“That’s the total.”
He dropped the paper onto my desk.
“We’re not paying it.”
I looked at Laura.
She wouldn’t meet my eyes.
Instead, she folded her arms.
“Craig, don’t make this difficult.”
I almost laughed.
Difficult?
Six days earlier, she had arrived at my shop and dropped the Mercedes keys onto my desk.
“I need it by Friday.”
I had looked through the estimate.
“This isn’t a two-day repair.”
“I don’t care.”
“Laura, I have other customers.”
She had leaned against my desk.
“The boys are staying with you this weekend, aren’t they?”
I knew immediately where this was going.
“Yes.”
“Well,” she had said casually, “I’d hate for something to come up.”
I had stared at her.
“You’re threatening to cancel my weekend with my sons because I won’t put your car ahead of everyone else’s?”
“I’m not threatening anything.”
She smiled.
“You’re just making things complicated.”
That was Laura.
Even after our eleven-year marriage ended, she had learned exactly which buttons to push.
Rick and Noah were those buttons.
My boys were everything to me.
So I accepted the job.
And I worked.
Six nights.
Nearly until midnight.
Because I didn’t want Laura controlling my relationship with my sons.
