Latke’d and Loaded (Matzo Ballers Hanukkah Romance #5)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

“And whose daddy are you?”

Jonah shifted his knees in the general direction of the voice.

Hard to be suave when he’d had to practically fold himself in half just to fit behind a school desk, last in the back row of the classroom.

The high tech venture CEO, in her power pantsuit and out of her C suite, was giving him a hungry once-over.

She’d gone up right before the firefighter in full turnout gear, who had then given up the floor to the zookeeper and her bearded dragon.

That little dude had received just as much applause as the freakin’ NBA point guard who had started out Career Day in Ms. Klein’s fourth grade class.

What the hell had their teacher been thinking, asking him to present last? Accounting wasn’t exactly headlining material. Then again, this same teacher had once swapped Double Stuff Oreo filling with toothpaste and had given it to Jonah as an afterschool snack, so…

“Nobody’s daddy…just doing my big sister a favor.”

His pantleg brushed against something bumpy and sharp under the desk that he sincerely hoped was a piece of fossilized chewing gum and not some kid’s booger, circa 1995.

Julie had told him to dress “profession appropriate.” Now, he wished he was wearing the hazmat suit of the guy reaching for high fives down the aisle after finishing a speech about being a forensic CSI like the ones on TV.

The charcoal-gray suit Jonah had pulled out of his closet before making the thirty-minute trek up to Riverdale was Brooks Brothers…

but probably wasn’t made for whatever toxic science project was growing under that desk.

CSI guy bumped his fist against the hard meat of Jonah’s broad shoulder.

“You’re up, man.”

Jonah heaved to his feet, making sure to duck so his head wouldn’t get tangled in the papier-maché solar system hanging from the drop ceiling.

Time to half-ass it.

Literally. His left butt cheek had fallen asleep crammed onto the tiny chair, and he half-hopped, half-limped to shake the pins-and-needles feeling. Can I fake a war injury? Shark bite?

Anything but the “boringest” job in the world. Which was what his niece Avery had groaned during dinner last night when Julie proposed he fill in last minute for Libby, who was supposed to talk about her path to pastry arts before a sweet job came up in Palm Beach that she couldn’t refuse.

“Not a real word,” Julie had informed her daughter. “And not really Uncle Jonah’s fault. You should thank your lucky stars I would never force practical, stable jobs on you like GiGi and Bap did to us growing up.”

Now, his big sister was giving him an encouraging “don’t fuck this up” smile from the front of her classroom, where she commanded thirty ten-year-old maniacs on the daily. Her job was hard as hell in addition to practical and stable, but no one would ever call it boring.

“Hey, guys. I’m Jonah Klein, and – ”

A hand in the front shot up. “Why do you have the same last name as our teacher?”

Another hand. “Are you two married?” Kissing noises ensued.

Gross, dude. I’m her brother.

Jonah cracked his knuckles. He wasn’t beyond grade school double-dog dares, and these kids had probably never experienced the exquisite humiliation of an atomic wedgie.

“Jonah’s my baby brother,” Julie interjected before he could get a word in edgewise. The kids giggled. At six-foot-four, he towered over their teacher. He even had a few inches on the NBA dad. “And his job is related to all the other careers you heard about today, believe it or not.”

Everyone simmered down, probably contemplating what the hell the guy standing in front of them had to do with New York’s Bravest, Finest, the Brooklyn Nets, Bronx Zoo and a Fortune 500 company.

Jonah prided himself on being the funniest, fastest thinker on his feet in Thursday night improv class, but there was no joke in the world with “accountant” as a punchline that was going to get any laughs today.

“So, yeah – everyone here, once they get a job, has to, uh…pay taxes.”

Another hand waved frantically. “My dad called taxes the F-word once.”

More laughter ricocheted off the classroom walls. “Vincent…” Julie used her best teacher warning voice.

Jonah raised his brow in a sheepish grin, nodding. “Your dad is right, Vincent. Ffffinance is ffffancy. Like…Bianca Bonet’s gold-plated hot tub, fancy.”

Dropping the trending hip-hop artist’s name wrangled them back in with hushed gasps.

“You wouldn’t believe how much she spent on that thing. I know, because…taxes. You see, I’m an accountant, but…” He leaned down toward the front row of desks, like he was telling them a juicy secret. “I’m an accountant to the stars.”

Now, even the grown-up high-achievers in the back row were invested.

