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His Pickle Her Jam (Cherry On Top Tales #4) Chapter One-Buck 8%
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Chapter One-Buck

I’d invested the trust fund my parents had left me wisely and was considerably well off, but that wasn’t enough to satisfy me.

Being rich was fine, but it wasn’t everything. Sure, I dabbled in small ventures, like Sonny’s label, Whiskey Neat, and yeah, I bartended for him.

But that was just a distraction.

Lately, I’d found a new passion. Something I was dying to get into.

Pickles.

Yup. You heard me right.

I was positively passionate about pickles. I mean, they were the perfect food. You could pickle any damn thing you wanted. From cucumbers to garlic to unripe tomatoes to beets to eggs.

The possibilities were endless, and that was why I was going to call my business Pickled Possibilities.

So far, I’d come up with over a dozen recipes and I’d been rolling them out slowly to my friends and family.

Sonny actually started ordering some for his bar. They served small plates now and my spicy pickled beets and eggs, garlic thyme cukes, and corn relish were big hits with the summer crowds.

I had a connection with a New Jersey non-GMO organic produce company called Kent Global Farms, owned and operated by a former college buddy, Jeremy Kent. His home base was in Sussex County, about an hour’s drive from where I lived in Montclair.

I had a big old Victorian that I renovated on the ritzier part of town. I wasn’t embarrassed by my wealth, and I craved privacy, something that was damn near unheard of in the busier suburbs of the Garden State.

My neighbors were mostly older rich people, with a few professional athletes mixed in. But we got along fine. With the space between properties, it was impossible not to.

I needed more than just my home kitchen to work in. I needed a store and there was one spot that was perfect, just a few doors down from the Whiskey Bar.

“Where you off to?” Sonny asked as I took off my apron and rinsed my hands at the sink behind the bar.

“Meeting the realtor down the block,” I replied, a grin splitting across my face.

I had this in the bag!

Or I thought I did.

Until an unmistakable look of guilt spread across Sonny’s face that made me stumble on my first step.

“What is it?” I asked, furrowing my eyebrows.

“Nothing, man,” he replied, shrugging, but not looking me in the eye.

“Sonny, I know you’re full of shit. What happened?”

“Well, you know how you told me not to tell anyone old man Jones was selling?”

“Yeah,” I said, not liking where this was going.

“I, uh, mentioned it to Delani while she was on the phone with Jan and, well, you know how she’s been looking for a spot for Jan’s Jellies & Jams? Del kind of convinced her to go look at it today?—”

“What? That woman is trying to get my store!” I growled, rushing out from behind the bar.

“Dude, I’m sorry!”

I ignored Sonny’s half-assed apology. The fucker could owe me later.

I didn’t know much about Jan’s finances, but I knew I could buy the building outright and I was going to make a cash offer right now if it meant I got the space away from that curvy little menace’s hands.

Not caring that I looked like a freaking lunatic, I tore off down the street to find my appointment with the realtor had been literally hijacked!

“Thank you so much for showing me the place, Mrs. Montgomery, I really appreciate your time, and you have my offer, but here are some samples of what I’d be selling should Mr. Jones accept it,” Jan said, her bright smile blinding.

“Oh, how sweet!”

“Excuse me, sorry if I am a little early for our appointment, Mrs. Montgomery,” I butted it, breathing heavier than I’d have liked after that little jog.

“Oh, no I think you are right on time, Mr., um,” the realtor said, struggling to remember my name.

What the hell?

“Would you mind excusing us, Miss Morrow,” I growled, barely holding on to my anger.

It didn’t help that she looked sweet as cherry pie in her yellow sunshine dress and strappy sandals on her feet. Her toenails were painted bright red, matching the gloss she’d applied to her plump lips.

If Jan wasn’t so disagreeable, I’d have to admit she was fine as fuck. Curvy and petite, just how I liked my women. Not that there had been anyone filling that position for a long while.

Speaking of filling—down boy! She’s the enemy.

“Thank you again for your time,” Jan interrupted my naughty thoughts, shaking Mrs. Montgomery’s hand and giving me a grin that said she knew exactly what she’d done.

My eyes went to the paper the realtor was holding, and I frowned. The little minx had made an offer.

“Mrs. Montgomery, I don’t need a walk through. I’ve been inside before and well, I would like to extend an offer to Mr. Jones for ten percent above asking price.”

“You would buy the building, not rent?”

“That’s right. In cash,” I said before Jan was out of earshot.

I noticed the way she stiffened, shoulders slumping slightly as she walked away without looking back.

Take that!

Only, it wasn’t the win I thought it would be. Mrs. Montgomery relayed the information to the current owner of the property, and he had terms of his own.

It seemed the old man was not hurting financially. He wouldn’t be swayed with offers of cash.

“You see, Mr. Antonetti, my client simply wants what is best for the space. He ran a simple mom and pop grocery store here for years before retiring to Miami with his wife. They are looking for that same vibe.”

I nodded, shook hands with Mrs. Montgomery, and left, promising to wait for her call. But I stewed about what she said for hours.

I believed Pickled Possibilities would be the perfect addition to busy downtown Montclair.

We already had a bar, a chocolaterie, a pizza place, and a bakery on the block. The whole area was perfect for tourists and locals alike.

Filled with shops featuring local artists, handmade jewelry, hot little dining spots, ice cream parlors, and even a new legal dispensary, the one thing we didn’t have was a pickle store.

Of course, we didn’t have homemade jellies either. So maybe Jan’s offering wasn’t as off base as I thought. I frowned harder, looking at the prospectus I’d drawn up when I first came up with this idea.

Yes, I’d improved upon it. But still. It was nerve-wracking. This was the first time I’d ever truly wanted to do something myself.

Making money off other people’s genius was easy. It was gambling. What I wanted to do with Pickled Possibilities was different.

It was the first time the idea was all mine. I had a knack for flavor combinations and the science part was challenging enough to keep me interested.

I’d read all sorts of books about pickling, the histories of, and the mistakes people made. It was a wonder humankind lasts so long. Things could go seriously wrong with pickling.

Considering it used to be the only way a person could have any kind of produce during the winter months, I was surprised there weren’t more historical instances of mass poisonings.

Seriously. You had to be exact, meticulous, paying great attention to detail, not to mention patient.

Pickling wasn’t for the faint of heart, that was for damn sure.

I had just closed my eyes and counted to ten, trying to focus on the positives when my phone rang. I clicked the little green answer button immediately.

“This is Buck.”

“Mr. Antonetti?”

“Yes, sorry, it’s me,” I said, recognizing the realtor’s voice.

“Mr. Antonetti, Mr. Jones would like you and Miss Morrow to come into my office tomorrow for a virtual conference call. Can you be there at ten?”

“Sure, I can do that. See you then.”

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