Page 98 of The Man I Hate

I scowled. “You think so?”

As if pondering the subject, he cocked his head to the side and gazed down at the floor. Following a short pause, he looked up. “Let’s do it.”

“It’s going to be a lot of work,” I warned.

“For the right woman,” he said. “It’ll be worth it.”

Reliving the moment for Marge’s enjoyment was as satisfying the real thing.

Still looking right at Braxton, I raised my brows in false wonder. “Am I the right woman?”

“If that kiss is any indication,” he replied. “You sure are.”

“Alright,” I said with a smile. “Let’s do it.”

Marge clapped her hands. “I think this is cause for a celebration,” she said. “I have a cobbler in the oven and ice cream in the freezer.”

Braxton flashed me a grin and then looked at Marge. “I need to finish my plate of food first.”

“Well. Get to it,” Marge said, standing from her seat. Attempting to hide her ear to ear grin, she gestured toward the kitchen. “Anna, would you like to come help me with the cobbler?”

“Sure.”

I stood at her side as she prepared bowls of peach cobbler with vanilla ice cream. When she was finished, she wiped the countertop free of crumbs.

“It seems men are always slow to realize what’s in front of them,” she whispered. “Sometimes they need a little nudge. I’m just pleased my plan worked out.”

“Plan?” I asked.

She glanced over her shoulder. Braxton was cleaning his plate. She patted her hand against the stock pot of noodles.

“The chicken and noodles, Honey.” She picked up two bowls and nodded toward the third. “Like I said, they’re a cure-all.”

I had no intention of ever admitting anything to the contrary. I picked up the bowl of cobbler and smiled. “They sure are.”

Braxton

When arguing or negotiating, I had a policy. I did so in person. It was never over the phone, by text, or email. The pandemic forced me to reconsider my methods.

I was sitting at the kitchen island in front of my laptop, negotiating and arguing over the phone with Pratt.

“It’s not hard to understand if you stop talking for a minute,” I explained. “Are you willing to shut the fuck up and pay attention?”

Pratt sighed into the speaker of his phone. “I heard you, asshole. Doesn’t mean I agree with what you said.”

“In hindsight,” I said. “It’s the right thing to do. Just shift the money to the business account.”

“I understand the fifty grand for the sewing machines. I’m not arguing that,” he said. “But I’m not following you on the ventilators. Where’s that money come from?”

I’d advised Pratt that we needed to take the $100,000 in revenue from the sewing machines and purchase N95 masks from a source I’d found in Hawaii. I was then going to donate the masks to the local hospitals.

In addition, mainly because I felt like an inconsiderate prick for profiting on the pandemic, I wanted to donate 6 ventilators to the hospitals. They were going to cost another $100,000 which was coming out of our pockets.

“It comes out of your wallet,” I said. “Look at it as a donation. Doing shit like this is supposed to make people feel good.”

“That’s where I was afraid you were headed,” he muttered. “You’re giving the same $50,000?”

“Actually, I’m giving $57,420, to be exact,” I said. “In addition to my half of the sewing machine money.”