Generating thirty-six thousand dollars in one hour created an immediate logistical crisis. The three new 'philosophically challenged' Reginald offspring—destined for Mrs. Vanderhoof's yacht—needed to be started immediately. This meant the inventory requirements had skyrocketed from "whatever flour Eliza had in the dusty tub" to "only the finest, highest-grade, terroir-specific ancient grain flour available in the city."
"We need the heirloom, stone-ground Ethiopian Spelt," Caleb stated, closing his laptop with a decisive snap. "It's available exclusively at 'The Grocer's Gallery' on the Upper East Side. We will need to transport the bulk ingredients and the new vessels."
Eliza was already pulling a large, crocheted tote bag off a hook. "The Grocer's Gallery? Isn't that the place that sells water for twelve dollars a bottle?"
"They source their ingredients using a proprietary metric system that guarantees minimal pesticide exposure and optimal nutrient density," Caleb explained, retrieving his keys. "Their inventory aligns with the premium pricing we are now charging. I have prepared a procurement manifest."
He handed her a laminated card detailing 17 items, each with a specific SKU, a quality checkpoint, and a maximum price threshold.
The drive was agonizing. Caleb followed every traffic rule with monastic devotion, signaled three times for every turn, and listened to an audiobook about Japanese supply chain management. Eliza spent the entire time trying to get Larry—tucked securely in a temperature-controlled Tupperware between them—to acknowledge her presence.
"He's being Restrained again, isn't he?" Eliza sighed, glancing at Caleb.
"He is being optimally dormant for transportation," Caleb corrected. "Please do not tap the container, you are introducing extraneous vibrational noise."
The Grocer's Gallery was less a market and more a minimalist cathedral dedicated to expensive consumables. Everything was dark wood, brass accents, and hushed reverence.
Caleb immediately pulled out his headset and began referring to the procurement manifest. "Objective one: Heirloom Spelt. Section 3B."
Eliza, distracted by a display of rare, imported olives, was already wandering. "Look, Caleb! They have miniature artichokes! I feel like Reginald would appreciate the complexity of a tiny artichoke."
"Artichokes are not on the manifest, Eliza. Stay focused on the acquisition profile," Caleb commanded, steering her toward the bulk grains section.
The Spelt was displayed like a museum artifact in a heavy glass bin. Caleb took a small, specialized scoop, meticulously weighed a sample on a digital scale he produced from his briefcase, and then smelled it with a serious, critical frown.
"The moisture content is within tolerance," he murmured, checking off a box on his manifest. "Now, we calculate the bulk purchase for the next quarter."
Eliza, feeling the pressure of the quiet, judging atmosphere, decided to make things awkward. She grabbed Caleb's arm and spoke in a loud, stage whisper.
"Oh, Caleb, darling! Are you sure this is the right Spelt for Reginald? He told me last night, in a dream, that he prefers the one with the higher emotional density! You know how philosophically challenged he gets when his flour lacks narrative tension!"
A stern-looking man in a chef's jacket selling balsamic vinegar stopped pouring mid-drizzle. Caleb froze, his face cycling rapidly through shades of pink and crimson.
"Eliza. I am conducting an operational purchase. Please cease referring to our raw materials as if they are characters from your latest manuscript." He dropped his voice to a hiss. "We are in a public space, and I am highly sensitive to reputational risk."
"Oh, sorry, honey," Eliza cooed, patting his arm. "I just worry about our precious yeasties. They're our highly profitable assets, after all."
Just then, a crisp, unpleasant voice cut through the air. "Caleb? Caleb Vance? Is that you, carrying a bag of grain?"
Caleb snapped his head around. Standing by the exotic salts display was Julian Thorne, Caleb's former rival at the prestigious consulting firm, looking impeccably tailored and deeply skeptical.
"Julian," Caleb acknowledged, his voice strained. "A pleasant surprise."
Julian gestured to the glass jar Caleb was now holding, filled with the precious Spelt. "Last I heard, you were closing the Mertz-Connelly acquisition. Now you're… at the bulk bin? Doing inventory control for a co-op?"
Eliza stepped forward, smiling brilliantly. "We're partners!" She looped her arm through Caleb's, pulling him close. "He's running the logistics, and I'm handling the Qualitative Value Proposition. We founded a boutique artisanal startup. We sell sourdough starters."
Julian stared at Caleb, then at Eliza, then at the bag of flour, then back at Caleb, an expression of utter corporate bewilderment on his face. "Sourdough starters. Are they… subsidized?"
"No, they are highly exclusive and prohibitively expensive," Caleb jumped in, recovering his professional composure. He instinctively straightened his tie. "Our highest-tier starter, the Stoic Spelt, sells for five hundred dollars per initial acquisition, with a three hundred dollar monthly maintenance subscription."
Julian blinked. "Five hundred dollars… for a starter?"
"It's a value capture mechanism tied to personalized customer reporting," Eliza explained smoothly, having learned the pitch. "Reginald, for instance, is currently contemplating his future on a yacht."
Julian Thorne managed only one final, bewildered shake of his head before retreating quickly back toward the truffle oil, clearly unable to process the confluence of Caleb Vance and expensive, existential fungus.
As Julian disappeared, Caleb sighed, leaning heavily against the industrial shelving. He was breathing quickly.
"That was… a critical brand exposure event," he muttered. "The market perception of my professional value has likely taken a significant, if temporary, hit."
"Relax, Vance. That was brilliant damage control," Eliza said, giving his arm a squeeze. She didn't realize she was still holding on. "You defended our absurd business with the ferocity of a lion protecting its ROI."
Caleb looked down at her hand on his arm. His skin felt warm beneath her fingers. For a moment, all the spreadsheets, the micro-vibration indices, and the financial jargon evaporated. He looked directly at her—at her wide, genuine, victorious smile—and realized he didn't care that Julian Thorne now thought he was a sourdough dealer. He just cared that she was proud of him.
"We still need the organic, unrefined dark molasses, Eliza," he said gruffly, pulling his arm away, but his cheeks were still slightly flushed. "It's a key component for the Stoic Spelt's flavor profile. According to my taste-testing data, its sugar content provides the optimal long-term, low-intensity fuel source."
"Optimal long-term fuel source," Eliza repeated, watching him carefully. "You sound like you're talking about a relationship, not molasses."
Caleb just gave her a sharp, uncomfortable look and consulted his manifest. The chemistry between them, however, had just proven to be audaciously ebullient.