Big Pickle: A Secret Boss Romantic Comedy - JJ Knight Page 0,24
I do wield some power over him.
So he’s off-limits.
As I approach to unlock the door, he gives me a deep formal bow, hand wave and all, as he bends down. “My lord and master,” he says. “I am ready to absorb more knowledge from your wise presence.”
There he goes again. The over-the-top charm.
Although, for all the pomp and flourish, he seems oddly authentic. Like he means what he says, and he can’t help it he’s irresistible while doing it. I don’t sense any purposeful attempt to manipulate me.
I shove the key in the lock. “All right, all right. Enough already.”
“I only speak the truth.”
I push open the door, the familiar scent of bread and pickle juice as familiar as home. I tuck my keys into my hoodie pocket.
I step aside to let him in. “This morning I’m here to see what you know. You are the one who made the perfect Dill Dough yesterday.”
Jason’s face lights up with a grin that’s become unsettlingly familiar. I admit, I said the name of the bread more than necessary yesterday just to see his smile.
“We’re making naughty, naughty things in the kitchen,” he says with a wink.
I feel a bright warmth in my chest, like someone has lit a match.
I can’t fool myself this time. It’s not a hate spark.
I break out my deli manager tone. “You fetch the ingredients, and I’ll get the proofing oven prepped.”
“Your wish is my command.”
He heads off to Bertha, and I attempt to shake off the happy glow as I adjust the settings on the special cabinet that holds the dough at the right temperature and humidity to rise properly.
We’ll make another round of Dill Dough, and then I’ll start the regular bread for the day.
I wonder if Jason could be my baking partner on the days Lamonte has off.
No, no.
There’s no point in seeking more time with Jason Packwood. I’m not in his league. He’s rich, on his way up, and temporary.
And I’m his boss. How many times do I need to remind myself of that?
Jason arrives with the dry goods. I head to Mr. Chill. When I return to the kitchen, Jason has already started measuring out the ingredients.
He’s muttering to himself.
I catch a few words. “Sugar. Yeast. Check the humidity.”
I drop the milk and butter on the table. “Everything okay?”
He nods. “Trying not to screw this up.”
“What’s that about humidity?”
Grammy told me to make sure I check it, so the dough won’t be sticky,” he says, then his eyes go wide. “I mean, my grandmother.”
“I think it’s cute you still call her Grammy.” I open a block of butter to cut into pieces so it will soften faster. “Is she great at baking bread?”
He hesitates, then says, “Definitely. Some of my favorite memories from childhood are her baking.” He quickly adds, “For fun. Just for family.”
I frown at his awkward addition. Is he trying to hide the fact that his grandmother had a normal job? Maybe their family money didn’t come until the next generation. But I don’t pry. It isn’t any of my business, even though I would love to know more about him.
“Is she the reason you want to go into the restaurant business?”
“Something like that.”
I open another block of butter. “My mom can’t cook spaghetti,” I say. “I had to learn at a pretty early age, or my baby sister and I would’ve starved.”
“You have a little sister?”
“She’s only ten.”
“Do they live here in town?”
I should have known he would ask this. I’ve kept my personal life away from the deli as much as possible. I don’t like people feeling sorry for me.
I keep my answer simple. “They do. Leah’s in fourth grade.”
“Well, if she’s anything like you, I bet she’s a pistol.”
“No, she’s super sweet. She’d be the sort of girl to bring cards and cookies to someone who sliced their finger on a paper cutter, even if it was their own damn fault.”
He grins at me. “Good to know I can count on one of the Strong girls.”
“Oh, she’s not a Strong.”
Shut up, Nova. I don’t need to bring that up.
But Jason skips right through it. “No brothers?”
“No, just Leah.”
I focus on cutting the butter into neat, evenly sized bits. I desperately want to turn the conversation away from me. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
He hesitates, and I wonder if the question is too personal. “I have brothers,” he finally says. “We live all over the place.”