Jonah knew in the grand scheme of things, his wasn’t a lifesaving job, or nearly as interesting as the rest of his Year Course friend crew. Or as lucrative, since he did some of their taxes, too.

Libby and her works of art made from cake.

Nora, handling half of Broadway’s contracts and logistics.

Sylvie had iconic photographs landing on the covers of TIME and Rolling Stone.

Talia? She was the face and the force behind the Jewish Grandma food revolution, for fuck’s sake.

And he couldn’t even mention the name Jay Katz without someone falling at his feet to beg for tickets to one of the hottest events around town.

Never mind dropping Avi or Eli into conversation. People usually didn’t even believe him.

“Do you know how much Taylor Swift makes?”

“Does Merlin the Pig have to pay TikTok taxes?”

“What’s the most expensivest thing you’ve seen?”

“Can you help do my mom’s taxes?”

The kids weren’t even bothering to raise their hands now. Julie got them to settle down long enough for Jonah to answer some of their burning questions, but not all.

“Accountants have to take a vow of silence on some things,” he explained. “Like a monk. It’s called ‘client confidentiality.’”

“Client confidentiality,” they repeated dutifully.

Julie shook her head and rolled her eyes, but she was smiling a genuine smile, at least. “Can you give us an everyday example of how an accountant helps a client save money, Mr. Klein?”

“Sure!” Jonah ran a hand through his short russet curls. “My friend Avi is a great example, because every night, he wears leather pants on stage for his concerts.”

“Avi Wolfson?” This time it was the zookeeper in back, gasping. “As in Painted Doors concerts?”

Even her bearded dragon looked impressed back in its cage, tongue flicking excitedly.

“The man has dry cleaning bills like you can’t imagine,” Jonah continued. “Not very rock n’ roll, amiright?” He began to pace, like during one of his stand-up routines. He wished he had a microphone. “But you can’t just toss those bad boys into a washing machine after a sweaty concert.”

“Do they smell?” the kids chorused.

He nodded emphatically, waving a hand in front of his nose. “Just imagine, some poor drycleaner, dealing with ripe rock and roll pants, wondering how this became their life.”

His sister had zero control over her class now, as they howled and chattered excitedly. Like a superhero, Jonah planted his hands on his hips and took a wide-legged stance.

“That’s where I come in,” he boomed. “someone has to keep those leather pants on budget. Rock stars break guitars, but not the bank. Not on my watch.” He turned to Julie. “Where’s your chalk?”

“Chalk? This isn’t Little House on the Prairie. Keep talking, Willie Oleson. I’ll work the Smartboard.”

“So, say Avi plays two hundred shows a year…” These days, it was far less, since the band was taking a well-deserved break after last year’s snafu when the tour bus left Avi behind and he was the one questioning his life choices.

But to illustrate his point, Jonah stuck to the basic math.

“And how much do you think it costs to dry clean a pair of leather pants?”

A few kids threw out their best guesses.

“Let’s say it’s fifty dollars. Not bad, but…if poor Avi has to send them out for cleaning after every show?”

Julie took over the lesson, using whatever Smartboard woo-woo combined with good old-fashioned math magic. The kids quickly multiplied fifty times two hundred with her help. “Ten thousand dollars, guys…just to keep his pants clean. That’s a lot of money.”

“Imagine some regular Joe Schmoe trying to explain that on his taxes? But guess what? Thanks to me, Avi can write off not only the cleaning but even the cost of the pants themselves as a business expense because I can prove they are – repeat after me – ordinary and necessary!”

“Ordinary and necessary.”

“So you can get paid for cleaning your pants?” A boy up front asked, incredulous.

“Only if your job involves sweating on stage in front of twenty thousand people,” Jonah explained. “Otherwise, sorry – no pants deductions for you.”

Julie was facepalming, but maybe it was to cover up her smile. Or her blush at the thought of the rocker and his leather pants.

Avi had been a regular fixture at the Klein family dinner table for over a decade now.

He’d detoured to Paris after their gap year in Israel, learning just enough French to impress half the women in the tri-state area.

That included all the women in Somerset County, where Jonah and his sisters grew up.

Of course, Jonah had threatened his best friend with bodily harm if he hit on any of his mishpacha.

But none of the Klein women were exactly immune to his charms. Their mom still sent that lucky bastard Hamentashen every Purim, no matter where he was on the road.

And stocked his favorite Kosher snacks in case he dropped in for a visit.