Page 6 of Mr. Infuriating

The nerve of that man!

I mean, obviously he hadn’t known I was listening, but still! I didn’t want his stupid misogynistic cabinets in my house.

Screw that guy.

Surely his rude comment was grounds to cancel the contract. I’d have to call my brother, Andrew, and see what he thought. He was an attorney of whom I’d asked way too many favors in recent months.

Even though family law wasn’t his specialty, he’d had someone from his fancy law firm represent me in the divorce, yet I still received the discounted family rate. I was positive it was because of my lawyer that I’d managed to get the house outright, although in hindsight, Troy might have thought it was a small price to pay to walk away from his responsibilities to his wife and son.

I guess Cora’s vagina must be magical. Or maybe mine was just that bad after having Jake.

I decided not to bother my brother until our monthly family dinner and casually mention it then.

Realizing I was not in the right frame of mind to grade my seventh grader’s essays—right now they’d probably all get Ds—I decided to pack up and take the papers home to hopefully work on later that night.

My phone dinged with an incoming text, and I cringed internally, thinking it was Laura, my BFF, asking meagainto go to happy hour and “celebrate” my divorce. I suspected “celebrate” meant get me drunk and try to find me a one-night stand.

I wasn’t ready to celebrate yet. And one-night stands had never really been my thing, even when I was young and carefree. I was a mom now; they definitely couldn’t be my thing.

My vibrator had been scratching my itch for quite a while, it could continue doing the job until I figured things out.

Reluctantly, I opened my text app and found an unread message from an unknown number.

Unknown numbers weren’t unusual—I gave my students’ parents my number at the beginning of the year with directions to use it if they had questions or concerns.

Clicking on it, I scowled at the words.

Unknown number: Ms. Wainwright—it’s Gabe Mitchell. I owe you an apology for my crude response to my foreman, Rick, when he asked a question on your behalf. Please know I’m embarrassed and never meant any disrespect.

Never meant any disrespect?

I wasn’t letting him off the hook that easily.

Me: So, suggesting I ride your dick was meant to be respectful?

The bubbles that indicated he was replying started and stopped and didn’t restart again, so I put my phone in my purse, grabbed my satchel with my students’ papers and walked out my door.

On my way to the parking lot, I felt the phone’s vibration. Part of me wanted to make the asshole wait before I read his reply, but the worrier in me wanted to get this cabinet situation resolved or I knew I’d fret until it was.

Gabe Mitchell: What I said was crude and out of line. In my defense, I was sweaty and grumpy, and I thought I was only talking to my foreman. I would never knowingly speak that way in front of any woman. Please accept my apologies.

Me: I’ll accept your apology if you’ll cancel my order.

Gabe Mitchell: You know I can’t do that, ma’am. I’ve spent the last ten weeks working on your cabinets—made specifically for your kitchen. Not to mention the expense of your specialized wood choice.

Did he seriously drop ama’amon me? I was disliking this guy more and more.

Me: I have a hard time believing my kitchen is so unique that those cabinets wouldn’t work somewhere else.

Gabe Mitchell: They probably would. If someone came in with a similar layout to your kitchen and wanted that exact wood. But the chances of that happening are slim. And I’m sorry to have to remind you, we have a contract, which I’ve upheld my end of. Now I need you to uphold yours, so I don’t have to take legal action. When can we schedule aninstallation?

Ugh.

I wasn’t sure how long I could avoid Mitchell Cabinets and Woodworking, but I knew I could get away with it at least until next week.

I shoved my phone back in my purse without replying and started my little Honda Accord—I’d decided against getting a minivan until I had Kid Number Two, and it didn’t look promising that was ever going to happen.

I don’t want a minivan anyway.

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