Page 25 of Croc Food

“Who lays out the slippers and pipe?” Bitsy demanded as chickens began to peck at my feet. “Elves?”

“Women like doing chores,” my boss said sternly, and oh god, how did this man manage to run a major company? “They evolved to serve men.”

“That’s bullshit,” I put in, trying to shoo the animals back out onto the the porch. “And you didn’t say exactly how traditional you wanted a wife so this is your fault.”

“Young man,” said Mr. Van Buren, “you are making a mockery of all my cherished principles. It is clear that you are not in fact a good home manager, and therefore you will not be getting the VP job.”

CHAPTER 11

Chad

The ride back to the office was very stiff and quiet, with only Zach in a good mood whistling Take Me Home, Country Roads in the background.

Well, I’d fucked my chances good and proper, but the more I thought about it, the angrier I got.

After all, damn, he had praised everything traditional. Not Bitsy’s fault he wasn’t clear.

I was going to go tender my resignation, because I didn’t want to work for that old ghoul any longer.

After all, he’d always said shit like ‘come over to my house anytime and see how a MAN is supposed to manage his household.’

Well, shit, that’s an open invitation if you asked me.

It was a nice, mild night when I rolled up and all the doors and windows of their Craftsman were wide open.

But the first thing I heard had me staggered.

“Sweetheart, I hope this hot chocolate is to your liking,” I heard a mild voice say. A voice so sweet, so kind, so helpful, so positively begging for approval, that at first I could not believe it was my boss’.

But as I stared incredulously in the open window, I had to accept it.

Is this what he’d wanted to demonstrate to all his employees?

Mr. Van Buren hard at work in the kitchen, sweating absolute bullets, as he sprinkled seasoning into some soup like a madman.

“Not too much pepper, my dear,” a loud, carrying voice said, and I craned my neck to see a formidable old lady knitting in front of the TV, quite powerful-looking, with iron gray hair pulled back into a massive bun.

Well, surely now he was going to bust out with all that he-man Neanderthal shit he preached every damn day at work, right?

But no, to my astonishment my boss carefully plated the soup, swirling a chutney in a complicated pattern around the bowl, then bringing it to his wife’s TV tray like an offering to a goddess.

Now what the hell?

She barely looked at him, taking a delicate sip of the soup as he waited in anticipation, Mr. Van Buren’s feet fairly dancing up and down to see what she thought of it.

“This is acceptable,” she said politely as his face fell.

“Acceptable, but⁠—”

“Quite enjoyable,” she assured him. “I do not regret putting it in my mouth. Now run along and don’t forget to do the dishes.”

“Of course, of course my dear,” Mr. Van Buren said hastily, hopping over to the kitchen, and I was so gobsmacked by this turn of events that I forgot to duck and he saw me.

Fuck.

Too late to run as he hurried around the side door and walked crablike over to me.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Mr. Van Buren demanded.