Page 65 of Meet Jon, the Billionaire

I wound up closing the store a little bit early—fifteen minutes, to be precise. We had a slight lull and I took the opportunity presented to me. With no more customers to worry about, I thought we were about to hit warp speed eleven, but then I remembered that in our haste to prepare for the bake sale, we hadn’t decorated any of the dozen cakes on special order.

“Oh for crying out loud.” Pedro stared up at the ceiling. “What's wrong with you? Give us a fucking break, you prick.”

“Man who argues with God cuts the branch upon which he sits,” Yerkov said.

“That’s deep,” I said. “Is that Dostoevsky?”

“No. Is C.S. Lewis. Lion Witch and Wardrobe.”

My nose wrinkled, because I hated those books as a kid. Our teacher read them to us like they were the second fucking coming, and they were so lame.

We went back to work, with me focusing on the cakes. I got three made and thought I was getting somewhere, and then I totally misspelled the name on the fourth cake. I foisted it off on Yerkov, sighed, and tried again.

When I checked the time, I was completely flabbergasted to find it was after nine PM. At that rate, we were going to be in the bakery literally all night, and still probably wouldn’t have enough items made for the sale. Not to mention that we still had to package the goodies and make them look good.

“Is bullshit.” Yerkov sat down on the counter and sighed. “We never make it in time.”

“I’m inclined to agree, Amy.” Pedro sighed. “We gave it hell, but I think we’re going to have to accept the fact that this isn’t happening.”

“I know.” I sat down on the counter beside them and shook my head sadly. “And you two have been busting your asses all day long. I’m sorry, guys. It looks like I bit off more than I could chew.”

“Is not all bad. You can take what we have made.” Yerkov shrugged.

“Yes, but it’s less than half what we told the senior center to expect—”

A truck pulled up outside. A big, black pickup, one of those extended cab deals. The lights of the bakery reflected in distorted effigy, like a funhouse mirror, along its glossy side.

“What is this now?” I frowned as about half a dozen people got out. “Can’t they see the sign that says we’re closed?”

They walked with purpose… too much purpose. And they were wearing white chef’s uniforms…

My first thought was that my Aunt Petunia had called in favors and got us some help. Then I saw another figure appear behind the food workers.

Jonathon.

He kind of gave me a sheepish smile and gestured for me to come outside.

“Hey,” Pedro said. “Isn’t that the son of a bitch who leaked the story? And sabotaged the buffet line?”

“Is indeed.” Yerkov’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Let’s skin the tiger, Pedro.”

“You read my mind.”

“Guys, let me go and talk to him.”

“What?” They both said at the same time.

“Look, those people in white coats out there are pastry chefs. I recognize Maurice from Le Garou, and that’s Missy Hyatt from Cookies and More. I think he hired us some help.”

That shut them up. I went outside and met Jonathon.

“Amelia—Amy,” he said, pursing his lips. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Is this your way of trying to make up for it?”

He nodded. “I heard about the bake sale from your Aunt Petunia, so I thought you might could use some help—”

“You talked to my aunt?” I sputtered, utterly aghast. “Haven’t you done enough to her?”

---