Big Pickle: A Secret Boss Romantic Comedy - JJ Knight Page 0,4

Was I too harsh?

I quickly correct myself. “Of course, nobody’s a stranger in Austin Pickle for more than a few seconds. Tell me how you take your pickle.” I slap on a smile so fake it could win a damn Oscar.

The man relaxes, and the moment passes.

That’s good. The last thing I need is a nasty review that gets Jace Pickle all over my case when I’m already struggling to keep his stupid deli going.

Truthfully, I’m counting on a promotion, or at least a good reference for another job. I need to get back to college, and some of the restaurants in town give scholarships to their employees. If this one goes well, I can use it as a leg up somewhere better.

The man leans on the counter. Every strand of his hair is in place, dark and cropped short. The stubble on his chin is perfectly clipped to the precise length to look brooding and sexy. His jaw is sharp enough to break ice.

In fact, the frozen parts of my anatomy are already beginning to thaw.

But he’s absolutely not my type. I like my men in jeans and flip-flops, graphic tees for local businesses, well-worn and no fuss.

I bet this guy irons his underwear.

“What did you say your name was?” he asks.

“Nova.”

“How long have you worked here?”

Why is he asking this?

“It’ll be a year this summer.” Last summer I’d run out of money, but stayed in my classes through the Fall semester. I’d only been working part-time, but when Susan took off and most of the employees got worried and quit, I found myself the senior member of the Pickle staff. So, I assumed her responsibilities.

I hadn’t thought it would go on this long.

“And your last name?” he asks.

Why does he need my last name? My neck tingles with alarm.

I go for the redirect. “Would you like to sample some of our pickles? We have twelve varieties. We’re not the sort of deli that slaps a random spear on the side of your plate. We take pride in the original flavors we produce.”

“I’m actually here—” he stops talking when Lamonte emerges from the back room and opens the cash register.

“What’s he doing?” the man asks.

“Someone’s got to buy the pickles,” Lamonte says, lifting a stack of twenties. He fans them out in front of me. “You think this will do it?”

I nod. “Get whatever you need.”

Lamonte gives me his signature broad grin and claps me on the back. “I can always count on you. This will totally solve my problem.”

He takes off out the front door.

“Did that employee document the money he took from the register?” the man asks.

He sure is pushy about how we run the store.

“It’s fine. We found ourselves in a pickle shortage and he’s grabbing some more. We do love our pickles around here.” I plaster on another fake smile.

The man takes a step back from the counter, rubbing his hand across his cheek. He seems terribly concerned with what just happened, and visions of another type of online review dance in my head.

“You know,” I say. “You look like you could use a sandwich. How about one on the house? Can I recommend the pastrami and rye? It goes wonderfully with our bread and butter jalapeño pickle.”

But the man doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to me. He circles the room slowly, occasionally touching a chair or gazing at a photo on the wall.

I start to worry he’s unhinged. I inch closer to the telephone in case I need to call the police.

“Are you okay?” I call out.

He moves near the door, and I begin to pray he will leave. I don’t have time for well-dressed weirdos, no matter how good-looking they are.

And with Lamonte gone, I’m alone until the cleanup crew arrives.

He notices the “Help Wanted” sign in the front window and picks it up.

Good Lord, please tell me he’s not here for a job.

I put that sign up yesterday, and two people have filled out applications. Neither one seems very promising, but compared to this crazy guy circling the store, they’re starting to look good.

The man turns around. “Who does the hiring for the store?”

Oh, no. I knew it.

“Well, normally it would be our general manager Susan.” I hesitate, not wanting to give this lunatic her last name either.

“But…”

“She’s on medical leave.”

“So who is interviewing the people who come in to apply?”

I do not want to tell him that it’s me. Maybe I should pawn it off on the owner. Yes.