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“I hate him, too,” I said, seething.
“What are you going to do?”
I frowned, grabbed the short sticks of pasta that we offered as compostable coffee stirrers and started shoving them in their little container. “I’m not marrying him, that’s for fucking sure.”
“Good.” She turned away. “Don’t listen to him. The t-shirts are great. Makes your boobs look spectacular.”
I humphed because I was too angry to outright agree.
Next, I grabbed a rag and started wiping down the counter, but it didn’t need it. I needed something to do with my hands.
“Oh, Eve.”
I turned. “Yeah?”
“I put some of this in his coffee.” She held up a bottle of powdered laxative and waggled her eyebrows.
My mouth dropped open, and I snagged it from her. It was half empty. “Where did you get that?”
“My aunt is having a colonoscopy in a few days and needs this as part of the prep, which sounds pretty awful. I picked it up for her at the store on the way in.” She eyed the plastic bottle and frowned, probably at the idea of getting a camera up her butt. “I’ll have to get a replacement bottle, but it’s so worth it.”
“Why on earth do you have it here behind the counter?” I wondered.
She tipped her chin down, gave me a stare. “Just say thank you.”
I envisioned Cheney on the toilet for the foreseeable future and I had to smile.
“Thank you.” I gave her a hug, the laxative bottle between us. “You’re such a good friend.”
11
EVE
A few days later,June came in at eleven, as usual, and slapped the newspaper down on the counter.
“I solved your problem,” she said, coming around the counter to join me.
“Oh? I’m not stripping.” Since Cheney had come in, we’d brainstormed all my earning options. She’d tossed out stripping as a possibility since I had really nice boobs. She’d been joking, although my boobs were a good feature.
She eyed me, then pointed at the paper.
I grabbed it up, scanned it. “The parade of lights?” The front page talked about the annual winter parade that happened the first Saturday in December. “We’re always open for that.”
“Flip it over,” she said, washing her hands at the sink.
I did. “Oh.”
“James Corp is offering low-interest small business loans to locals,” she explained. “It’s an amazing opportunity for the community. You should apply. I’m sure you’ll get accepted and get that capital infusion you need.”
For the first time in days, I felt… hope. I checked with my lawyer and my father had made the dickhead the executor of my trust fund. I couldn’t touch a dime of it without Cheney’s approval–which I wasn’t going to get–before I turned thirty. The only other option was to marry and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be him.
I was not going to be a trophy wife. I wasn’t going to wile away my life. I wanted to work. To go to bed at night exhausted because of what I’d accomplished, not because I’d shopped too much. If I was going to marry someone just for the hell of it, it’d be Mr. Big Dick because I might as well get something out of the arrangement.
Steaming Hotties income was good, but not good enough to float rent. Or the bills for coffee beans. Paper towels. I couldn’t pay June or any of the other part-timers for much longer.
“Bridget told me about this, and I completely forgot.” I spun and faced her. “I’ve already got a contract with Mav to supply the coffee for the inn when it opens. He’s seen my business plan.”
She pointed at the paper in my hand. “You definitely have to do it. Then you won’t have to strip.”
