Renovation Gone Very Wrong
I was always flying for work, so I left the whole renovation thing to my husband, Daxton Pruitt.
This time, my flight got scrapped last minute, so I swung by the house to check in.
The second I stepped inside, some woman named Mona Scambley, who claimed she was the designer, chucked a stack of invoices at me.
Couples' lingerie display case: $15,000.
High-end waterbed: $40,000.
One glance at that pile of overpriced tacky nonsense made me nauseous. My brows pulled tight.
"Ms. Scambley, this is a private house, not some couples' motel. What is all this?"
Her face flipped in a heartbeat. She jabbed a finger at me. "The owner gave those orders. You're just the site supervisor. Disobey me again, and I'll have Mr. Pruitt fire you!"
Then she spun around and called Daxton right there.
I laughed, cold and low, about to ask what kind of clown show designer he'd hired—until I heard his voice.
Gentle. Doting.
"This is Mona and my love nest. We'll do whatever we want. Don't like it? Get out."
I smiled, snatched the list from Mona, and nodded. "Sure."
One week later, that overpriced waterbed showed up—Daxton, very much not smiling.