Big Pickle: A Secret Boss Romantic Comedy - JJ Knight Page 0,78
me who you were but didn’t.”
Nova brings this up regularly. I get it. She wants to keep me honest. I draw her close and press a kiss to her hair, all done up in a fancy swoop. “And you should absolutely never let me forget it.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t.” She grins up at me, but when I lean down to kiss her lips, she scurries away. “Don’t mess up my makeup. I paid a lot of money for this!”
“So that’s where you were all afternoon.”
“Sephora,” she says. “The poor girl’s makeover.”
Nova is still fiercely independent, paying for her mother’s apartment as well as school. I love this about her, but I’m constantly trying to think of ways to help.
As she sits on the end of the bed to slide on her heels, I finger the velvet box in my pocket. I’ll find out tonight exactly how entrenched that independence is.
But I want her to be my wife. I want her challenges to be my challenges. Her struggles, my struggles. When I had it easy, I nearly threw it all away. Nova saved me from that, and she showed me what was most important.
And now I have everything.
Nova stands, kicking up a heel to reveal the red underside of the black shoes. “I still can’t believe you got me these for Christmas. I could’ve paid—”
“A month’s rent with these, I know.” I take her hand in mine. “I appreciate your frugality and common sense very much. But every once in a while, it’s nice to splurge.”
“All right,” she says. “But you know it only makes me want to go back to that hotel in Austin and rub these fancy shoes in that wicked lady’s face.”
“She doesn’t hold a candle to you,” I tell her. “And there will always be people out there trying to make you feel small. Letting it go means you will always be bigger than them.”
“Wise words from a Pickle,” she says. “Are you ready to go down?”
I hold out my arm. “Ready if you are.”
I might be the Big Pickle, the eldest, the bossy one who always acted nonchalant when faced with problems. But as we head down the elevator to the ballroom where Dad will announce the winner prior to the official Pickle New Year’s Eve party, I’m nervous.
I’m not sure how I will feel if I beat out my brothers. Or if I lose.
And I’m not sure when, or even if, I’ll get up the nerve to propose to Nova. This is the most unpredictable evening I’ve faced in my life.
As Jason heads onto the small stage with his brothers and father, I shift uncomfortably in the chair next to Grammy Alma. I’ve never been to an event this fancy, and most of this family I barely know.
Only three of the tables are filled at the moment, and the sea of empty ones tell me the size of this party will be quite overwhelming when it’s in full swing.
The tables are gorgeously decorated in black silk with green and silver centerpieces. Even though they’re not exactly pickles, the color scheme and the clever arrangements evoke the feeling of the delicatessen franchise. It’s well done.
I turn the stem of my wine glass around and around in my nervous fingers as the brothers laugh and cajole each other up on stage. Apparently, they will sign papers almost as soon as the announcement is made. Then the Pickles will have their own private dinner, and afterward the actual gala will begin.
Grammy Alma leans in. She smells of lilacs, and her bracelets jingle as she gestures toward the stage. “Don’t all my boys look so handsome up there?”
“They sure do.”
She adjusts the neckline of her gray silk dress. “This outfit is way too fussy. Surely, by my age, I can show up wearing a flour sack if I want to.”
“I feel you,” I say. “I say next year we all wear Pickle shirts and jeans.”
“You’re my kind of girl,” Grammy Alma says. “I hear you’ve gone back to school.”
“I still have three semesters left.”
“I don’t know if anyone has told you how pleased we are that you’re part of the family.”
I want to contradict her. I’m just a girlfriend.
But she holds up a hand. “I’ve known baby Jason all his life. He’s been a wanderer, a free spirit, a rebel. But now look at him.”
Both of our gazes are drawn to Jason in his tux, elbowing his brother Max. The boys jostle, almost as if they are eight years