Chapter 4

Pamela delivers twenty letters to me. Each is printed with highlights and notes written in the margins. I slap the stack against my desk.

She stands in front of my desk with her fingers lightly tapping against a pile of folders. "Maybe it will be fun. It's been a long time since you've been out with anyone outside our circle."

"I'm not asking anyone on a date."

"Okay, that's not what I meant. You've buried yourself in making Triple W successful… growing it to a worldwide company. It's all you've cared about since we lost Phoebe." Pam's eyes fill with tears, and I feel like shit that people who loved her just as much as I, have had to hold me together. "It will be good for you to talk to people who have problems other than stock prices and which fancy restaurant to frequent. Who knows, maybe you'll find happiness again."

This time, I don't snap or freak out as I temper my response to the notion of me being happy in my personal life. "Thanks. I'll read them and let you know."

She comes around the desk and lays a palm on my shoulder, squeezing. "We all loved her, you know."

"I know." I expel my breath and place my hands behind my head. Sometimes I forget that Pamela knew Phoebe before I did. And that my brothers and sister thought of her as their family too.

Lost in thought, I don't see Pamela slip out the door. Pinching my nose, I shake my thoughts and stare at the pile of papers.

The first letter doesn't ring true, and the second isn't much better.

The third one is from a female computer programmer, a.k.a., hacker explaining that she's made mistakes but all for a good cause.

I place it in the maybe pile. It has the elements of a good story—Robinhood like, doing the wrong thing for the right reasons.

I put three more in the NO pile before I come up on a woman with a legal problem. It doesn't reference anything sad, and she has a sense of humor. I like the idea of solving a problem for her, so it goes in the maybe pile.

When I read the last letter, I know this woman is a definite yes. Margie is a truck driver and judging by the words she uses, seems older and less likely to want a date.

There are eight in the maybe pile. As I read through them each again, I eliminate two more. Down to six, I decide to cut the one who wants to start a coffee bar. We have enough coffee shops, and it makes my mind drift to the woman who likes her coffee stiff.

And maybe her men stiffer.

Kari, my assistant, sets a portfolio of information on the table along with a coffee pot, lemon water, and tea.

Each department head gathers in the conference room to discuss the logistics of the campaign to make me not look like an asshole. Thanks to cell phones, every person has the potential to destroy another person with one tap of the record button.

Pamela communicates the vision for the campaign, as we discuss each woman I'll meet. She asks about advertising for print and digital advertisements. The audio/visual department offers to have the same crew with me, so I can get comfortable. Marketing provides a mockup of the coin in case the woman wants to risk one million for ten million, which won't happen.

The social media director asks the producer to make sure they get some funny, sincere, or tearjerking moments. The hashtag is #itsaWinWIN.

"Mike, everything posted will be approved by Pamela. It's her vision." Pamela gives me a slight nod. I know I need to give these people more of me. "I'm sorry I messed up. And you all know that I'm not the way these videos portray me. Am I patient? No, but that's why we've grown to a sixty-billion-dollar company. Pamela, let's start with the truck driver."

The cameras film me on the drive to meet Margie. I hate every minute of this idiotic idea.

If people were competent, I wouldn't have raised my voice in the diner and offended the waitress. I wouldn't have thrown flowers in the trash and mumbled obscenities when I was attempting to buy flowers for my sister saying yes to the dress.

I was trying to accept that my best friend is marrying my sister.

If the floral shop owner would have had more people working, I would have been waited on in a timely fashion. It's wedding season, and they should be fully staffed.

It is why businesses fail—not because they aren't good at what they make or the services they provide. They just don't understand how to staff a business, market their business, or manage their cash flow.

Margie had asked the producer to meet at the Sunset Marina, her favorite café—the same place where I didn't catch a fish. Margie stands up from the corner table, waving her arms as I walk in. Even from a distance, I can see she's weathered and worn.

I extend my hand to introduce myself, but Margie has other ideas and surrounds me with her arms. "I can't believe I'm having lunch with a hot-shot businessman."

I may have been mistaken about her wanting a date. We break from the hug. Her hands are leathery with hot-pink nail polish, and her smile lines are deep set.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Margie." I gesture for her to sit. "Let's order and then tell me about yourself."

