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“There’s plenty in the account—”
“How much?” he asked again.
“Five thousand.”
Jake ran a hand through his hair. That was more than one of his guys’ salary for the month. And coming up on a slow winter season, now was not the time to be spending five grand.
Yeah, Baughman Home Goods was well above water, but that’s because he and Walt had built it up over a period of years. The steady build and steady income. He wasn’t in the business of frivolous spending. Walt had taught Jake that he had to stretch the money he had, always keep reserves, and when a surplus came in, expect to have that last through the slow months. It wasn’t just five grand—it was the fact that Laura didn’t know any of this, yet she had the power to spend.
“The money needs to be back by the end of the week,” he said.
“That won’t happen,” she countered, but her voice was a little softer. “But I already have a client lined up and I’ll turn a profit on this event I’m doing. And I have extra flowers for the daily customers, and hopefully another reorder will come in and I won’t have to scramble for inventory. I have a marketing plan, and I’m applying for Cal’s subdivision project, too. It’ll be fine.”
“You’re talking about risk and maybes.”
“Sometime you have to risk to get the reward or you’ll never get ahead. You’ll tread water the rest of your life,” Laura said.
Jake’s chest tightened. He knew that feeling. Treading. He was good at it. But damn, his legs were getting tired with boredom. Still, he was responsible. He shook his head. “How much of a profit are you going to make on this first client?”
She glanced at the ground, not saying anything.
So he asked again. “Laura?”
“I gave Hannah the friends-and-family discount, because she only has so much money to work with and this is about building a reputation. It’ll be more money in the long run, when her boss comes back to me for all their floral needs. Not to mention, the exposure at this party is great for business.”
“Laura,” he said, more deadpan. “What’s the profit margin?”
“Forty-three dollars.”
Jesus fucking Christ. “I can see that business degree is paying off.”
“I have a degree in marketing, and it is paying off. I haven’t been here that long and—”
“Are messing with the bank account,” he said.
“I have a customer!”
The woman was infuriating. “This is your father’s business. His legacy.”
“I know that,” she snapped. “But it’s also my mother’s flower shop and her memory.”
And something in her eyes made him believe her. She was going about this ass backward, if you asked him, but she seemed genuinely aware that this business was Walt’s, even though Jake never thought of her mother. About what came before him. And at least that was something. She was aware. He still had to think this through. They were fighting each other when all he wanted to do was be on her team. But the reality was, he couldn’t be on her team. Because he was Team Warehouse and she was all or nothing.
“Well,” Jake said and stepped around her, “like you said, I’m late for work.” He walked out and toward the thing he’d built with Walt. The one place he could feel normal. The warehouse.
Chapter Nine
Laura had never thought she’d be a grown-ass woman pulling a wagon down Main Street of her hometown, but here she was, doing just that. The wagon had six medium flower arrangements in it that she was gifting local businesses today. She had the inventory, and sure, it was a couple hundred dollars’ worth of flowers, but she needed the exposure and to gain a customer base.
Got to spend money to make money.
And after her fight with Jacob yesterday, she had to get more customers and fast. She was certain her idea was a sure thing. This town thrived on local business. Once everyone saw her mother’s shop booming with flowers again, she’d have a line out the door.
She took a deep breath and continued her trek. The cobblestone sidewalk made the wagon wheels bump a bit, and she had to go slow so the flowers didn’t jostle too much. Between the scraping of her stilettos and the squeaky wagon, she didn’t exactly boast confidence. But as she reached Mr. Gaffe’s taffy shop, she straightened her shoulders, parked her wagon near the entrance, grabbed an arrangement, and headed in.
“Good morning, Mr. Gaffe,” she said and walked to the back counter. Both sides of the store were lined with candy. Each wall had a large display of built-in shelves that housed rows and rows of jars, all filled with different types of chocolates and sweets. But Laura’s favorite was the big boat in the middle of the store—its simple wooden body had been hollowed out and rebuilt to hold bins of assorted homemade saltwater taffy.
“Little Laura Baughman, I was wondering when you and your sticky fingers were going to come see me,” Mr. Gaffe said as she walked toward him. “That there is fresh butter taffy . . .” He motioned at the boat, then winked and closed his eyes. Laura took a single piece and popped it into her mouth. Butter taffy was her favorite, and ever since she was kid, she’d come in and Mr. Gaffe would pretend he didn’t see her take a single piece every time.
