Page 70 of The Beach Shack Summer
“There’scereal?—”
“In a kitchen neither of us can fit in.” He finally retrieved the filters. “This is getting ridiculous.”
Meg’s phone rang. She looked at the screen—her client. She looked around the chaos—Tyler trying to make coffee, her papers covering every surface, nowhere private to take a call about tomorrow’s presentation.
“I need to...” She gestured helplessly.
“Bathroom,” Tyler suggested, not joking.
She fled down the hall, closing the bathroom door behind her. “Hi, yes, I have those numbers...”
This was her life now. Conducting business next to Tyler’s shower gel collection, voice echoing off tile. At least the acoustics were decent.
“The Instagram campaign targeting is set for launch Monday,” she assured him, staring at her reflection. Professional voice, pajama pants, sitting on the edge of the tub. “We’ll review everything tomorrow.”
Through the door, she heard Stella’s music start up. At least someone had found privacy.
Twenty minutes later, she emerged to find Tyler gone and new chaos in the kitchen—her carefully sorted contracts had multiplied and were now breeding with his photo invoices.
“When did these merge?” she asked the empty room.
Her color-coded system was failing. Red contracts were consorting with blue invoices. Yellow sticky notes had migrated to surfaces they didn’t belong on. It was paperwork anarchy.
The door opened. Tyler, looking frazzled.
“Patricia texting again?” Meg asked, trying to stack papers without losing her numbering system.
He groaned. “All morning. Urgent questions about glaze transparency. Joey says she hasn’t been back to the shack since yesterday.”
“When Bernie told her about the betting pool.” He slumped against the counter. “I almost feel bad.”
“Almost?”
“She sent twelve texts last night about pottery lighting. Twelve.”
Stella’s door opened. “Did someone say Patricia?”
“No one said Patricia,” Tyler said firmly.
“I have Patricia radar. Like Spidey-sense but for desperate yoga moms.” Stella perched on the one clear barstool. “Bernie says she hasn’t been back since yesterday’s awkward exit.”
“Good,” Tyler said. “Maybe she’ll find a new photographer to harass.”
“Unlikely. You’re the only one who understands how light catches her vessels.” Stella’s delivery was deadpan perfect.
Meg’s phone buzzed. Three emails marked urgent, all about tomorrow’s presentation. She needed to review the final deck, but her laptop was trapped under a stack of Tyler’s equipment invoices.
“I just need to...” She gestured at the buried computer.
“Sorry, those are sorted by—” Tyler started moving papers, disrupting both their systems.
“No, wait, if you move those?—”
Papers cascaded onto the floor. Contracts mixed with invoices mixed with someone’s grocery list. They both dove for the floor.
“This is insane,” Stella observed from her perch. “Like, clinically insane.”
She was right. They were crawling around the kitchen floor, trying to sort papers that would just explode again tomorrow. But what was the alternative?
