“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.

They would move to a bigger place, maybe even a house. They’d have all the steak and hamburgers they could eat. They’d take a vacation every summer. Somewhere different every time, her mom had promised.

But then all those hopes and dreams that had finally been within her grasp were shredded and tattered, unrecognizable. And the fallout from it—well, it would have been better to not have had the hope in the first place.

It had scared Maggie, seeing her mom’s brave face crumble. Realizing that it could.