Page 84 of The Mistletoe Kisser
“There’s no guarantee that I’ll land any of those grants,” she reminded him. “But I am guaranteed to sell every one of these horrible wreaths. No matter how lopsided and sad they are, Mooners will buy them to support the cause.”
Ryan sighed. “What’s the price of one of these holiday monstrosities?” he asked, holding up a wreath buried under jingle bells. Glitter rained down on the table.
“Twenty-five bucks a pop,” she announced defiantly.
“What are your margins?” he asked.
“Margins?” she repeated, feigning innocence.
“You know what margins are. Quit stalling so I can win this argument. How much did you invest in supplies, time, labor?”
She eyed the mess in front of them. “I don’t know. But the branches were free.”
“Let’s say you spent five dollars in supplies on each wreath.”
That was probably on the low side, considering she’d already made three trips to the craft store, but Mr. Grumpy Number Cruncher didn’t need to be made aware of that.
“Then there’s the cost of the booth rental,” he continued. “And the signage and whatever booth decor you got.”
Crap.She’d forgotten about that.
She couldn’t just throw a bunch of wreaths on the ground and take people’s money. She needed a table. Tablecloths. Maybe one of those cute letter board signs that crafty people always seemed to have. And lights. The event was at night. How was anyone going to see the wreaths without lights?
“Not to mention your time shopping, making the product, setting up the booth, running it, tearing it down.” He was on a roll and hadn’t noticed the panic his words induced. “Do you hear that?” he asked, cupping a hand to his ear.
“I think it’s your sheep snoring,” Sammy guessed.
He made a whistling noise like a bomb falling until his palm hit the table, startling two cats, a duck, and a sheep. “That’s your profit margin plummeting.”
“You don’t have to be so dramatic about it,” she complained. Accountants didn’t seem to be an empathetic lot.
“Your time would have been better spent applying for these grants. If you get just one of them, you’ll be bringing in far more money than if you’d sold every one of these crooked circles for two hundred dollars apiece.”
“If your intent is to make me feel like an idiot, it’s working.”
“Good,” he said. “You’re not an idiot, by the way. You’re just making idiotic decisions.”
She threw a jingle bell at him. It hit his forehead and bounced off. McClane scrambled out of his ribbon nest and pounced on it. Holly’s glittery tail twitched as she watched.
“You’re a mean accountant,” Sammy announced.
“I’m telling you what you need to hear in a way that it’s going to sink in. You don’t need a hand holder. You need an ass kicker. If you want to be successful in this endeavor, you need to forget everyone else’s problems and focus on helping yourself.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“Because you’re pathologically helpful. Instead of filling out grant applications that you have an excellent chance of getting, you volunteered to make and sell fifty wreaths, babysit a flock of deranged chickens, find a home for a stray sheep, and drive a hungover stranger around town for a day.”
“Do youreallythink I have a shot at a grant?” she asked him, watching him closely.
“I do. And I find the fact that you’d waste time worrying about that annoying.”
She found herself oddly comforted.
“Of course, if your business plan and financials are a wreck, that’s an obstacle,” he continued, ruining her temporary sense of comfort. “But the idea? The solution you’re providing and the way you’ll execute it? You deserve this money.”
She looked down at her sparkly, sticky hands. At her half-finished, half-decorated house. At the man who wasn’t actively trying to seduce her into a one-night stand.What the hell was wrong with her?
“I mean seriously. What the hell is wrong with you, Sam?”
