Page 5 of Mr. Infuriating (Mister #1)

Gabe

I walked into my shop Monday morning, flipped the lights on, and immediately felt a frown crease my eyebrows.

The Wainwright’s cabinets were still lined against the wall, taking up too much space, and I was reminded of the events that took place last week.

I was over being embarrassed—shit happens, but I did feel bad about offending her. I didn’t ever want to offend a customer. Especially one who looked like her.

How her pencil-dick husband had landed her in the first place was beyond me. But to then fuck around on her? Further proof the dude was, to borrow a term from across the pond, a wanker.

If she were in my bed every night, I’d fucking worship her. Well, after tying her up and teasing her, along with maybe some light spanking, if she were into that sort of thing. I sure as fuck wouldn’t cheat on her.

I remembered when she came into the showroom on a warm day in late September, and I about fell out of my chair as I watched her from my desk.

She’d been wearing black yoga pants that showcased her round ass nicely, along with black flipflops and a baby-pink t-shirt that dipped just enough in the front to offer a glimpse of cleavage.

I hadn’t been able to take my eyes off her and moved to stand and leave my office to greet her personally—something I usually avoided like the plague—when Matt, our twenty-two-year-old apprentice who doubled as a salesman when necessary, approached her and struck up a conversation .

I’d leaned back in my chair and admired her from afar.

Her long blonde hair had been piled on top of her head in a messy bun with loose strands framing her heart-shaped face.

Her bright blue eyes reminded me of the sky on a clear summer day, and her button-nose when she scrunched it up had made me want to wrap my arms around her and pull her against me.

Then she threw her head back and laughed at something the kid said, and I was left wondering what her neck would smell like if I buried my face in the crook of it.

Five minutes later, a pasty dude with slicked back brown hair walked in, and her face lit up with a smile. I don’t think anyone had ever looked at me like that—not even when Becky and I were in our honeymoon phase. For a moment, I imagined it was me Gretchen Wainwright was staring at starry-eyed.

I remember again thinking, if she were mine, she would be worshipped. Daily. In and out of bed. Something her fuckhead husband obviously wasn’t doing. He barely acknowledged her after he walked in.

I’d only been half-kidding when I’d told Rick if she wanted to ride my dick, I’d strike a deal with her.

Of course, in addition to overhearing my rude ass comments last week, I’d also threatened to sue her in a text message, so it was a safe bet that she wouldn’t be riding my cock anytime soon. Or ever.

Which was probably for the best. I couldn’t afford to eat those cabinets. I’d spent a lot of time and care on them. I took pride in all my work, but I might have been extra meticulous with hers. Part of me hoped she’d appreciate the craftmanship, even if she never met me .

Rick came into the shop thirty minutes later, and I shut the saw I was using down and gestured to the offending cupboards.

“These need to go. Your mission this week is to get that installation scheduled and get these the fuck out of here.”

“I’ll have Shelly call her again today.”

I shook my head.

“No, I’m not going to have the former Mrs. Wainwright take her wrath out on poor Shelly for your fuckup. You call her.”

“I wasn’t the one who suggested she ride my dick,” Rick grumbled under his breath as he opened a toolchest drawer.

“No, but you’re the asshole who doesn’t know how to put a damn call on hold. Speaking of… remind me to have Shelly give you a refresher training on how the phones work around here.”

“I know how the phones work, Gabe. I just fucked up one time and didn’t put the call on hold like I thought I had.”

“Whatever,” I grumbled. “Just get the installation scheduled, and I’ll consider letting it slide—this time.”

He pulled the tool he was looking for from the drawer, gave me a mock salute, and said, “On it, boss,” before walking out the shop door back toward the showroom.

I turned the table saw back on and got back to work. As I ran a board through the blade, I realized I was pissed that Gretchen Wainwright had refused to accept my apology.

~ ~

Early morning a week later when I turned the shop’s lights on, the Wainwright’s cabinets sat staring at me. I wondered if Rick had gotten something scheduled with Gretchen. If not, we were going to have to rent a storage space and add that expense to her bill.

She was really going to hate me.

Eh, she won’t be the first woman. She’ll get over it.

Or not, if my track record was any indicator.

Rick walked through the door at eight o’clock on the dot.

I nodded toward the walnut cabinets. “What’s going on with those? We’ve got a lumber shipment coming, and I have no place to put it with these in the way.”

“She’s not answering my calls or texts. I’ve tried her like four times a day all week. I’ve also emailed her every day.”

“Maybe you need to stop by her house on the way home tonight.”

“You don’t think that’d be kind of creepy?”

“Probably. But she needs to know these are going into storage, and she’s paying for it. And that our next step if she doesn’t take possession soon is filing a lawsuit.”

“And you want me to tell her all that?”

“No, jackass. What I wanted was you to schedule the installation, but you haven’t done that.”

“I can’t make her respond to me, Gabe.”

“You’re a smart guy. Figure something out.” I put my safety goggles on and grinned at my foreman. “You get that refresher phone training done yet?”

He scowled at me then headed into his office—hopefully to try the elusive Ms. Wainwright again.