Page 25 of Meet Jon, the Billionaire

She laughed, a sweet sound that I was already growing addicted to. “I mean, I probably burn a lot of it off working at Breadcetera. Some shifts I don’t even get to sit down.”

“You could always hire more help, couldn’t you?”

Amelia groaned. “In this economy? Attracting help is hard. Attracting GOOD help that’s actually willing to care about their work is even harder. Not only that, but our current setup is so small and cramped, we’re bumping into each other as it is. Adding more people to the mix sadly isn’t the answer. We need to expand or simplify our offerings, and I’d rather expand.”

“Simplify your offerings?” I turned toward her, intrigued to hear what she had to say. Acme Bread’s philosophy had always been to inundate the market with so many different kinds of products, it clogged shelf space and prevented smaller brands from getting a foothold. However, my recent commitment to quality in the boardroom wasn’t just lip service. I really wanted to know what Amelia, a street-level foot soldier in the food service wars, thought.

“Yeah. Right now we’ve got a wide variety of different products we offer, but those all take time. If we can’t expand, we’ll have to discontinue a lot of items and focus on those that are the best sellers—which would be a real shame, because I think one of the joys of going to a bakery is that moment when you peer into the glass and see all the different kinds of stuff available.”

She sighed, and I found myself enthralled with every word. Her eyes grew distant and glazed as she continued.

“I remember being a little kid—I think I was four or five or something like that—and walking into my aunt’s bakery for the first time. All those desserts behind the case, the smell of baking bread. I was fascinated. I wanted to know the name of everything in that glass display case, even though my parents told me I could only have one. I’d like to think that Breadcetera gives people a chance to live that experience every day, every time they walk into our shop.”

She noticed I was staring, and her cheeks flushed.

“Sorry,” Amy said, laughing anxiously. “I guess I sound pretty stupid, waxing poetic about baked goods.”

“Not at all,” I said quickly. “I can’t think of any reason I would ever apply ‘stupid’ to you, Amy. You’ve clearly got a lot of passion for this, and to tell you the truth, I envy you.”

“You do?” She laughed. “You’re the one with the stretched limo.”

I laughed, and felt my own cheeks redden. “I’m sorry, is it too pretentious? Sometimes when I’m trying to impress someone, I go over the top.”

“It’s not for me to judge if it’s pretentious or not.” The light shone in her eyes. “I will say that I’m pretty flattered you’re trying to impress a girl from Brooklyn with an uneven tan.”

“Flattered, eh?” I smiled. “Is it working?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you impressed?”

Amy pursed her lips in thought. “Well, do you want my honest answer?”

I nodded firmly. “Always.”

“All right… honestly, I am impressed, but not so much by the limo.” She fixed me with a firm gaze. “What impressed me, and continues to impress me, is that you talk and listen like you’re interested in what I have to say, and not just trying to get me into bed.”

She let out an anxious chuckle and looked out the window as we passed through the streets of Manhattan.

“I mean, maybe you are just trying to get me into bed, I don’t know. If that’s your only interest, you’re a hell of a good liar.”

She shook her head and closed her eyes. I think she wanted to run her hand down her face, but she stopped herself.

“Listen to me. I’m insulting you, and rambling, and acting like an ungrateful ass.” She smiled and faced me once again. “Sorry. The limo is really nice. It makes me feel… special.”

I considered her for a long time. “I’m glad that you were honest with me.”

“Yeah?” she asked in a cautious tone. Hope danced in her eyes, tempered by fear.

“Yeah,” I said, reaching down and taking her hand in mine. “I hope you’re always this honest with me. The truth is, I find your company delightful.”

“Um, thanks,” she said, turning red as a beet. “Um, can you turn on the AC? It’s kind of warm in here.”

I grinned and flipped on the vents, keeping my gaze locked with her the entire time. I didn't speak, but my thoughts smoldered.

You’re wrong, my dear Amy. It’s not getting warm in here… it’s getting Hot.

Red Hot.

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