A boisterous laugh escapes her lips. "I ordered for both of us. I'm a woman who takes control. You have to rely on yourself when your husband dies. Nobody else will take care of you."

Instantly, I feel a bond with this woman. Losing the person you love is something you never get over.

"I hope you like blackened grouper. Mario cooks it to perfection."

"I do. When did you lose your husband?"

"Five years ago. I swear it's like divine intervention. The day I applied for your contest is the day I was served a notice that my tractor was going to be repossessed if I didn't come up with the money by the end of the month."

She wants the money.

It's not lost on me that our significant others died the same year.

Over the next hour, Margie has me in stitches, telling me stories from her adventures with her husband. They were partners in every sense of the word. They both drove the semi-truck so they could see the country together.

"One night, we stopped at a rest area in Arizona or New Mexico, I forget which. We fell asleep after he pinned me against the steel trailer, tore off my undies, and we went at it like rabbits. Old rabbits, but damn, that was fun. Afterwards, I woke up and couldn't find him. He's a sleepwalker, and I was so damn sated that I slept like a baby. I found him a hundred yards away, and he was walking towards a cliff. I tackled him to the ground." She pauses. "Yeah, shouldn't have done that because he was still asleep and went crazy. Once I was able to wake him up, we laid on the grass, staring at the stars and thanking God for keeping him safe."

Once I stop laughing, thinking about two old people going at it like rabbits, I grab her hand. "People tell me it's better to have at least experienced love, but I'm not sure I believe it. "

"I guess it depends on when you lose them. I'm glad we were older because no one compares to my Bobby."

I understand—nothing compares.

The camera crew continues filming when we enter the cab of her semi. I've never been in one, and it's surprisingly roomy. There's a bed above, and she has a recliner underneath that's bolted in place with a television built into the back of the passenger seat, comparable to commercial airplanes.

"I've only been able to get short trips in the Miami area, and there's not a lot of money in short hauls. Long hauls are where the money is." She rubs her fingers together.

"Why aren't you doing long hauls?"

"When my husband died, I could barely function. I spent six months in bed, and the company fired me when I didn't come back the fourth time I was asked. I understood; companies have to make money to employee people. Then the pandemic hit, and there wasn't as much need. I was lucky to get this gig delivering in the area."

I appreciate her business sense.

Six hours later, we pull back into the marina where my car and driver await. "Let's go in and get a drink. My driver will take you home and come get you in the morning."

"Winslow, I don't know if you can keep up with me."

"We're about to find out."

She grins from ear to ear and drags me into the restaurant. I haven't had this much fun talking to anyone in years. We grab a table close to the bar. She orders rum and Coke, and I ask for a bourbon neat.

"Margie, we have more in common than you know. I'd love to see you again."

Her eyebrows rise as wrinkles spread across her forehead. "I don't date younger men. I like experience if you know what I mean." She winks.

Uninhibited laughter rolls out of me. "I mean as friends. It has nothing to do with this contest. There won't be cameras."

"Well, hot damn. Your parents won't like me corrupting you."

I reach into my pocket for the Triple W coin the marketing department had made for this promotion. "I like you, Margie, so I have a proposal for you. I'll give you one million dollars right now." I slide a check across the table. "Or you can flip this coin and either get ten million or nothing. Walk away with one million, or risk it for ten million."

She leaps across the table, flying into my lap, and I forget the film crew is there. Margie doesn't have a sense of decorum, just acts on her feelings. "Winslow, honey." She called me Mr. Worthington once and since has called me by a term of endearment. "I'll take the million and pay off the cab myself." Her hair smells of cigarettes even though she never smoked in front of me. The hug is fucking genuine and is the first time I've received an embrace this tight that didn't have to do with Phoebe's death.

While I'm squeezing her back, a brunette saunters in the eatery with her Ray-Ban's on and her hair twisted up. I realize I've never seen her eyes. Each time, she's had the same sunglasses. It's the boat captain; I would know those legs anywhere. Hell, I've been dreaming about them wrapped around my waist.

Our eyes collide, and my dick notices.

Margie jumps off my legs. "Winslow Worthington, didn't your mom teach you manners?" Then, she notices the invisible string between the boat captain and me. "Go get her, tiger."

Margie has no idea this woman could probably wrestle a tiger.