Page 18 of A Hutch for Hoover

When the owner checked out what I had done, he insisted I double all my prices.

“You want me to double these?”

He nodded.

“I was kind of hoping they would sell quickly.”

“Exactly. So do it.” He wasn’t backing down.

I thought he’d lost his mind, but he knew his buyers better than I did. Might as well take the suggestion—if it was one. It came across as more of a command.

We took all the tags off and priced everything again, thanked the owner, and we went on our way to Korean barbecue—my mate’s current craving. We had a blast grilling our food and eating far more of it than we should.

My phone vibrated in my pocket multiple times through our meal, but I was unwilling to be distracted from my time with my mate. If it had been my brother, there would have been a loud ring with it as well, and even though I might not hear it, my mate would have. And if it wasn’t family, it could wait.

After dinner, we walked around the plaza, stopping at the ice cream place for my mate’s other current craving, chocolate syrup with a drop or two of ice cream in it. The poor teen who was scooping him up kept setting the ladle down.

My mate was having none of that.

“No, a tad more.”

“Nope, not enough just yet.

“Just a drop more.”

Eventually, he agreed it was enough and he took his and sat down to eat as I waited for my scoop of coconut swirl. It was good that my mate was so busy eating his dessert. If he knew how many extra toppings he’d been charged for, he’d be mad athimself. I didn’t mind; a craving was his body’s way of telling him what he needed.

He ate every bite and scraped off as much of that sauce as he could with his spoon.

I made a mental note to buy both items for our freezer because I’d learned very quickly that his pregnancy cravings didn’t care what time it was and what stores were or were not open.

When we got home, he raced toward the bathroom, grumbling about my baby kicking his bladder.

“My baby? Because I seem to remember when they were kicking away from your bladder and happy, it was your baby.”

He turned and stuck his tongue out at me before racing the rest of the way to the bathroom.

My phone buzzed again. This time I took it out, surprised to see it was the consignment app from the home furnishings store I’d been to earlier.

“Crap. What did I do wrong?”

Only, when I opened the app, I hadn’t done anything wrong. If anything, I’d done everything right.

Over half my items had already been purchased while I had dinner with my mate. Not only had they sold, they sold for the over-the-top prices recommended to us.

The second the bathroom door opened, I raced to my mate.

“You won’t believe this.”

I handed him the phone, and he beamed down at it.

“You’re wrong. I 100 percent believed and expected this. I told you, you’re an artist.”

I hadn’t believed him at the time, not seeing myself that way at all, and I didn’t fully see myself that way now. But I did have a lot more confidence in my work. Part of me wondered if maybe this endeavor might become more than a hobby, a side hustle.

Maybe it could become my entire career.

One could dream.

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