Stacy Vs. SEAL

“Huh,” I say, because that’s all the brain power I can devote to the question, as I’m busy trying to find a pan. Or a pot. Or a something to cook in, really.

“What's the difference between a pot and a pan?” I ask, searching through my cupboards for anything that resembles a cooking thingy. I’ll take just about anything at this point.

“I don’t know,” Becca says with a shrug. “Hold on, is that…boxed potatoes?” she asks, picking up the offending Betty Crocker box between forefinger and thumb. “I think they use dried powdered cheese in these things.”

“Yeah?” I ask, pulling my head back out of the cupboard to look at the box in her hand. “Huh. I don’t know. I remember that one; I bought it once when I was starving, but then it had all these directions on the back side that looked complicated, so…” I shrug.

She opens the top tentatively and then draws back in disgust. “Carla, this smells awful!” she yelps, and shoves it under my nose.

Of course.

I can’t just take her word for it, no I have to—

I start coughing hard. “Oh god,” I exclaim, “get that thing out of my face! It smells like rotten shit!”

“Rotten?” she says with a grin. “As opposed to the fresh kind?”

“Yes, exactly! Go take that outside and throw it in the dumpster. I can’t cook that for Chase. I’m a bad enough cook without starting off with rotten food.”

She shrugs and heads out the front door. Now that’s a best friend – someone who is willing to carry your rotten food to the dumpster for you.

I stick my head back in the cupboard and look around.

Oh god! I recoil in horror.

I have potatoes that are so old, they’re growing these giant white thingies out of them. I didn’t even know potatoes did that, but damn if the bag didn’t look like some kind of alien life form. Totally creeped out, I slam the cupboard shut and then sit back against the wood with a heavy sigh. The chances of me becoming Betty Crocker in the next five minutes are pretty minute, right?

So, why even try? Why not…?

I grin to myself. I had a much better plan for dinner than boxed potatoes—something I am guaranteed to be good at it

.

I scramble off the floor and head to the bedroom.

52

Chase

Jason pulls my cell phone out of his saddle bag. “C’mon,” he coaxes me, “just take a quick look. I promise, it won’t bite.”

I shift from foot to foot, anxious to go find what Carla has cooked up for us, but dammit, I’m feeling guilty about punching the guy, so...

“Alright,” I say reluctantly.

Jason had forced me to buy a smartphone two days ago at an AT&T store, saying that no billionaire should be carrying around a flip phone. It was all I could do to keep from rolling my eyes. Like that sort of thing mattered.

But, he promised that it’d do everything except rope a calf for me, so I’d reluctantly agreed to it … and then promptly ignored it for two days. Apparently, it’s reckoning time.

“Now, right here, I need you to put in your email address.” I dutifully type it in, hitting about three wrong keys for every right one, and cursing a blue streak a mile wide at the damn thing. I can already tell that I’m gonna hate the thing.

I went to hand it back to Jason and he stops me. “Tap that box, and then type in your password to your email.”

With a glare, I take the phone back and finally get through the whole password, practically turning the air black with my frustration. It damn well better not take 17 tries every time I want to do something on the thing.

“Good,” Jason says, praising me like I’m seven. The bastard thing makes me feel seven, really. “Now look at all of these emails that have stacked up while you’ve been here in New York. Like,” he says, the excitement in his voice increasing, “look at this one. They’re wanting someone to work at the Barclay’s Arena in Brooklyn. They’re wanting to do a long-term act – someone to be in the rodeo every weekend. Chase, you can lasso almost everything – you have more skill than ten other cowboys put together. I bet you’d really woo them with that trick of yours, standing bareback on Moonshine while he gallops. I don’t know of anyone else who can do that.”

I pull the phone out of his hands and start reading the ad. It’s true—I’m a billionaire. I’m set for life. I could never go to work again, and have enough money to keep my great-grandkids happy.