Big Pickle: A Secret Boss Romantic Comedy - JJ Knight Page 0,69

my manager Nova. I tap out a quick no to that.

And one from Max, saying if I don’t show up, he’s going to haul my ass there himself.

I don’t really want him to show up at my place, so I quickly message him that, yes, I’m coming to the meeting, I just didn’t want to go to that stupid dinner last night.

I don’t know what I will say or do around Nova. If she maintains the same strict professionalism with me in person that she has with her messages, there’s no point in doing or saying anything other than thank you for your service.

I have to hold it together.

I put on six different outfits, seeing each of them through Nova’s eyes.

Too pretentious.

Too stupidly expensive.

Show off.

Poser.

In the end I wear the Pickle shirt she gave me and top it with a plain white short-sleeved button-down, left open. It’s Austin style, not New York, but at least it silences the criticism in my head.

I appreciate New York traffic, driving aggressively and taking any excuse to lay on the horn. I feel pent up, angry, pissed off at the world that any of this happened. That I found Nova. And lost her. And I can’t get her back.

Even the hotel valet elicits a negative emotion, remembering when Nova got so out of sorts at that fancy place I foolishly took her to on our first date.

I practically lunge from the car, stalking into the lobby of the hotel without so much as a glance at anyone.

I’m a walking New York cliché. But I can’t do anything about it. It’s going to take everything I’ve got to get through this without a stupid outburst.

I summon the elevator, realize I can’t get to the private floor without a security card, and head to the front desk. I’m feeling irritated about having to stand in line when I hear a voice that steals my breath.

Nova.

I turn in slow motion, eyes darting through the expansive lobby, searching for her face.

She emerges from the hotel restaurant with none other than my brother Max.

Awesome.

Max’s voice booms across the lobby. “And there he is. My brother Jace.”

“So even you guys call him Jace?” Nova asks.

I know what’s coming.

Max explains. “Jason insisted on it. Apparently, some girl that my dear brother pulled his love ‘em and leave ‘em act on created a MySpace page for Jason, the evil killer from Friday the 13th, and plastered it with pictures of Jace.”

I hate this story. I try to get out of earshot, but there’s a damn line, and the two of them walk closer. I remember Elena Price and her Jason page. Only when MySpace finally fell out of popularity was I able to escape that stupid association. I was in college at the time, and things like that fake page really got to me.

I made everyone start calling me Jace. And by the time I was listed as the owner of Austin Pickle, Jason Packwood was pretty much no more. He died before Facebook took off. I was more than happy to live as Jace Pickle by then, so everything I’m on these days says I’m Jace.

Only Nova calls me Jason now.

I don’t hear them talking anymore, and I assume they’ve headed toward the elevator. I refuse to look their way, so the punch on my arm catches me by surprise.

They’re right beside me. Max and his tricked-out body-builder frame.

And Nova. My eyes can barely graze her, noting the haircut, layered around her shoulders, a green sweater I’ve never seen before, and the pair of black dress slacks.

New things. Clothes I’ve never peeled off her. Will never peel off her.

“Max,” I say with a nod. I meet Nova’s gaze only for the briefest second before I turn back to the line. “Nova.”

In my peripheral vision, I spy Max shaking his head. “Forgive my brother, Nova. He doesn’t deserve you.”

My jaw tightens. Does he know we were a thing? Did Nova tell him? No one should know outside of the old crew.

“He did good work when he was in Austin,” Nova says. “He ended up making bread better than me.”

My chest relaxes as I realize she’s not letting on that we were more than just coworkers.

“What’cha standing in line for, bro?” Max asks.

“I need an elevator key,” I say, fully aware my voice is closer to a growl than conversation.

“Somebody got up on the wrong side of the pickle jar,” Max says. “Dad’s got plenty of key cards upstairs, including the one to