Page 27 of Meet Jon, the Billionaire

Laughing is something you do with your buddies, your peers, your close friends. You didn’t laugh like that with your woman… or maybe I had been completely wrong about that my whole life. Maybe I should have been looking for a woman who made me laugh all along.

We opened up our menus, and she sighed in relief. “Oh thank goodness… I hate it when the menu isn’t in a language I can speak. So, you own this place, what’s good?”

“Myself, I almost always get the shakshuka, but the lemon garlic baked salmon, on the other hand, is probably our most popular item.”

“Well, I guess I have no choice but to be trendy.” She closed her menu. “I’ll have that.”

“What’s so wrong with being trendy?”

“Nothing, I guess.” She shrugged. “You know, now that you mention it, why is there such thing as a guilty pleasure?”

I cocked an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, the very idea that we have to feel guilty about things we like. You know, cheesy B movies, or that popular pop song that everyone says they hate. Now, if you’re into driving carpenter nails into people’s feet when they aren’t looking, I would say THAT is a guilty pleasure.”

I laughed so hard I had people glancing around on the lobby floor below, trying to figure out who dared to display exuberant happiness in the staid restaurant. I tried to restrain myself, then stopped. I mean, what were they going to do, throw me out?

“I think that guilt and pleasure can be conflated by some people. I mean, isn’t forbidden fruit the most tempting?”

“Depends on why it’s forbidden,” Amy said, lifting a brow. She opened a package of melba toast and smeared butter across it. “Sorry, but I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since the buffet line at the tourney.”

She bit into the toast and sighed.

“Is it bad?”

“What? No, it’s delicious. The standard by which all melba toast shall be judged from here on out.” She sighed. “It’s just… I really wanted that catering gig at the country club to go over better, you know? Stupid Acme Bread and their super fancy buffet line. Who in the hell has Lobster Bisque on a buffet line?”

I shifted a bit in my seat, sweat breaking out on my brow.

“I’ll tell you who,” she continued, holding her pinky out. “Somebody with a need to compensate for their—ahem—shortcomings.”

She used the fingers of her other hand like scissors and ‘snipped’ her pinky at the tip, as if to suggest that their penis must be monumentally tiny indeed. When I didn’t laugh, she seemed confused. “Too much?”

“No, it’s fine.” I frowned. “It’s just… you really are invested in getting that corner lot, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, of course I am.” Amy’s fingers toyed idly with the crumbs left from her melba toast repast. She poked them around, forming a rough semicircle around the edge of her water glass. “But you know something? This whole running my Aunt’s bakery is starting to feel more and more permanent. She won’t admit it, but my Aunt Petunia’s been enjoying the downtime. I think… I don’t know, maybe I won’t be going back to Wall Street after all.”

That hit me like a punch in the gut. She was dying to get that corner lot. Amy had found her muse, her passion, and it was called Breadcetera. She cared about the people, and she cared about the guests, and she cared about the legacy.

I was envious of her passion. I’d never been able to muster that much passion for anything, not even making money. But I was getting the feeling there was something I could be equally passionate about.

Amy.

Our food arrived, and it was cooked to perfection. Amy was perhaps the most appreciative dinner date I’ve ever seen. When she put the first forkful of tender, flaky baked salmon in her mouth, her eyes fluttered closed and she let out a long, satisfied moan.

“Oh. My. GOD. And I thought nothing could touch my aunt’s salmon patties recipe. This is so freaking good…”

“I’m glad you enjoy it.”

My smile was tempered by inner turmoil. I was growing to regret my decision to try and get the corner lot now. At the end of the day, the Acme Bread juggernaut would not be laid low by the loss of a corner lot, no matter how lucrative. It had too strong of a market foothold. But Amy didn’t just want that corner lot, she desired it. Ached for it.

Just like I ached for her.

The Genie has a great garden terrace, and Amy and I retired there after our meal. We had a great view of the city, the dying sunlight sparkling off the towers of glass and steel.

“So what’s eating you, Jonathon?”

I turned toward her. “What’s that?”

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