Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 111732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
By the time Max has reached the end of his spiel, I’m electrified and grateful. I knew Max had to be good at what he does to work at a swanky firm like his, but I had no idea he was this good.
“Thank you for all of this, Max,” I say, furiously tapping another note onto my phone. “You’ve given me some tangible things to work on.”
“Report back to me once you’ve made some headway and we’ll assess progress and figure out next steps.”
My heart stops. We’re leaving for family camp tomorrow morning, so Max must know I’m not going to put any of his advice into action until after we get back from our trip. Which means Max has just confirmed, without a doubt, he’s fully expecting us to stay in contact after the trip. Perhaps, Max means only for business purposes, but it’s hard not to think one thing might lead to another if we keep in touch.
No, Marnie. Don’t think like that. Bad girl.
I finish my notetaking and put down my phone. “I’m honestly blown away.”
“Why? This is precisely what I do for a living.”
“Yeah, but not for free.” I flash him a snarky look. “Wait. You’re not going to charge me for this, right?”
Max returns my wicked smile. “Well, I’m not going to charge you money. But I’ll definitely accept a swap of services.”
I snicker. “Deal. I think it’s fair to say I’m a deep-throat level of pleased with your services.”
Max’s eyes blaze at my saucy comment, but he somehow manages to keep his game face on. “Before we jump into my payment and leave this conversation, do you have any questions?”
“Actually, yeah. How quickly would you expect me to start seeing results? I think you might be disappointed in me, in terms of how long all this takes me. Something always comes up with Ripley that gets me off-track.”
Max tilts his head. “What kinds of stuff?”
I give him a running list. The big and small stuff that comes along to thwart every working mother, especially when the child in question has lots of doctors and ongoing check-ups. “Another thing that slows me down,” I say, “is that I’m only willing to work while Ripley’s in preschool, unless it’s a really special occasion. No nights and weekends if I can help it. That rule for myself kind of fucks me over, if I’m being honest, in terms of getting ahead. But I feel good about that choice.”
Max scratches his chin. “Hmm.”
“I used to work crazy hours,” I say quickly, not wanting him to think I’m lazy or lacking a work ethic. “Before Ripley, I’d get hired by a family and travel with them, and then cook for them literally every day, from morning to night. I barely slept. But I can’t do that kind of thing now. Ripley’s my top priority. I’m not sorry about that, but I do recognize it limits my success in business.”
Max looks at me for a very long time. “You know what?” he says. “Forget everything I just said. New strategy.” After taking a long sip of wine, he closes his laptop, puts it onto the coffee table, and says, “What you need is a way to bring in money that’s not dependent on services rendered or actual time spent. A line of products on your website, maybe? A cookbook. Cute oven mitts and aprons with funny sayings on them. Let’s get you making money all day, every day, even when you’re at the zoo with Ripley.”
I’m buzzing. “That sounds like the ultimate dream. Literally. For twenty years, ever since culinary school, I’ve been jotting down all my crazy ideas for unique kitchen tools and gadgets in a notebook—stuff to make cooking easier and more fun.”
Max’s blue eyes light up. “Have you seen other people bringing your ideas to market?”
“No. Not the way I’d do it.” I shrug. “Maybe I’m a weirdo. Some of my ideas are kind of out there.”
Max palms his forehead. “Go get the notebook, Marnie. This is where we should have started our conversation.”
My heart is thundering. “I’ve never shown my notebook to anyone.”
“Well, I’m gonna be the first. Go get it.”
“My notes are silly doodles, basically. It’s not like I’ve sat down and designed something, in detail, the way an engineer would. I don’t even know if any of my ideas would work the way I’m envisioning them.”
Max leans forward. “I’m a patent attorney. I work with engineers who bring inventors’ ideas to life in prototypes. It just so happens one of my greatest talents is spotting a great idea—the one to develop and invest in. Now, go get that motherfucking notebook.”
I’m buzzing. Simultaneously electrified and terrified. With a trembling hand, I throw back the rest of my wine and then sprint on rubbery legs to my bedroom. When I return with the notebook, Max hands me a refilled glass of wine in return, and we settle onto the couch, our bodies entangled, while he slowly turns the pages of the book I’ve never shown to a single person besides my mother.