Page 26 of How Sweet It Is

“Why?”

I plop down in the chair next to her. “It’s not the best. I’m a pan-crust lover myself. Thick, buttery goodness.”

Amelia moans. “Me too. But I haven’t been able to eat crust like that since I was a kid.”

Good to know. I make it my personal goal to make a better gluten-free pizza crust. I have the flour now. I can make more than biscuit muffins with it.

I lean toward her computer. “Have you put all my projected expenses and my income into your software?”

“Yep.”

“So you should know what I can afford to pay Kiera.”

“Yep.” She doesn’t look at me.

“What can I afford?”

She gives me a withering look. “About a dollar fifty.”

“Per hour?”

“No, total.”

I sink into my chair and let out a breath. “Well, that sucks.”

“But that’s only based off of two days of being open. We’re going to do a lot more advertising, and you’re heading in the right direction, adding coffee and Italian sodas. If you can increase the average ticket, you’ll be on your way to success.” Amelia grins at me as she takes another slice of pizza.

“Yeah,” I say, not really feeling it. “So, if I continue selling like I have these last two days, am I just breaking even?”

She clicks on her computer. “Not if you want to pay an employee.”

I sigh, not loving that thought. I’ve worked my behind off. And for what? To lose money. That stinks. Maybe my brother was right to caution me about opening a business. Maybe I really don’t know what I’m doing.

Amelia shoves my leg. “You look depressed. Stop it. You’re the upbeat one.”

I lean back in the chair, unable to come up with a snarky response to her. It’s my birthday, and I just found out that my life’s dream might be in the toilet. “Maybe I should quit while I’m ahead.”

“Quit? You just started. You can’t quit now.”

I frown. “My dream has been to open a bakery and live off what I make and sell. But if I can’t break even, then there’s no reason to continue.”

Amelia whacks my leg with the back of her hand. “It’s way too early to know if this bakery will make it. Now, snap out of this funk. You can’t be like this on your birthday.”

I look down at my jeans, not wanting to admit to Amelia that I dropped out of college three times, and now I’m a failure at this as well.

She shoves my leg again. “Go sweep the floor and dance around for a while.”

“I don’t feel like dancing.”

“Well, I do.”

I jerk my gaze up to meet hers. Is she messing with me? “You do not.”

“I just ate something I’ve been craving for the last eight weeks. I could dance all night long.”

A grin creeps over my face. “Watch it, Spreadsheet. You’re dangerously close to getting my hopes up. I’m not in the mood to be toyed with.”

Amelia stands, slings her purse over her shoulder, and folds her arms. “I’m not toying. And I’m starting to think you’re all talk and no action.”

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