Page 32 of The Ex Puck Bunny
“Cara said they did. She was sixty-five and recently retired.”
I nod, picking up his meaning. “In other words, bless her, she only used her phone to show people photographs of her grandkids.”
“That was the gist.”
Derek says, “You could do it.”
I snarl, “As if I have the time. Anyway, it sounds like that’s Grady’s new-to-the-team task.”
“I’ll pay you,” Grady says quickly.
This gives me pause because although I don’t have a ton of free time—what with being a single mom and having two jobs already, instead of scrolling my own social media feed at night, I could do some clicking and sharing.
“What does Uncle Stan pay you?” Derek asks.
“I get the minimum cash wage for tipped employees.” My shoulders sag slightly before I straighten.
My brother’s head bobs. “How much is that?”
I mumble the dollar amount then add, “Plus tips.”
Derek gasps because it’s lower than minimum wage. “But you only work day shifts, so you don’t get as much in tips if you worked nights.”
“Because I teach figure skating classes at night and want to be home.”
Derek says, “Cut back to two shifts a week at the Fish Bowl and Grady will triple whatever you were making on average.”
“I will?” he asks.
“Do whatever Badaszek says, including social media. The guy has your head over a flaming barrel of coals and Heidi is like an alchemist when it comes to this stuff. She has the social media golden touch.”
Grady and I exchange a glance.
Chest heaving slightly with annoyance, and possibly uninvited thoughts of that driveway kiss, I say, “Glad to hear you’re planning our lives for us, Derek. However, as you may have noticed, my hands are full.”
“True, but working at the restaurant isn’t fun. Just think, you’ll be back where you belong, using that degree, and making people happy.”
He has a point, but the brat in me does not want that to include my brother’s hockey-playing best friend in the deal unless we’re in the driveway . . . in the rain . . . kissing.
Grady smiles. “When you put it that way. I would appreciate your help and I will pay you.”
With a grunt of my own, because I know I’ve been defeated, I say, “I’ll think about it.”
I’d like to stomp away. Instead, I tiptoe to the spare room so I don’t scare Bunny and gather my slumbering bundle of baby joy into my arms to head home.
Derek whispers. “I said you can stay here on nights when she falls asleep.”
“And miss out on a good night’s sleep in Mom and Dad’s musty basement?”
“I don’t understand why you don’t live upstairs in our old rooms.”
Because I’m an adult and want my own space and not the reminder that I left home and am back under less than ideal circumstances—that I can’t provide my child with a space of our own. The basement is a close second.
“Mom made my room her sewing room, and yours is Dad’s hockey den. I can’t take that away from them.”
Derek wrinkles his nose. “Fair point. Dad’s farts from those spicy peanuts have permeated the carpet and walls.”
I stifle a laugh.
