Page 5 of Unexpected Pickle

HEX’S HOT GRIDDLE

I did good.

When the class is over and I’ve dodged the clingy mom and the even clingier daughter, I start cleaning up.

Jeannie is busy talking to a woman who wants to be a chef. The student appears to be asking about every tiny detail of choosing a culinary school, filling out applications, and figuring out what direction to go.

I smile to myself as I gather the big bowls in a pile, then collect the smaller ones that held ingredients.

The griddles are a terrible mess, burned bits sticking to the edges, raw batter sloshed onto the table. But most of us managed to get crepes out of the deal. I fed mine to Sunshine. I was happy to. None of the items on the menu fit into my nutrition routine with my next MMA match only days away.

The back wall is filled with sinks, so I take the bowls back there and collect the compost pots, combining the contents into one for easy removal.

Jeannie watches me out of the corner of her eye. Does she want me to save her from this conversation, too? She didn’t like my hero routine at the commercial shoot, and I’ve already intervened with Sunshine.

I let her handle this one. She’s no damsel in distress, and I won’t treat her like one.

The sink water is slow to get hot, so I let it run while I walk the rows of cooking stations, unplugging the griddles. I won’t even try to clean those without Jeannie’s instructions. I’ll mess it up for sure.

“Thank you. I really need to clear the room before it has to be locked. Good luck with your choices.” Jeannie breaks away from the woman and heads my way.

When we’re alone in the room, she approaches where I’m shutting down griddles. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Are you still trying to woo me? I’m not the woo-able kind.”

I move to the last griddle and turn it off. “That’s okay.”

She follows me as I return to the sink. “You’re going to wash dishes for a woman who isn’t interested?”

“Seems like a nice thing to do.”

Steam curls up from the water. Jeannie passes her hand through it and closes the drain. “All right. I’ll wash. You dry.”

That’s more like it.

“Have you analyzed why you’re after me?” she asks as she passes me a bowl. “The thrill of the chase? The one woman who isn’t falling at your feet?”

Is that what she thinks?

“No.” I dry the bowl and set it down, taking another.

“You had Sonya and her wildling eating out of your hand. Literally. I saw you turn your crepes over to the child. Aren’t you hungry by now?”

I take the opening. “If I were, would you join me? You could critique the food.”

She hands me another bowl. “Nope.”

“What if it’s a street vendor with a setup that will make you gasp in shock?”

“No.”

“Without a food license?”

“No.”

“And six visible health violations for you to rail against?”

This makes that dimple appear, and I almost want to shout with the rush of accomplishment. We’re almost through the pile of the bowls. I want the evening to slow down.

“I’m focused on my career,” she says.

This is the first real reason she’s given me.

“So am I, but I still have fun.”

“I bet you do.” Her gaze stays focused on the suds in the sink.

“What does that mean?” I haven’t looked at another woman since I met her.

She doesn’t answer, washing the dishes with swift efficiency. “That’s the last one,” she says, passing me a bowl.

While I towel-dry it, she puts the others in the cabinets.

I decide to let her comment go. I know I get more than my share of attention, which probably looks like something I want from her perspective. “What now?” I ask her.

“Those griddles,” she says. “Maybe crepes weren’t my brightest idea.”

“They are a mess.” I stack the last clean bowl with the others. “Is there a professional chef way to clean them?”

“Fire them back up and wipe them down while they’re hot.”

“Sounds like a good way to get burned.”

She holds out her arms, which bear several nicks and burns. “Badges of honor.”

“We have those in MMA, too.” I point to a scar on my jaw where I took a hard kick that split my skin.

She nods. “I suppose we both get injured in our professions.”

I shrug. “Part of the deal.”

We plug the griddles back in and turn them on. I realize Jeannie restrained herself from pointing out that I shouldn’t have turned them off in the first place.

When we reach the end, Jeannie wets down two thin towels and tosses one to me. “Unplug it before you apply water. The leftover batter will come right off.”

I pull the plug and tentatively touch the damp towel to the hot surface. It sizzles, and I jump back.

Jeannie laughs. “I thought you were a big, tough fighter.”

“I don’t touch hot things.”

She snorts, and when I look up, I realize what I’ve said. “Are you laughing at a dirty joke?”

She expertly runs her towel over the surface of the griddle, wiping it clean. “It can’t be helped, working at a pickle deli.”

“Because it’s a big dill ?”

