Page 68 of Meet Jon, the Billionaire

I chuckled. “For all of your boardroom acumen, you haven’t worked a sales floor often enough. Because the cookies are the star of the show, we put them at the end. That way everyone has to walk past all our other fine products to reach them.”

“That’s downright devious,” he said.

“It’s not like we’re tricking anyone. I like to see it as we’re making sure that our patrons get to see all that we have to offer.”

We soon ran out of any opportunities to speak, because it got crazy busy. Most people only bought a couple of items, but there were lots of them crowding the auditorium. It grew so chaotic that they brought out metal stands with expandable vinyl strips to form a queue.

To his credit, Jonathon worked his ass off. He was always doing something, whether it was bagging products, or bringing up more stock from under the tables, or even chatting with a customer.

“You’re a natural at customer service,” I told him at one point.

“Well, I had to start somewhere. I did pick up some skills on my way to becoming a billionaire.”

Four hours later, there was one loaf of pumpernickel left, which had been partially squished by an errant customer’s hand. Everything else had sold. In all, we raised almost fifty thousand dollars for the senior center. I’d also like to think that we helped repair our damaged reputation, too. Many of the bake sale patrons had pledged to visit Breadcetera in person for more high-quality snacks.

Even though I’d been awake all night, I was possessed of a strange sort of energy. My feet were tired, and my eyes kind of ached, but my mind and body seemed determined to keep going.

“Let me buy you lunch, Jonathon,” I said. “You worked your ass off to make this a success and I appreciate it.”

“I should be buying you lunch.”

“I asked first.” I winked at him.

We found ourselves at a pretty decent bistro in the Village. I had tomato basil soup, with a grilled cheese sandwich. I ordered the latter off the kids menu. Jonathon watched me dip my sandwich in the soup and then take bites from it.

“What?” I asked around a mouthful of sandwich.

“Nothing, it’s just… you’re teaching me to appreciate the simpler things in life, that’s all.”

“Are you calling me basic, Jonathon?”

Alarm flooded his features, and he held his hands up. “No! Not at all—”

“Chill out, dude, I’m just messing with you.” I chuckled. “I appreciate what you’re trying to say, though.”

We grew silent for a time, eating and trying to pretend things weren’t still totally awkward between us. Awkward and not awkward, really. We got along great, as nearly always, but there was this undercurrent that seemed to drag us down.

“What’s wrong?” I asked at length. His answer surprised me. I’d thought he was going to make another pass at me.

“I made a deal with the board so that we would be able to withdraw Acme Bread’s bid for the corner lot.” He sighed. “But I may have bitten off more than I can chew. No pun intended.”

“How so?”

“I have to come up with a product to sell in our stores that’s so good, so irresistibly good, that people forget all about the Salmon and Lox toaster pastry. I’ve been scribbling down ideas for days and don’t have anything decent.”

I licked tomato soup from my finger and gave him a long stare.

“What?” He said when the silence grew too omnipresent.

“I’m trying to decide if you’re worthy of the gift I’m considering forgiving you.”

“Gift?” He cocked an eyebrow. “I can afford anything I need.”

“Oh, this is something that money can’t buy.” I leaned back in my seat and grinned. “What if I told you that there was something out there even better than the crack cookies?”

“I’d say you were a liar.”

I laughed. “I have a recipe that just might do the trick. One that my aunt developed thirty years ago.”

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