Page 11 of His Pickle Her Jam

I grinned, jotting down some notes into my recipe journal.

“Okay, now this one next,” I said, running to open the lid on my newest flavor, Blueberry Pie.

Honestly, I was having a ball with all the wonderful produce I was garnering from local markets, but it was killing my overhead. I really had to get better at ordering direct from the farm, especially if I wanted to increase the scale of what I did.

“Oh wow, Jan! What the heck? This is like crack,” Delani moaned over a mouthful of the stuff.

“I know, right? It’s made with local blueberries, thyme, lemon zest, Ceylon cinnamon, and non-GMO pure cane sugar in the raw,” I told her.

“Okay, so explain to me what the heck is going on with you and Buck,” she said, sitting down directly in front of the huge floor fan I had going.

“Nothing,” I replied, way too quickly.

“Jan, I’ve known you for way too long to let you get away with that answer.”

“Fine. We’re both interested in Mr. Jones’ property on the corner, and we both put in competitive bids?—”

“Oh my God, Jan, you know he has money, right? He could buy this whole street and not feel a dent in his finances,” Delani said.

My mind went blank.

I knew he had money, but was he that rich? Like I can buy a building and not even blink rich?

I had to admit, snobbish as it might sound, David didn’t look rich. I mean, he was such a regular guy.

If regular guys had warm dark eyes, killer smiles, and sexy as hell abs.

He was a jeans, sneakers, and plain t-shirt wearing kind of man.

Though, in the summer, it was more cargo shorts and those linen guayabera shirts with the top three buttons open.

This week with the heatwave, he’d been all about tank tops. I only knew that because whenever I met Delani we stopped in her hubby’s bar, and of course, David, er, Buck was always there.

If I had to watch another woman break her neck to check out his muscles, I was going to scream.

No, you’re not, Jan, because he is not yours.

Nothing about him screamed money, but maybe he was just nonchalant about it. Like he was about most things. Including women.

Ugh. Stop it.

He drove a nice enough SUV, but I had no idea what those things cost. Still, if he was that rich, why didn’t he just outbid me? Why did he agree to this contest?

Confusion fogged my brain, and I faltered as I packed the rest of my stuff for the store. Shaking my head, I turned back to Del.

“Are you sure he’s rich?” I asked.

“Um, yeah. He and Sonny are best buds,” she said.

“Makes no sense,” I murmured. “Anyway, I mean, how would I have known that? But it doesn’t matter if he could quadruple my offer because Mr. Jones wants something more than money. He wants heart, and I have that in spades,” I told my bestie who nodded, but still looked a little worried.

“I suppose. So, what are your plans?”

“Well, we agreed to prep for the block party on site, and Mr. Jones asked us to limit our wares to three flavors. I am going to bring enough stuff for nine and weed them out through testing.”

“Do I get to be your guinea pig?” she asked, excitement sparkling in her eyes.

I snorted and shook my head.

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