Big Pickle: A Secret Boss Romantic Comedy - JJ Knight Page 0,9
and cold temperatures are all set appropriately and began placing the vats of meats and cheeses in their slots along the counter.
Lamonte will have to leave shortly to deliver the stuffed pickle order he prepped early this morning. I punch in a receipt and open the fridge that holds all the pickup and delivery orders.
We don’t do as much of these as we used to, and I wonder if this is something the old manager did well, a facet of the business that is suffering in her absence. Now that I have a corporate spy of sorts with this Jason guy, who undoubtedly will report anything weird straight to his dear friend Jace Pickle, I should try again to get the passwords to turn on the main computer in Susan’s office.
I feel so in the dark about everything. It’s all I can do to keep the store going, and pray we always get sufficient deliveries and the bills are somehow paid. Last week the distributor of the specialty peppers insisted we cut a check on the spot. I simply had to take the old checkbook—which we rarely used since Susan would print the official ones on her computer—and scribble out the amount on his invoice. It was either that or not have three of our signature dishes.
Of course, yesterday we had the tiny pickle dilemma.
I might be low on crew at the moment, but the ones I do have are reliable. Still, Kate will leave at the end of May, when she heads home for the summer. She’s why I already put out a notice for a new employee, hoping to get someone trained before I lose her.
Lamonte pushes through the swinging door. “I’m headed out to deliver those pickles.”
“Do you think you’ll make it back before the rush?” I ask.
“Should.” He leans in closer. “I’m a little short on gas money, though. Payday’s not till tomorrow.”
I nod. Lamonte is perpetually short on gas money. We worked out a system where I sometimes front him part of his paycheck, and as soon as he cashes it, he returns the money to the till.
It’s never once been a problem. But by the time I put in the code to open the register, Jason has stuck his head through the door to watch.
Spying.
I had a feeling. I slam the register closed without removing any money. “Take my car. The keys are in my cubbie.”
I shouldn’t feel an ounce of guilt as I turn to Jason, but I somehow do. Even though I’ve done absolutely nothing wrong, not today or yesterday, with the cash register, I feel a twinge. I keep track of any money coming out of the register on a sticky note underneath the tray. But it is an irregularity. There’s no electronic trail, and no one checks my work or approves what I do.
“Did you finish the onions?” I ask Jason.
Jason wipes his eye with the back of his wrist, since his hands are covered in plastic gloves. “I was going to ask Lamonte if I chopped them fine enough.”
Lamonte shuts the fridge with his shoulder, an insulated delivery bag in each hand. “Nova, can you check? He could use some tips. His dicing skills need work. He can’t mince.”
I glance at the sandwich line to see what still needs to be done. “Elda, can you put out the pickles? I’m headed to the back.”
Jason pushes the door open for me to pass through. I catch a strong whiff of onions and jalapeños as I walk by. Lamonte gave him the worst cutting assignments.
But beneath that, I catch a trace of something woodsy and expensive. Aftershave? Probably not. He still sports the same scruffy, tumbled-out-of-bed look he had yesterday.
Cologne, I guess. I’ve never been around a cologne guy. It seems fussy. None of my other male friends are fussy. Not by a longshot.
Even though he’s dressed down for the occasion, Jason still holds the appearance of someone distinctly upper-class. I don’t know enough to put my finger on what it might be. The stitching on his jeans? The perfect way they hug his hips? The fit of the T-shirt, obviously new, tucked casually into the front band of his jeans, but not in the back?
I’ve seen that before. I watch Queer Eye. It’s a French tuck. I’m not sure who does that on a daily basis, but certainly not anyone I know.
At least, not until now.
We head to the counter where he’s been chopping onions.