Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 49490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
“You can do better than him. Much better,” I’d assured her.
“Hmm. I dunno. I might have a thing for Italians who know how to knead dough.” She’d batted her lashes while I’d rolled my eyes. “Lighten up, Robbie. And be nice. We’re the new kids in town. We need friends, not enemies.”
Friends with Mateo? Yeah…probably not happening any time soon. My best bet was to avoid him altogether. At least for now.
Starting a business and settling into a new groove in a place I hadn’t called home in years kept me busy. I spent most of the summer getting reacquainted with the town and reestablishing old connections. It wasn’t enough to hang a sign and hope for the best. No, I had to schmooze.
I met with the mayor and her husband, the president of Haverton and his husband, and Coach Mulveney, who I fully credited with steering me to a career in the pros. If he wanted them, Coach could feast on free bagels for as long as the Big H was in business. My grandfather had taught me that it was important to acknowledge the folks who’d played a part in your success.
“A complimentary treat might seem like a silly token of esteem, but an everything bagel with extra cream cheese goes a long way,” Grandpa had insisted.
I believed him. Grandpa’s loyal customers hadn’t just loved his bagels. They’d loved him. He’d been a Philly institution, a friendly familiar face who’d often tell his middle-aged customers that he remembered them as babies. And at the end of the day, everyone wanted to be remembered.
Mateo and his cousins had the advantage there for sure. His dad and uncle had been legends when we were in college. Somehow, they’d known everyone’s name. Even mine.
“We gotta football hero in the house! That was some game the other night, huh? What can I get ya?” Mr. Cavaretti had been quick with a fist bump, a wink, and a gentle nudge toward the special of the day. Drinks had always been on the house for the football team, and after a big win, Mateo’s dad had offered free slices of pepperoni too. To be honest, I couldn’t swear that he knew my name, but he’d made me feel important for a minute or so, and that had made an impression.
And the pizza was damn good.
But so were Grandpa’s bagels.
Gramps had sold a variety of flavors and thankfully, had left copious notes with his recipe book.
Add pinch of cinn on CR. Code: cinnamon raisin.
Fresh dill for CC. Code: fresh herbs for cream cheese.
I’d happily handed the book to Amber. She was the master of the kitchen and in marketing, while I was the name behind the brand. I was the money man, the taste tester, and the guy in charge of ambience. See, throwing a few pennants on the walls might pay homage to the town and remind folks that I’d once been one of them, but I wanted the space to feel…safe, somehow.
Cozy. Like somewhere you’d want to hang out before your day started or in between classes.
In the corner booth, head bent over a textbook, battered and torn backpack on the floor, out of sight, disappearing in the hiss of steam from the kettle, the hum of the coffeemaker, the thwunk of the bread slicer, the buzz of conversation and laughter. A warm bagel with a side of cream cheese slides onto the table, a hand squeezes my shoulder, the smell of cinnamon, garlic, and kindness.
A safe haven. The calm in a storm of adolescent fears and insecurities. Maybe that was a tall ask of your average bagel shop, but it was an honorable goal.
But first, I had some boxes to unpack.
I tossed a few empty ones into the alley and headed inside to help Amber and our new hires, Krista and Connor, with some heavy lifting in the pantry. Fifteen minutes later, I dumped another six boxes outside and—
“What’s all this?” Mateo groused, gesturing to the discarded pile of cardboard.
I did a double take, instantly irked that I noticed Mateo’s muscular forearms and the proud jut of his stubbled jaw. What was wrong with me? I’d been careful not to ogle him in college. That had more to do with self-preservation than a lack of admiration, but still. He’d been civil back then. Now…not so much.
“Those are boxes, genius.”
“Oh, really?” he deadpanned. “You gotta break ’em down, genius.”
“That’s literally what I was about to do,” I lied, pulling my keys from my pocket.
“With keys? Don’t you have box cutters?”
“Nope.” I smiled…extra wide.
Mateo cocked his head and sighed. “All right. Fine.”
He disappeared inside the pizzeria and returned a minute later with a box cutter.
I frowned, staring at the blade suspiciously. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch. Just being a conscientious and thoughtful neighbor.”
I didn’t miss the emphasis or the implication that a good neighbor would be mindful of competing menus, but I maturely decided not to take the bait. It had been a long day already, and the last thing I needed was to pick a fight with the grouch next door.