Page 13 of Unexpected Pickle
“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.”
