Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
“Well, that’s great to hear ‘cause I wasn’t offering any. I’ve got shit you can help with around our new place. My back isn’t as spry as it used to be. Knees sound like celery. Just stay with us until …” He shrugs. “Until you figure out what’s next. Door’s open, Diego.”
Don’t know if it’s the way he says my name.
His voice going softer in a way I haven’t heard in years.
Like saying my name still carries a piece of my dad with it.
He tells me the door’s open.
Starting to wonder if I’ve been relying too much on opened doors lately.
Isn’t it about time I open my own?
“Sit tight,” I tell him, getting up. “I’ll get you another plate.”
“Discreetly,” he mutters back, glancing toward the front desk. “Think that guy’s been eyeing me, knowing I’m not really a guest here, and I’m enjoying sharing this bad breakfast with my nephew more than anyone’s got a right to.”
I eye him. “Seriously don’t think they give a shit, Tío.”
He looks at me.
I look at him.
He cracks a smile.
I try not to.
Then I’m off back to the buffet to fill another plate I won’t eat.
—31—
Wyatt
Cash was right. Shocker.
I’ve been over the books for the past several days. I cut some expenses. I made long lists. Reviewed my current pricing schemas and compared them against what I was charging Bellamy. The income he brought in was certainly meaningful, but the rush jobs, constant discounts, and extra demands chewed through so much of the bonus profit.
I guess that’s exactly what a man like Grant Bellamy is.
Impressive on paper. Hollow in reality.
I need to make changes. Not for Diego who called me out. Not because my sister has this wimpy, pushover idea of me I’m trying to prove wrong. Maybe not even for my parents who are—I’d put money on it—drunk in an RV park someplace, happy as can be.
Maybe I’m not even doing this for me.
“Ms. Linny,” I recite in the mirror late Monday morning when no one’s at the shop because we’re closed. “Due to rising s-supply costs, I, uh, regretfully must increase the price for out-of-season—” No. Too corporate. “Dolores! Hi! Um … Flowers cost more now.” Ugh, seriously? “Tracy, I’m so, so sorry, but I must charge extra for rush deliveries, even on Sundays …”
I sound like I’m holding her begonias hostage.
And I can’t seem to say anything without apologizing first.
Am I sure I can even enforce the changes I’m making?
Why do I keep hearing imaginary laughter in my ears? Seeing eye rolls and indignant scoffing? Whispers at church … That Wyatt, he’s gotten so greedy, his head is so big, he thinks he can charge what he’s worth and get away with it at our expense? How dare he!
I clench shut my eyes, exhausted.
And it’s barely noon.
Cash comes crashing into the shop—Didn’t I lock the door?—flings his backpack behind the counter—Why does he always have a backpack? He’s not in school anymore—and says, “Hey, Mr. C! What’s poppin’?”
I come out of the back. “We seriously need to track your hours on these off days.”
He stops and blinks. “We track them on my on days?”
“Really, Cash. Whenever you help out, I need to pay you.”
“I told you it’s fine, Mr. C. Chill. I’m just—”
“No,” I say firmer. “None of these favors and freebies. I refuse to keep accepting it. When you’re here, you’re getting paid. That’s it. No negotiations.”
He lifts his eyebrows in surprise, looking almost hurt.
Then: “Even if I just stop by to, like, hang out?”
I lean in. “If you’re hanging out, then you aren’t allowed to do anything but hang out. Not even a teensy misting of the roses.”
“Aww, but that’s my favorite!”
“No.” I point at the computer. “Are you here to work? Or here to hang out? Clock in if you’re working, because I’ve got a whole list of to-dos while the shop’s closed. I’m making … changes. Big ol’ changes.” I rethink it. “M-Medium-sized changes. Sorta.”
He’s already looking at the screen. “You increased prices?”
“Some. For items I had already discounted. I ran numbers. I’ve been shorting myself. In a few ways, actually. By the way, are you feeling personable and particularly full of energy today? I could use some help with something.”
He peels his eyes from the screen and looks at me. “Uh …”
I pat the phone on the counter. “We need to make some calls.”
His eyes drop to the phone like he’s never seen one before.
This is going to go so well.
For the next few hours, we’re calling all of my clients. Every last one of them. I have a new pricing schema. I’m offering deals that benefit us both. We divide and conquer my call list one scary little conversation at a time—even if I’m mere inches from putting my finger on the panic button with every caller.