She moves on to another griddle. “Maybe because I’ve had to make dill dough .”

This time I’m the one to snort. “Don’t they have other dirty dishes?”

“The Pickle That Goes Down Easy,” she says. “And Stuff This Pickle.”

“Who names them?”

“Anthony, mostly.”

That’s Max’s brother, who owns another of the family delis in Colorado.

I peer at the griddle. Here goes nothing. I slide the damp towel over the surface. The spray and stuck bits of batter come off easily. “Hey! It works!”

Jeannie slings her towel over her arm. “It does.” She’s already cleaned the rest of the griddles in the time I’ve wiped down one.

Our time is about to end, and I’m not sure I’ve made any headway. I’m afraid to ask her on a real date after what Max told me.

“You didn’t eat your crepes,” she says.

Huh. She noticed. “Sunshine got them.”

“Were they not to your liking?”

“Oh, I’m just, uh, careful about what I eat right before a match.”

She carries a griddle to the back counter. “Really, like what?”

“Nothing that will stay in my gut too long. Nothing high fat. No sugar.”

She returns for another griddle. “You don’t want to puke in the ring?”

“Exactly. I can’t risk eating something that might throw me off. I need my glycogen stores to be easy for my body to access.”

“Do you have a nutrition coach?”

“I did. She moved to New York a few months ago, but I’m getting by on what she taught me.”

“Who makes your meals?”

“I use an outfit down on Vine.”

She pauses. “Gems for Gyms?”

“Yeah, that one.”

Her mouth twists. “I’m not sure they’re using best practices.”

“Really? Where should I go?”

“I can send you a couple of suggestions.”

“Or…you could be my chef.”

She picks up another griddle. “Not my skill set.”

Damn. I tried. “Is Max’s deli your end game?”

She takes her time arranging the cord around the griddle she’s set down, and I worry I’ve struck a nerve. “I’m not sure.”

I’d better pivot. “What’s your next gig for Max with your perfect food?”

“I’m flying to Montreal.”

“In Canada?”

“Yeah. I’ve never been. I’m pretty excited.”

So she’ll be gone. “Another commercial?”

“An event, actually. An award ceremony. Big visibility.”

“When is it?” I pass her the one griddle I cleaned.

“Not for a few weeks yet.”

“You going alone?”

She tucks the last griddle in with the others. “I’m a big girl.” Her face flushes at that, but I’m not sure why.

“Well, it sounds fun.”

She turns around and leans against the counter. “Thanks for your help, Hex. I hope you enjoyed making crepes. Goodnight.”

Damn. I’m dismissed. I almost ask if she’s sure she doesn’t want to grab some food, but I think better of it. Bide your time, Hex.

As I head through the cool night air to my car, I call Max.

“Yo, Hex, how did the class go?”

“Great. Why didn’t you tell me about Montreal?”

“Sounds like you had a conversation with your lady.”

“How can I get on this gig?” I can already picture it. Snow-covered mountains. Jeannie and me in a cabin. A fire. It’s a Southern Californian’s dream.

“It’s an awards thing, a big deal.”

“I’ll be a busboy. A lackey. I can blend into the background.”

“Hex, you are as inconspicuous as a skyscraper.”

“I can be a bodyguard.”

“I don’t think I can get you credentials.”

“Try. Okay?”

He laughs. “Hex, I’ve never seen a dog more intent on getting a bone.”

“Just get me in.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

I duck into my SUV. I don’t plan to wait for Jeannie to come out, but I do. It’s night in LA, and I don’t know how safe this community college is.

I watch her cross the parking lot. She pulls off her chef cap, and long silky hair spills down her back.

Oh, man. I’ve never seen her with her hair down.

She unbuttons the chef coat, and I’m like a man watching a striptease. A bear could attack, and I would not take my eyes off this woman.

She shrugs off the chef coat, and I get my first look at ordinary Jeannie outside of her element.

She wears a shiny black shirt that follows every generous curve of her body, tucked inside black chef pants.

When she bends over the driver’s seat to place the hat and coat on the other side, I’m on fire, looking at her gorgeous ass.

Good God. I only thought I was obsessed before.

This is way worse.

She slides behind the wheel, and the closed door cuts off my view of her body.

Her little red Mazda fires up, and she backs out of the spot, none the wiser to my witnessing of the real her.

Or the rock-hard part of my body that has decided that I am getting to Montreal, no matter what it takes.