Page 20 of Unexpected Pickle
“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?”
