a booming business. The place is packed for most of our business hours. My lower-Manhattan clientele is willing to pay six dollars for a slice of my gourmet fruit pie, or nine bucks for a lunchtime meat pie. We sell out nearly every day.
But my costs are high, too. Gourmet ingredients cost a fortune. And I have trouble hiring enough help. I had a terrific staff in place before Lily—my assistant baker—fell in love with Keisha—my barista. It was all well and good until they decided to ditch city life to work on a billionaire’s yacht. I lost two terrific employees in one day.
That was a month ago, and I’ve been struggling ever since. In the first place, I think of Posy’s Pie Shop like a family. So losing Lily and Keisha hurt. Since then, I’ve already hired and fired three people. That hurt, too, since it felt like firing family members.
But one of them was stealing from me and two were chronically late. That’s family for you.
"Where's Jerry?" I ask Ginny, who’s measuring out flour for tomorrow's first batch of pastry.
“Out back,” she says. “Vaping, probably.”
“No, I'm not!” Jerry's voice pipes up from just outside the screen door. “I’m reading comics on my tablet!”
Jerry never lies to me. “Jerry, honey, it's time to clean the kitchen. You can read comics after four, okay?”
“Okay, Posy!” The backdoor bangs open and Jerry appears, all smiles. He has Down syndrome, and I employ him through a program that matches men and women with special challenges to businesses that can hire them. He comes in every day at one o’clock to restock things like napkins and cups, and to wash dishes.
He is the nicest guy you will ever meet, and it was a lucky day when I agreed to give him a try in my shop. He is, however, prone to distraction. Not a single day goes by that he doesn’t wander away from a sink full of dishes just to catch up on comics.
That's just the cost of doing business with Jerry. Everyone is flawed in his own way, right? Just like in a real family.
"Posy!" calls Teagan from the counter out front.
Crap. “Is it time for you to leave?” I call out.
Teagan is a baker, too. She makes the world-class donuts I buy wholesale to supplement my early morning offerings. But because I’m in such dire need of help, and because Teagan has expensive taste in shoes, I've talked her into working the counter for me a few hours a day, too, on a temporary basis.
“I’m leaving in fifteen,” Teagan calls. "But there's somebody here about your barista job."
“Wait, really?” I drop the metal mixing bowl I’d been holding and grab the nearest towel to wipe off my hands. “Don't let her leave! I'll be right there! Ginny,” I bark. “Listen for the oven timer.”
“Yes, master,” she says. Ignoring the sarcasm, I dash through the kitchen door, hope in my heart.
I make it as far as the cash register, and then pull up short. There’s someone standing by the counter, all right. But it isn't a woman, like I expected. It's a man. His back is to me, because he’s reading the menu that’s chalked onto my gold-framed board at the front. So I don't quite have the whole picture yet.
But some people make a big impression even from the back, and this gentleman is one of them. The first thing I notice is his confident posture. Straight spine. Shoulders back. Like he’s ready to take on the world.
And, fine, there’s also his spectacular ass. I don’t usually look at asses, but this one is seriously muscular. The fabric of his slim-cut jeans is strained by sculpted thighs and that perfect butt.
The top half of him is just as promising. His T-shirt clings in all the right places to a sturdy set of gym-sculpted back muscles and impressive biceps. His hair is blond, and lighter at the ends, as if he’s spent the last few months on a beach somewhere. And as he turns a rugged chin in my direction, I brace myself. It’s bad form to drool on job applicants, right?
Then I finally get a look at this man’s face. Those piercing green eyes and two days’ worth of scruff are handsome enough to turn heads. As a matter of fact, he used to turn mine. Because I know this face, even if I haven’t seen it for fifteen years. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Gunnar Scott is