Page 20 of One Big Little Secret

“I think he’s just busy, Arlo. Also, you did spill your drink all over him.” I take his hand, leading him to the elevator. “Remember, you can’t call him Mr. Grumpybutt anymore.”

“But heisgrumpy.”

Sigh.

“Even if he is, we’re polite to people, okay?Be nice.”

“Nice, yeah. Or you don’t say anything at all.” He recites it from memory.

It’s a lesson I don’t recall teaching him, but he’s somehow internalized it, which is fine by me.

“That’s right, big guy. Good job.” I lead him back to the meeting room and hand him a pen and more paper. Next time—if our lovely babysitter ducks out on us again—I’m bringing his tablet.

Screw the recommended screen time.

When I’m at work, I need to focus, and he needs something to do for entertainment besides drawing unflattering pictures of my boss.

The Grumpybutt portrait is still on the table, right where we left it.

Wincing, I give it a quick glance as I fish my laptop out of my bag. Today was supposed to be an introduction, but after this morning, Ineedto make a good impression.

Or, you know, try to paper over this disaster.

Ideally, without letting him know he’s been a daily factor in my life for half a decade.

This string of horrendous luck has to end sometime, doesn’t it?

Maybe I’m due for some good.

Maybe he’ll come into work tomorrow and see what a fab job I’ve done and forget about today.

I am, apparently, a girl who daydreams miracles.

While Arlo scribbles—drawing more pictures of Patton Rory breathing fire, no doubt—I look over the operating fund. Even our quick, messy tour showed me this place specializes in personal touches.

The Cardinal aims to make people feel special, just like the smaller properties owned by Higher Ends.

With that in mind, I check the small part of our funds that hasn’t been allocated to upkeep. There’s just enough in the flex budget to add a few little odds and ends.

Complimentary beer, wine, and nonalcoholic beverages.

Fresh flowers in every room sourced from local florists.

In my experience, nothing makes people feel valued like flowers. Or maybe that’s just because I never get them unless Mrs. Gabbard chips in a few bucks to put Arlo up to it for Mother’s Day.

“Mommy?” Arlo asks. “When’s lunch? I’m hungry.”

“Soon. We’ll find someplace nice,” I say, scanning my order list for other ideas like fine soaps or extra toiletries.

“I want more hot chocolate.”

“Another one?” I frown at the screen.

My son loves chocolate more than life itself, like almost every kid.

“I didn’t get to finish before it spilled!”

“You have a point. We’ll get you some later,” I promise.

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