Big Pickle: A Secret Boss Romantic Comedy - JJ Knight Page 0,29

time to admit a few things.

My head knows what my heart has been feeling all along. Nova is not my deli’s problem.

We’re in this together.

And I start to think maybe it doesn’t matter what happened in the past.

I want to work with her to make my deli improve.

I want to work with her.

14

Nova

If we had an employee of the month, it just might be Jason Packwood.

You can knock me over with a feather on that, because I never would have dreamed Mr. Rich Boy Fancy Pants would start showing up at the crack of dawn to make sure the bread at the deli is perfect.

He’s also become best friends with Arush. The two of them have gotten thick as thieves over the sweetness of onion varieties and the potency of pickle juice.

It’s insane.

But there’s more.

A lot more.

Sometimes in the middle of the mad lunch rush, when I’m pitching in at the register, or slapping pastrami on a slice of rye, I’ll catch him watching me while he slides a new vat of pickle relish on the sandwich line.

It’s little things. Like him noticing when I’m too tired to be wielding a knife to catch us up on the tomato slices, so he takes over even though he ought to be done.

And last week when a customer got in my face, angry we were out of Dill Dough and he had to accept plain bread on his sandwich, Jason easily slid into the situation and placated the man when I was about to smack him with salami.

Sometimes I wonder if he’s really always there when I need a helping hand, or if I’m looking for him to be there.

It’s a Friday near the end of March and, Connie, one of the two cleanup girls, calls in sick with the flu.

My other girl, Charlotte, shows up looking like death.

“I think you have it, too,” I tell her. “You need to go home.”

“You can’t have us both out,” Charlotte insists before succumbing to what feels like a six-hour coughing fit.

I walk her to the door. “I can’t have you keeling over. Let me pack up the leftover soup of the day to send with you. Call me when you’re better.”

“I can’t afford to lose the hours.” She gazes up at me, eyes wet, nose red.

I completely understand what that’s like.

“I’ll find an extra hour of work for you to do each day when you’re better. We’ll make them up so your paycheck’s the same. Okay?”

She nods and shuffles to a chair while I dump the pot of chicken noodle in a plastic container for her to take home.

When I safely have her out the door, I turn around to face the extra work.

Regular staff handles all the pots and dishes after clearing the deli line. But the cleanup girls do the bathrooms and mop the floors.

Looks like I’m doing that today.

I’ve just filled the mop bucket with sudsy water when Jason emerges from Bertha.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I was rearranging some of the ingredients. A delivery came in, and we needed to rotate the stock.”

I nod. “Thanks for being a self-starter on that. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed by all the details.”

“You got a spill you need to take care of?” He gestures at the mop.

“Both of the cleaning crew are down with the flu. So, I’m it.”

I push the rolling bucket toward the swinging door.

“What all is there to do?” he asks. “I can help.”

Yeah right. It’s one thing for Fancy Pants to chop onions and bake bread. It’s a whole different thing to scrub a toilet. “That’s not necessary. You’re not even paid help. I did call Audra about that, but she said you weren’t interested in money.”

“That’s true. And I’m not too good to clean up.”

“You’re going to disinfect a toilet bowl?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “My hands work as well as anybody’s.”

I’m not going to turn him down. “Well, all right. The cleaning supplies are in the locked closet between the bathrooms.” I toss him the keys. “Hopefully, there’s no disaster in there.”

He grimaces. “Hopefully.”

I push into the restaurant, sighing to see all the debris on the floor. I will have to sweep before I mop.

Glamorous life. At least I come from generations of housecleaners and service workers. I picture Jason in his thousand-dollar jeans, kneeling over a toilet, and burst into giggles.

I’m sort of a wreck.

By the time I empty the mop water and collapse onto the chair in my office, I wonder if I have enough energy to