Maggie Moves On(12)

“Translation: You’re already in bed and wearing your cooling eye mask.”

“These eyes need daily de-puffing,” he insisted.

“I won’t judge if you don’t,” she said with affection. This complete acceptance of each other was why they worked. At least now. “What dragged you from your beauty sleep?”

“You mean besides nightmares of being saddled with a monstrosity that will devour every dollar in your account and still not be marketable?”

“Yeah, besides that.”

“Just my monthly plea for more bodies.”

Maggie rolled her eyes ceilingward. “You have this scheduled in your calendar, don’t you?”

“You’re damn right I do. Every month on the twenty-third, I plead my case for one more production person.”

“And what do I say every twenty-third?” she asked.

“Ask me next month.” His impression of her was not the most flattering. “It’s next month, and I’m asking. Nay, pleading! We need someone else, Magpie. We can’t keep up as it is.”

“We’re doing just fine,” she said dryly.

“Maybe you can work around the clock like some robot overlord with no need for things like sleep and food and sex—”

“Excuse me, I’m having food right now.”

“But I can’t,” Dean continued, ignoring her. “A production assistant. Someone to shoot footage, schedule social media, bring me coffee.”

“You just want the coffee,” she joked. But on the inside, she wasn’t feeling so funny. More help meant another person to be responsible for. She worked her ass off for Dean. For everyone else who depended on her. How much ass did she have left for someone else?

“Just think about it, robot overlord,” he said on a weary sigh. “If someone else can handle more of the day-to-day, I’d have more time to focus on editing, to schmooze more advertisers. And it’s not like we can’t afford it.”

“Another person is another expense,” Maggie pointed out.

“Seriously, when’s the last time you looked at the numbers?” he asked.

“I look at numbers all day every day.”

“I don’t mean tape measures and follower counts. I mean the income reports.”

Oh. Those.

“I look at them,” she hedged.

“Look at the specially prepared reports that our very nice accountant prepares for you every month, Maggie. Look at them and consider adding another person.”

“I’ll think about it,” she promised.

“Just so you know, I’m upping my scheduled request to bimonthly.”

“Doesn’t that mean every two months?”

He groaned. “Yes, but in this case, it means twice a month, smarty-pants. I honestly don’t know how you would survive without me.”

“I don’t either,” she admitted. Not only was Dean the numbers guy behind their partnership, but he also handled most of the filming and editing.

“Well, you’re going to learn if you don’t get me some help because I’ll die of a dramatic aneurysm attributed to overwork.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Hey, this pink sauce came with my fries. Do you know what it is?”

“Dear God, tell me you’re not putting fry sauce in your mouth.”

“Fry sauce?” she said, her mouth full.

“It’s ketchup and mayonnaise mixed together to create a fatty, sugary, disgusting condiment.”

“Huh. No wonder it tastes so good,” she mused.

“You disgust me,” Dean sang.

“You adore me,” she countered.

“Ugh. Good night.”

“Night.”

She polished off the rest of the meal, including the fry sauce, scheduled the new project sneak peek posts, and organized the last of the beach bungalow pictures into their appropriate folders in the cloud.

Then, because Dean had brought it up, she opened up the latest monthly report. With as many numbers as she dealt with every day—follower counts, budgets, measurements, estimates—Maggie had drawn the line at accounting.

Instead of micromanaging the finances, Maggie had a very competent accountant in Seattle she’d never met compile a monthly report on income and expenses.

“Holy shit.” She sucked in a breath and choked on her own damn spit.

Those were commas. Not decimal points.

How long had it been since she’d last opened one of these?

She knew down to the penny what they made off each property, was vaguely aware of what came in through advertisers or through her own small online merchandise shop. But to see it all together. To come face-to-face with the oats she’d spent years sowing. The fruits of her labor…

Maggie blamed Silas Wright for the random growing metaphors. Putting them aside, she gave herself a moment to bask.

She was flush.

And granted, with the new advertising partnerships Dean had negotiated and the higher dollar investment properties they’d been tackling, things looked like they were on an upward trend.

But.

She drummed her fingers on the tabletop. Just because the resources were there now didn’t mean they’d always be there.

She remembered with a familiar ache in her belly the excitement she’d felt when her mom came home announcing she’d finally landed a “real job,” a “big job.” She’d twirled Maggie around their tiny living room until the downstairs neighbor had pounded on their floor.