Page 41 of The Overtime Persuasive

I lower the phone, smiling. “I know folks would love it, but you simply cannot be a part of the Side B Holiday Collection.”

Mitch opens and closes his eyes slowly, as if he were unimpressed.

“I need you to sign a release,” I say as I wave a hand in his direction. “If you aren’t under contract I need you off my set. However, if we do well, next year we’ll do a ‘Mitch’s Edit’ for pets, okay?”

Unmoved by my pleas, Mitch lifts his back leg and, in what would take some Herculean effort on my part, he easily lifts it and begins to groom the back of his haunches.

“If you’re trying to tell me to kiss you where the sun don’t shine,” I mutter as I reach across the kitchen table and lift him in the air, “I may just ground you, Mitch.”

He stretches long between my hands, one paw reaching dramatically toward the box as if I’m separating him from his only child.

“Oh stop it. You’ll survive.”

He gives me a wounded look, while simultaneously flicking his tail in irritation, when I set him on the floor.

“I’m the one with the time-sensitive problem,” I remind him. “You? You have no evening plans.”

I turn back to the box and its contents littered across my table. It looks good. Really good, actually. I’ve arranged everything on top of a yummy and soft cream-colored throw I pulled from the couch, with a few loose autumn leaves, collected right outside the shop, scattered artfully around it. The record sleeve sits at an angle beneath the book, the candle is turned so the label faces the camera, and one of my Side B stickers seals the folded orange tissue paper.

It’s all so cozy and curated I could scream. It’s the kind of luxe vibe you get when you see an influencer opening a box on a Sunday morning, sipping on their hot drink they made from their brand spanking new coffee machine sitting on their perfectly polished marble counters. It’s a life that is lived in which no one ever wakes up on a sunny day and receives a twelve-thousand-dollar fine from the city.

I swipe my phone again, lean across the table, and take in the scene.

Afternoon sunlight? Tick.

Light hitting the gold of the sticker, giving us a little flash? Tick.

I tap the screen to focus. It’s all so perfect.

A striped tail slowly rises through the center of the frame.

“Miiitch!”

He circles the box once, steps over the record, and sits on the corner of the throw, and stares at me like it was always the plan.

I close my eyes. “There are at least nine other places in this apartment where you could be sitting.”

Mitch washes a paw.

“Why are you doing this to me?”

He swaps paws, flicks his tail, and meows.

“That was a good talk,” I mutter, beginning to rearrange everything because the light is moving. “Great chat, buddy. Thanks.”

According to what I read on the contest submission page, I need three clear photographs of the product I’m submitting, along with a description of the business, the inspiration behind the box, and what makes it distinct from every other gift set they’ll receive as entries.

I mean, that is, if I was planning on submitting it. Not that I will. The only reason I ended up here was because I reread the requirements this morning. When I opened my laptop, the web browser was still up for the website. After I read it, I realized I need to take some photos of the boxes for my own website and for advertising anyway. The fact that the deadline is fast approaching has absolutely nothing to do with me, hunched over my kitchen table, battling my cat for a good snap of my seasonal goodness.

And the fact that Liam Snyder is the one person who asked why it couldn’t be me who enters this contest also has nothing to do with this moment. Not one bit and not at all.

Who am I kidding, of course it has everything to do with it. The question he asked has been following me around for the past two days. It was there while I unpacked inventory yesterday morning. It showed up when another seven people joined the waitlist for next month’s box. It sat beside me while I drank my coffee, from my home coffee pot, and stared at the submission page instead of answering emails.

Why not me? It is an excellent question from a man who has recently become

annoyingly good at asking them.

I pick up my phone and frame the shot again, trying to get Liam out of my head. Angling the phone slightly, I tap the screen again. Yes. The money shot. I can see this one on my site, in my next newsletter, and on socials. It’s gold.