Big Pickle: A Secret Boss Romantic Comedy - JJ Knight Page 0,11

our arms are bare. My skin brushes against his, and the touch is electric. I quickly step away.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks.

“No. I think you’ve got it. Those slices are good. Carry on.”

I back out of the kitchen as quickly as possible, bumping into a rolling cart as I go.

He doesn’t remark on that but continues his slow methodical slices.

As I whirl around and blow through the door to the front of the deli, my face flames.

What the hell was that?

A spark? A silly, ridiculous spark? A romance novel, sappy Hallmark movie, gross cliché spark?

I rip off the gloves and rub my arm as if it’d been burned.

I’ve had boyfriends before. I know what it’s like to be interested in someone.

It’s nothing like what just happened.

Those guys were normal. They wore regular clothes. Had average jobs. Real problems. They didn’t demand positions at deli counters while wearing designer clothes.

And they didn’t talk to jalapeños.

That was a hate spark. Or static electricity.

Or maybe a warning shot from the universe to stay away from that guy.

But I know for sure it’s definitely not what it seems.

It is not a spark of attraction.

5

Jace

On a normal evening, I hit my peak around ten p.m. Usually, I’ve had a lovely dinner somewhere, often with delightful company.

We’ll have stopped at a local watering hole to have a drink while discussing where to spend the bulk of the night. Around that magical hour, we’ve made our decision and I’m closing the tab so we can travel to our new destination. We’re full of anticipation, ready to mingle and be part of a scene.

Everywhere I normally live, there’s all manner of clubs and music venues and upscale bars. We can dance. Or talk. Or watch dancers. Or even take in some culture. Often, though, we’re ushered into private lounges with high-end clientele. Interesting people who’ve made a killing on Wall Street or had directorial debuts or financed a new Broadway play.

But not here.

Not this night.

After my first day working in my own deli, I startle awake on the sofa of my downtown condo and realize I’ve fallen asleep in my clothes.

I lift my T-shirt to my nose and wince. It smells of pickle juice and raw onion.

The tips of my fingers are all nicked from what had to be twenty thousand tomatoes, cucumbers, and other vegetables I sliced and diced.

And julienned. Why did carrots have to be chopped into tiny sticks? Weren’t there machines for that? I have to ask Anthony about this. It seems like a ridiculous use of labor.

Especially my labor.

It’s ten p.m. and I’m officially a snoozer.

At least there’s no one around to see. I run my hands through my hair and shake off the fuzz on my brain. It’s the height of the evening in Austin, Texas, and I’ve become a boring old man.

I drop my feet to the floor and realize I have one shoe on and one shoe off. Really? I fell asleep in the middle of taking off my shoes?

And what are those spots on the top of my two-thousand-dollar Berlutis?

Grease. Great.

I need to call my personal shopper and get something more suitable. What time is it in New York?

Eleven. I shouldn’t call her this late.

Tomorrow I can wear my workout shoes. Most everyone else wore some variation of sneaker. I should have thought of it today.

I rub my eyes with the back of my hands and feel the sting of jalapeño juice. I swear I scrubbed them half a dozen times. It’s like it’s embedded in my skin, and I’m sweating it out.

I don’t know how many sandwiches we made. I don’t know how many customers we served. I don’t see any reason why my deli is doing as badly as it is on paper. Not with the crowd that went through.

Something is terribly wrong.

I shuffle to the bathroom to shower and scrub off every last trace of the smell from the sandwich line.

All this and I still don’t have any new information. Other than it looked like Nova and Lamonte were about to take money out of the cash register a second time. Gas money. How much gas money has he pilfered from the till? Enough to affect my bottom line?

How do I even account for that? How would I know it was gone if they were taking cash sales? Only credit cards went through the accounting office, and the staff could easily do cash transactions without putting them through the system. Who did the books for