Big Pickle: A Secret Boss Romantic Comedy - JJ Knight Page 0,10
glove and slide it on. “Well, this leaves a lot to be desired.” I lift a handful in my palm like an accusation. “There are no less than five distinct sizes in these onions.”
“Lamonte tried to show me, but I think it’s going to take some practice,” Jason says.
I drop the onions to the cutting board. “We can’t have someone taking a bite of our classic chicken salad, which is where these particular onions are headed, and suddenly get a big honking bite of raw onion. The flavors have to blend precisely the right way.”
For a moment, Jason watches me curiously. “You care about how things taste, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. It’s Austin Pickle. We have a reputation to uphold!”
“It’s pickles!”
“It’s our twelve special kinds of pickles.”
I grab a spare knife and slice through the onions, rapidly mincing them to the fine bits necessary to make chicken salad work.
I move down to the jalapeños. “Lamonte didn’t show you anything? These are supposed to be super thin. The jalapeños are really potent.”
“I tried to do what he was doing.” Jason sounds genuinely frustrated.
“I can’t use these. We don’t serve anything with chopped jalapeños, and the slices are way too thick.” I slide the entire set off the cutting board and into the compost at the end. “Show me how you’re holding the knife.”
Jason lifts his knife parallel to the board. I pass him a fresh jalapeño.
He slices it down the middle and scrapes out the seeds.
“So far, so good,” I say.
He turns the jalapeño flat side down and lifts the knife.
I immediately say, “Stop!”
He freezes his slice mid-air. “What?”
“The knife should not be in the air. Keep the tip on the cutting board and bring it down like it’s one of those old-fashioned paper cutters from school.”
“I remember those. My friend dared me to see if it would cut off my finger.”
“And were you stupid enough to try?” I cock my hip, arms crossed. Surely, he isn’t that dumb.
“I was an eight-year-old boy! Of course I tried it.”
I feel a laugh bubbling up inside me, but I squelch it down. “So how many stitches did you require?”
“Three. But it was worth it.”
Now I do have to laugh. “What made it worth it?”
“Every girl in the class brought me cookies and cards.”
That sobers me up. “So, you were a playboy even then?”
His grin is slow and easy, and I’m reminded of when he turned on the charm yesterday after deciding he needed to switch tactics with me.
I go on alert. Snake oil. He’s laying it on thick now.
“Who says I’m a playboy?”
I shrug. “I can spot them. I meet a ton of them at UT.”
He sets down his knife. “You go to UT?”
Heat rises from my neck. I really don’t want to go into this with him. “I did.”
“You graduated but you work here?”
I don’t know if it’s real confusion or pity, but I don’t like it.
“I haven’t finished yet,” I snap. “Let’s see if you can cut a jalapeño worthy of serving on our sandwich line or if you’re a complete waste of space.”
He’s not bothered by my insult. His perfect eyebrows move together in concern. Hating him would be a whole lot easier if he wasn’t so pretty.
“I get it. You don’t talk about it.” He turns back to the jalapeño. He leans down very close to the green pepper. “All right, my friend. I am very sorry I have to cut you into pieces. But apparently, my unpaid position is on the line. So help me out and I’ll be merciful.”
All right, I have to admit it. He’s funny. My shoulders relax. “Just get on with it,” I say, but my tone doesn’t have the bite like before.
He grins at me, and my belly flips. Stop it, traitorous stomach.
“So, I keep the tip on the counter and then I bring it down.” He slices the first cut.
“Perfect. Curl your left hand so you’re not putting your fingers in the line of fire. I won’t be bringing you cards and cookies if you need stitches.”
He grins at me again. “You sure?”
“Positive. Make a claw.”
“Like this?” He rolls back his fingers.
“Yeah. And push the pepper with your thumb.”
He still doesn’t have it, so I pick up another knife and show him the motion.
“All right,” he says, but he still lifts his knife in the air.
I put my hand over his wrist. “Like this,” I say. “Tip down, rocking motion.”
We slice the pepper together. Our hands are covered in plastic, but