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I’d spentthirty minutes going back over today’s accounts along with an avalanche of sticky notes my bookkeeper had left for me. It was apparent that one bookkeeper handling inventory wasn’t enough.
I had two employees handling Accounting and Payroll and had assumed one would suffice to manage ingoing/outgoing inventory. My father had no issues at the appliance stores, and my grandfather had one for all three of his specialty meat stores, which he still owned but didn’t manage anymore.
Apparently, my new store had much more daily business, and I had miscalculated.
I plugged in my earbuds and hit play on the recording of Betty and I running lines from the other night as I did a quick round to each department. After reading the horror stories about the kinds of bacteria that can taint food from unsanitary industrial kitchens, I’d made it part of my routine to do a quick check before I went home.
But of course, as soon as Betty’s voice filled my head, I lost track of what I was doing. She was a good actress. Great actually. But it wasn’t her acting skills that had my brain misfiring at the sound of her husky voice.
I exhaled a deep breath, trying not to get an erection as I walked past the deli, waving to Miles who was closing up. I looked at the ready-to-go homecooked meals and high-end deli selections—seafood stuffed bell peppers, crawfish topped chicken breasts and slow-cooked brisket—trying like hell to distract my body from what Betty’s voice did to me.
Not to mention the memory of our first run-through of the romantic scene on the sofa.
Fucking hell.
I’d offered that we forego the kissing until dress rehearsals, thinking it might be easier on both of us. She was still so tense around me, and I was entirely too fucking turned on every time she entered a room.
My solution? The cheek-to-cheek, fake kissing. Whatever moronic brain cell in my head said that would be a good idea should be removed permanently. The second she brushed her soft cheek against mine, saying, “Ohhh, Paul,” in that throaty voice, my entire body went hard as stone.
I tried to finish rehearsal, hoping she didn’t notice, but I’m pretty sure she did.
Her sultry laughter suddenly filled my ears, bringing me back to the fact that I was standing in my deli, staring at a honey-baked ham in the glass case, hypnotized by her voice. This was during my drunk Paul scene. Her unrestrained laughter when she broke character had me chuckling again.
Then Miles was standing there on the other side of the counter, asking me something. I plucked out the earbuds and shoved them in my pocket.
“Need something, Mr. Broussard?” His brow puckered with worry.
“No, Miles. Everything’s fine.”
I moved on, trying to forget about Betty for one damn minute. I glanced around our specialty deli and bakery sections, proud of what I’d accomplished so far.
When I’d decided to open this store two years ago, I watched and read about the upward trends of supermarkets that catered to the health-conscious customer as well as the busy parents in need of healthy, home-cooked meals.
Other supermarkets I’d tracked had seen a more profitable return by offering high-end, fresh products in more rural, secluded locations. Hence, Beauville was ideal. It was surrounded by dozens of smaller towns that didn’t have more than a Dollar General, a mom-n-pop grocery, and two gas stations. But these towns supported a lot of country-living families who wanted better food options than what was currently offered.
I realized my store could fill that need. My bakery and deli could offer home-cooked meals for the soccer moms on the go and the organic, gluten-free, and keto-friendly foods. It was a highly popular trend that was climbing, unbeknownst to my father, who didn’t believe in my approach to the store. Fortunately, I’d trusted myself even if I had all these niggling doubts put in my head, mostly by dear old Dad.
My Dad’s version of fatherly guidance doubled the pressure I already put on myself. I know this type of grocery here in Beauville was a risk. But it was one I was willing to take. I’d been saving my salary I’d made managing Dad’s appliance stores since college. As well as the loan Pop gave me. When I’d tried to refuse it, he said it was my inheritance money anyway.
“I wanna see you use it before I croak,” he’d told me. “So spend it well.”
I loved my grandfather. He knew about my plans, of course; he was basically my biggest investor and cheerleader without expecting anything in return.
Fortunately, business had been going well. My weekday rehearsals weren’t interfering with my ability to keep on top of operations. Having that escape soothed some of my stress about starting a new business. It didn’t hurt that my stage partner happened to be the most endearingly grumpy and enticing woman I’d met in ages. Perhaps ever.
The fact that she wasn’t easily charmed was a turn-on. Her don’t-give-a-damn attitude and snarky personality sucked me in like Netflix on Sundays.
Strolling toward the bakery, I looked up and suddenly stopped when I sawher.
Standing next to the gluten-free section in the bakery was Betty, a basket on her arm, while she stared at two women in yoga pants and workout tanks.
Correction. She was glaring at them with a mixture of murder and disgust blatantly screaming in her expression.
I couldn’t help but chuckle because, at any moment, one of those women was going to turn and instantly jump out of her skin at the psychotic look Betty was giving them. I knew, without a doubt, she wouldn’t look away politely and pretend she wasn’t having murderous thoughts about the skinny workout wives chatting it up in the healthy section of the deli.
The question was,whywas she trying to kill them with the venomous thoughts in her head?
One of the women I recognized was the wife of my dad’s friend. She was nice—to your face—and as long as you socialized in her circle. I suppose that meant she wasn’t very nice.
