Page 7 of Unexpected Pickle

HEX DRAWS BLOOD OUTSIDE THE RING

I limit my visits at the deli to one per week, making sure I don’t wreck my rather precarious situation with Max’s head chef before I get a chance to ask her out for real.

We talk about easy things. How to make chicken less dry. Which vegetables last the longest in a fridge. I’ll listen to most anything just to look at her, to be in her kitchen.

But I can’t risk making any waves, because Max has figured out a way to get me to Montreal. He couldn’t get me on with the awards ceremony. He didn’t have the clout.

But he found a high-level chef’s retreat focused on sports nutrition and convinced Jeannie to attend it while she was there. She jumped at the chance to extend her time in a new place, even if it is Canada in winter.

And he got me in, too.

But not as a bodyguard or a busboy.

As another chef.

I don’t know how to so much as turn on an oven, but I’ll figure that part out when I get there. Anything that gets me close to Jeannie is worth trying.

Besides, I learned how to make crepes in one night. How hard can it be to bake chicken and chop lettuce? I eat sports nutrition all day long. I can do it. I’m confident.

My manager Humphrey tries to book a meeting with sponsors for that week, but I tell him it has to wait. After a bit of cussing and anger at my sudden lack of availability right as I’ve leveled up, he agrees to reschedule. February is for Canada.

But on the last visit to the deli before the trip, I almost blow it.

Jeannie is more stressed than usual, trying to make sure everyone knows their roles in her absence.

“Vera, I want photos of the bins to make sure chop sizes don’t creep up when I’m not watching. Mitchell, I need your assurances that you won’t mix up the mayonnaise for the line and the one we use in the potato salad.”

“Got it, boss.” He heads out of the kitchen.

She turns to me. “What are you doing here?”

“Just saying hello.”

“Well, hello! And goodbye! I have a million things to do before I get on the plane.”

“Did you get warm clothes?” I ask her. “Not much call for down jackets and snow boots in SoCal.”

“Yes, Hex. I am prepared. I am a bastion of preparedness.” She seems put out. I should back away. I understand her stress. I can be short when I’m getting in the zone for a fight.

I get it.

I get her.

It’s not bitchy. It’s not unlikeable.

It’s focused. It’s driven.

Although I might have a better sense than she does for when to turn it off. She’s never let me see her out of her element, other than the stolen glance of her removing her chef uniform after the crepe class.

I want more of that. More of her. To know the rest of who she is.

I’m hoping Montreal is that moment.

Her knife moves so fast I don’t know how she doesn’t go right through the pickles and onto her fingers. I can’t keep up with the blur.

“How do you do that?” I ask.

She keeps chopping until the pickle on the board is completely diced. “Years of practice.”

“I admire your technique. Those are small pickle bits.”

“They’re for bread. They have to be small or the bread will be soggy.” She brushes her cheek with the back of her hand. I can see what’s bugging her. A tiny sliver of pickle has made its way there.

And that’s when I nearly blow it.

“Let me get that.” I reach for her face, forgetting this is a stressed-out woman armed with a razor-sharp utensil.

She jerks back, grazing the side of my hand with her knife. A line of red wells up. I don’t flinch.

“Hex! Damn it!” She drops the knife and has my hand wrapped with her towel in an instant. “Come to the sink.”

I think there’s salt or maybe pickle juice on her towel, because it burns like hell when she wraps it, but I don’t say a damn thing about it. I shouldn’t have gone for her face. I know better.

Mitchell has come in from the restaurant at the commotion, and he and Vera share a concerned glance.

“I’m fine,” I tell them, more than a little delirious that Jeannie is holding my arm. This is the closest we’ve been, and now I’m wishing I’d gotten in the way of her knife ages ago.

She turns on the flow of water and removes the towel to rinse off my hand. There’s more blood than I expected. Maybe it will be a wicked scar, a mark on me made by Jeannie.

I’m down for that.

“Vera, get the first-aid kit,” Jeannie calls over her shoulder. She lifts my hand. “I got you good. I’m sorry.”

“I was in the way of your blade,” I tell her.

“Yeah.” This is the softest tone I’ve ever heard from her. “I’m a mess right now. It’s hard for someone like me to give up control of her workspace, even for a good cause.”

Now that’s an admission. “I shouldn’t have tried to touch you.” The bit of pickle is still on her face. I have to resist reaching for it a second time.

Vera brings the box and opens it on the counter next to the sink. She backs away, like maybe she doesn’t want to be in the line of fire as this goes down.

Blood has welled up again, so Jeannie sticks my hand beneath the water once more. “Can I get a clean towel?”

Vera returns with a bright white cloth and lays it over the first aid kit.

“Is this going to mess up your fights?” she asks. “It could break open if you hit someone.”

“I’m used to a little blood,” I say. “And we wear gloves.”

“I know,” she says, then her face does something I’ve never seen. It goes pink, flushing across her cheeks.

She’s blushing? Why?

She presses the towel against my skin. “I’m going to dry this quickly and bandage it.”

I wait as she opens a bandage package with her teeth.

I don’t think first aid is high in her skill set, as she somewhat awkwardly frees the backing off the adhesive and applies it to my skin. “There.”

“Like Beauty and the Beast ,” I say.

Her head pops up. “How so?”

“Remember how she tends his wounds?”

“But I was the one doing the roaring. I’m the beast in this scenario.”

Is that what she thinks? “No, you’re definitely the beauty.”

Her lips press together so tightly that her dimples pop. “Hardly.” She backs away. “But you’re good.”

“Good at what?”

“Compliments. I’m just immune.”

Is she? I hope to test that theory. “Do I get a reprieve from being kicked out for my trouble?”

She stares into my eyes, and the full force of having her complete attention hits me. I might be able to squat 450, but these knees feel as weak as a kitten at the moment.

I can’t wait for Montreal.

And because of this bigger goal, I need to make my retreat despite what I said. “Never mind. Thank you for the bandage.” I hold up my hand. “And I wish you safe travels to Montreal.” I give a bow.

She watches me as I leave the kitchen. I’m careful not to look back.

All I can hope is that maybe, between the crepe cleanup and this strange incident with the knife, I’m in an excellent position to get closer to her on our unexpected getaway.