Big Pickle: A Secret Boss Romantic Comedy - JJ Knight Page 0,25
flour into the bowl, his lips pursed in concentration. I take that as a cue to stop talking.
We work in companionable silence. It’s different from my early mornings with Lamonte, when we’re always full of jokes and laughter and silliness.
Jason and I both reach for the bag of flour at the same time, and our hands brush.
Another spark.
Our eyes meet, and my head swirls. There’s practically a chick-flick soundtrack in the background.
Jason withdraws his hand. “Ladies first.”
“Don’t call me a lady,” I snap.
“Sorry,” he says, although he doesn’t sound the least bit sorry. “Give me the damn flour, wench.”
I’ve just picked up the plastic tub when he also grabs for it. The container tilts, and flour spills over the edge, dropping onto the counter and billowing up.
We both let go, causing it to tumble, and a giant cloud of flour puffs into the air.
Soon we’re coughing, coated in flour, and our pale faces turn to each other through the haze.
Jason cracks up first. “You look like a ghost.”
“You look like a White Walker from Game of Thrones.”
His laughter is infectious, and when the giggles start, I can’t stop them.
Jason claps his hands together, sending another poof of flour into the air. This strikes us both as even more hysterical, and soon we’re both doubled over, every shake of our bodies causing another flurry of flour.
I suck in air, realize its full of dust, and begin coughing. Jason smacks me on the back, then he starts coughing. Then I’m coughing harder. Then we’re both laughing and coughing and coughing and laughing, until we finally stumble out the back door of the deli, gasping for fresh air.
The alley is quiet, although a few other businesses are also beginning their morning routine. A man steps out from the pizza place next door to see who is making the racket. We wave him off, trying desperately to sober up.
Finally, Jason asks, “Should we get back in there and clean up our mess?”
“Yeah. We’re going to be off schedule soon.”
“How about I continue with the pickle bread, and you start on the regular loaves?”
“That’s a plan,” I say. “Saturdays are pretty slow, at least. I don’t have to make as many loaves as a weekday.”
Jason looks thoughtful. “Should the deli close on Saturdays? Does it make financial sense to stay open if there’s not much business?”
I move the compost bin to the edge of the table and scrape the spilled flour into it. “It’s not my call to make. We do cut the crew. I feel like if we’re making a profit at all, we should be open, because from what I’ve seen, once the business starts cutting its hours, the odds that the location will completely close inside of a year go up dramatically.”
“Really?” Jason snatches up a broom to tackle the floor. “But what if they’re doing it to get more streamlined? To improve the bottom line?”
I shrug. “It has to do with customer confidence. They no longer know for sure if the business will be open when they want to visit it. They’re less likely to venture out. Anyway, didn’t your professors go over that in business school? Where did you get your business degree?”
Jason’s jaw tightens, and I wonder what that’s all about. Does he not want to admit where he went to school?
“Up north,” he says, but doesn’t elaborate.
Maybe it was some crapola college.
He sweeps the flour into a pan. “How far along are you in your classes at UT?”
“About halfway.”
“Why did you stop?”
The dreaded question has arrived. I wipe down the counter and decide to straight-up tell the truth. “I ran out of money.”
Jason pauses, dustpan in hand. “You didn’t want to take out student loans?”
I don’t know how to explain this without seeming like a hot mess. I toss the rag into the sink and draw a mixing bowl close. “I burned through all of those. I can’t take out anymore. I have to save money for tuition.”
Jason dumps the flour into the compost. “But you work full-time. How will you go to class?”
“With the raise I got, I’ll be able to save money. Hopefully, in a year or so, we can train another manager and I can go back to school.”
I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I concentrate on separating the butter into the right portions.
But Jason isn’t letting it go. “I thought you could get whatever student loans you needed. Are you worried you won’t be able to earn enough to pay them off?