Chapter Nineteen
The work week passed quickly as Nash did his best to learn all there was to learn about developing, testing, tasting, and approving new ice cream flavors. He was to report in to Kenzi when he had a product for her final approval. The redundancies in the approval process, first Charlie, then him, and finally Kenzi, seemed unnecessary—until he tasted the Cheery Cherry.
He and Charlie had approved the final base, and they moved on to adding different types of cherries. Some were tart, others sweet. What Nash found was that Charlie had a mental preference for one type of cherry, grown locally. But Nash preferred the pie cherries grown in Payson, Utah. They had just the right combination of bite on the tongue and lingering fruit taste that caught his attention.
He probably should have given in to Charlie’s experience, but for some reason, he was consumed with the idea that this ice cream flavor had to be the best. Maybe because it was his first real assignment with the company and he wanted to do a good job. Sure, that could be it. Or, more likely, he was doing his best to avoid Kenzi and obsessing over cherry producers and varieties was his best route.
So, he threw himself into product development like a madman and argued with Charlie that his first impressions were a big deal because he didn’t usually like cherry ice cream. If they could make a flavor that pleased the taste buds of non-cherry lovers and cherry cheerers alike, they’d sell more ice cream.
Charlie waved an ice cream scoop in the air. “It’s all about the next sale for you—ice cream used to be art!”
Nash adjusted his tie. In business school, they’d discussed five types of conflict resolution: accommodating, avoiding, collaborating, compromising, and competing.
He couldn’t give Charlie what he wanted; there was too much at stake here. Sure, he was using his job as a way to avoid Kenzi, but there was a matter of pride involved too. He wasn’t just some run-of-the-mill business grad. He’d done big things, like take a company from two hundred-ish employees to five hundred in a matter of two years. He’d managed the growth spurt on his own by working sixty-to-eighty-hour weeks. Ever since he’d dusted off his executive suit, he felt more like himself. Success wasn’t an option for him; it was a driving need. If there was a way to do the job perfectly, he would find it and make it happen. So he continued to press his opinion on the poor taste-ologist.
AvoidingCharlie wasn’t an option either, because he was already avoiding Kenzi, which meant he had to stay in the basement of the Red Barn as much as possible. He’d created a nest at the bar in the tasting room with his laptop and a few legal pads and one abused Post-it notepad. His cell phone was all he needed to keep up on the new packaging designs—none of which he could say was better than what they were using now. Why spend the resources to create a new look if it wouldn’t outperform the old look?
Collaborationwas what got him into the mess with Charlie, so that conflict resolution skill wasn’t going to help much.Compromisingwas just as unlikely, as both men were of the mindset that theirs was the one and only right answer.
Which leftcompetition. Nash snapped his fingers. “What we need is a blind taste test.”
Charlie used his white apron to wipe his hands. “You have intrigued me,” he said in a drawn-out, mysterious voice. “Continue.”
“Monday morning, first thing, we bring in Kenzi and have her taste test each sample, not knowing which is which. Whatever she says, goes.”
“Deal.” Charlie extended his hand over the bar. “But I want your promise that you will not cry when my California cherries win.”
Nash laughed, pumping his hand. “And I’ll expect the same from you when my Utah cherries are chosen the winner.”
“Agreed. And no swaying the judge this weekend with candlelight dinners and canoodling.” Charlie pointed at him before he went back to drying sample dishes.
Nash buried himself behind his laptop. How was he supposed to keep his thoughts platonic when Charlie said something like that? He furiously began an internet search to look at their competitor’s half-gallon-sized containers—anything to take his mind of the idea of pulling Kenzi into his arms and kissing her slowly.
The page loaded and he forced his mind to the task at hand—evaluating. Most companies preferred a tub with a lid, but a few still used the folded boxes. The boxes were less expensive. He’d need to buy several and check them for durability—perhaps drop one and see what happened.
He wondered if the container played a part in the consumer’s buying decision. It must have, because the majority of the products in boxes were the store-brand varieties. Hazel’s Dairy Delights was somewhere between the cheap name brand and the “yak’s milk and air-whipped honey particles flash-frozen for added texture” type of products. Perhaps they could undercut their competition by changing to the less expensive packaging.
He sighed. Those kinds of production moves were often a short-term gain and a long-term loss. There would be a burst in sales as consumers hurried to buy before the prices went up, but if the prices didn’t go back up, then consumers would suspect that the quality of the ice cream had gone down. Nash glanced up from his computer to see Charlie stack bowls and store them under the counter. Charlie’s job was to ensure Hazel’s Dairy Delights was the best it could be. He couldn’t recommend a container or a container design that would allow consumers to think less of Charlie’s hard work. What was put on display should reflect all the hours Charlie put into his job, as well as the calories he consumed in the process of doing his job.
Nash rubbed his too-full belly. Thank goodness for the infinity pool. He’d spent the last four evenings swimming until he could barely lift his arms out of the water. Not only was he burning off the calories he consumed right alongside Charlie; he was able to stay out of the house while Kenzi was awake.
Just because she wasn’t standing next to him didn’t mean his thoughts didn’t find her. The memory of her kiss was like a dryer sheet stuck to his brain. He’d peel it off and toss it away, only to find the darn thing attached somewhere else. Like when he ran into Hattie in the main kitchen. She didn’t have much of Kenzi in her looks, favoring her mother in that department. But she sure liked to talk about her aunt. Nash smiled at the memory. A three-year-old was a fountain of information for things such as Kenzi’s favorite food—brownies—and her favorite thing to do—color in the kitten coloring book—and her favorite movie princess—Jasmine. Although not much of that information was useful, he soaked it in all the same.
He’d rather soak in some more of Kenzi’s kisses than spend another evening pestering her niece for information, but kissing was off the table. He’d overstepped his bounds as an employee and a hired husband, and that was inexcusable. He would apologize—more than the stutteredsorryhe got out before leaving the room—if the apology wouldn’t make things even more awkward between them. Bringing up the topic would only enlarge the weirdness when they were in the same room. As it was, they could hardly be in the same office/barn or sleep a bathroom apart without tripping over the uncomfortableness.
“Don’t you have a dinner to get to?” asked Charlie.
“What?” Nash lifted his eyes off the countertop, where they’d glazed over as he went deeper and deeper into his thoughts about Kenzi.
Charlie tapped one of the Post-its on the edge of his computer. “I’ve been seeing that for three days now. Don’t tell me you forgot.”
Nash squinted at the block print.Dinner with Guy Tratto. Friday 6 @ Basil’s.
Shoot!He slammed his laptop shut. “I forgot.” He was supposed to woo Guy and expound Kenzi’s greater qualities as a CEO over tortellini in less than fifteen minutes. He checked his phone. With traffic, he’d be five minutes late. He gathered his papers. “I’ll see you Monday morning, Charlie.”
“You bet your shiny shoes you will.”
Nash looked down at his black shoes as he made his way to the elevator. They were no shinier than any other guy’s shoes. He shrugged off Charlie’s comment and climbed into the elevator. It dinged open, and he raced the clock across the lobby. “Is my car ready?” he asked Ben.
