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He was gonna what now?
Low, he mumbles, “Probably it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get you your own bank account. Sorry. I’ve dragged my feet on that. I haven’t been thinking straight.”
“What would I put in a bank account?” I say.
“The money I’ve been setting aside as your pay, for whenever I manage to convince you that it’s rightfully yours. It’s shockingly helpful to have little hands on the team. They fit in places mine don’t, and the time it’s saved me not having to finagle with tools is insane. You’re careful and precise. An excellent worker. I owe you your due.”
I bolster, slapping the check in the air. “I thought we agreed that helping you was my contribution to the household.”
“No, we never agreed on that at all.” He arches a brow as his eyes follow the check I’m whipping around. “Sweetheart…let’s just assume a pathetic ten percent of that is yours. Add up all the jobs we’ve done together and tell me I don’t still owe you money.”
That…might be a point. But. “I’m sure some of your jobs aren’t this lucrative.”
He lifts his big beautiful shoulders and returns to organizing his screwdriver set. “Sure. I guess. Many are more, though, and most of them are at least that much. So. You need spending money. It’d be cruel not to let you have it, and you’re working hard for it. We can debate exact numbers if that’d make you feel better, but I have been keeping track and waiting for whenever it might make the most sense to tackle the chore.”
I sniff. “If paying me is a chore, don’t do it.”
Unamused, his eyes roll my way. “Setting up taxes and insurance is gonna be a chore, but legally it’s something I really shouldn’t be putting off. I guess I just figured you’d have your fun, get bored, and explore something else by now. My job, as you’ve now learned, isn’t remotely glamorous.”
It isn’t. But I like it. Getting my hands dirty, fixing things, building stuff. It’s more tangible than my father’s work. It’s like scrapbooking or journaling. I’m making stuff. There’s an art to it that I really like. I also really, really like how, when we’re home, we’re home. Wynnter has a work phone and a work email, and after six, he touches neither.
So, right now, on this glorious mid-November evening, I know he’s all mine. No interruptions. No sinking sensations of him saying oh, I’m getting a call followed by your mother and I have to go handle this followed by hours of me alone with staff members in a big, big, cold house.
I jut my lip.
“What’s that face?” he asks.
“I’d like to keep working with you.”
“Okay. You may.”
“I’d also like to get new business cards printed. Wynnter and December Winslow. Handyfolk. We do things, and also each other.”
He chokes on a laugh. “Absolutely not.”
“Can’t we just have a joint bank account? Isn’t that what married people have?”
“I mean. If you’d prefer that, sure. I’ll get it sorted when I tackle taxes and all that other crap. Let’s see when I can block off time for it…” Blowing out a breath, he retrieves his phone from his back pocket, swipes around, and mutters a curse. “Thanksgiving is next week. We gotta prep for that, baby.” Moving his tools and cleaning equipment out of his lap, he turns on his spinning stool and holds out his free arm.
After I oblige to join him, he tucks me into place on his lap and murmurs, “I’m free Tuesday, so I’ll handle this then.” He continues swiping around, phone screen visible to me as he rubs my arm, lulling me into the sense of security he always offers. “You wanna deal with being on all the accounts right off, or you wanna be more eased into it?”
“What do you mean?”
He shows me an app group on his phone with several banks. “I’ve got funds split out in multiple locations. You can’t touch all of them without repercussions, so I’d probably start you here.” He opens a first app, and I choke after he logs in. “This is my disposable, accessible income.”
What?
What?
What does he mean by that?
It’s…
“That’s your disposable income?” I whisper.
“I don’t do much.”
“That’s hundreds of thousands of dollars.”
