magically transport home, but I guess the subway will have to do.

I step out into the cold night air, locking the door behind me. The street is quiet, most of the shops already closed for the night. As I turn to leave, a movement catches my eye.

My heart leaps into my throat. For a moment, I think it's Zale, waiting for me. But as I look closer, I realize it's not him at all.

It's his driver, standing next to a sleek black car parked at the curb, the glossy exterior reflecting the city's lights like a dark mirror.

The man is dressed in a crisp black suit, his posture rigid and professional as he waits beside the rear passenger door. A light drizzle dampens the sidewalk, casting a faint sheen over the vehicle's flawless finish.

Despite the late hour, the driver's expression remains impassive, his eyes scanning the area with a vigilant gaze befitting someone in Zale Fulton's employ.

"Ms. Banks," the driver says, stepping forward. "Mr. Fulton arranged for transportation."

I stare at the car, my mind racing. He's not waiting because I told him to stay away. Duh .

My pride wants me to refuse, to maintain the distance I've been trying so hard to keep. But my feet, and the whisper in my heart that Zale's different, is begging me to… take the ride, sis .

That maybe it's okay to take this olive branch, to see where it might lead.

"Alright," I hear myself say. "Thank you."

The driver opens the door, and I climb inside the warm back seat wondering what Zale's playing at. Is this his way of showing he cares? Or is it just another power play, another way to keep me off balance?

Either way this is one hundred times better than the subway.

I sit back and whisper, "Thank you, Santa."