Spicy Pickle (Fake Engagement)

by J J Knight

  I bang my head a second time, strands of hair falling over my face as I extricate myself from the counter.

  The woman doesn’t look like any sales rep I’ve ever seen. She has perfectly coiffed black hair and a red suit with a pencil skirt that fits her like it was custom-made.

  Her face is perfect, and her expression can only be described as the cat that ate the canary.

  “Magnolia Boudreaux?”

  My whole body goes on alert. Sales reps don’t usually know my name, only my dad’s.

  In fact, this woman looks like someone from Milton’s camp. I’ve been waiting for a shoe to drop since the filming.

  God, I hope this woman is a sales rep. I’ll buy her coffee all day long.

  I quickly shove the rest of the napkin packs inside the cabinet and stand up. My shirt is wrinkled, and my knees picked up dirt from the floor. I brush them off. “Can I help you?”

  Her smile sets me on edge. “I was hoping to ask you a few questions about your segment with America’s Spiciest Chef.”

  I knew it. “Who are you?”

  She tugs a laminated badge from the depths of her cleavage. “Amelia Little. You’ve probably seen me on the local news.”

  So, she’s not one of Milton’s people. I glance at the pass. “Nope.”

  “Well, I’m a reporter. I understand you filmed a segment with Milton Creed last week.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  Her eyebrows arch in a way I’ve only seen in makeup ads. “I guess you haven’t seen the footage that was just released?”

  My heart thuds. “What footage?”

  “It’s trending on Twitter.” She reaches into that ample décolletage a second time to extract a phone. “It’s right here.” She turns the screen to me.

  It’s the rogue footage all right. Vertical and shaky, but definitely showing the moment when Milton spit out the pickle.

  “The taping was recorded by someone with an illegal cell phone in the studio,” I say. That seems a safe thing to admit, since the evidence is right before us.

  “That’s right. I take it you haven’t been on the Internet today.”

  I slowly shake my head.

  “I stopped by the Boulder Pickle and several news vans were already set up there. It seems I’m the first one to make it to you.”

  Of course they would go for Anthony first. He’s the star chef.

  And I’m an accountant. I have to be careful or they’ll figure out I can’t cook. The last thing we need right now is a double scandal.

  Amelia tilts her head. “You look different from your segment.”

  My hands fly to my hair in a twist with a pencil stuck through it. I’m not wearing any makeup. No cute dress. I’m a mess.

  At least she doesn’t have a camera. Not in here. I desperately want to see outside, but the windows in our 1950s building are high. I can’t see outside without going to the door.

  “It’s a working day.” I gesture to the cabinet. “I’m doing inventory.”

  She nods. “I think they’ll love you even more looking like an everyday girl.”

  That is code for you’ll be a perfect How It Started/How It’s Going meme. Anthony will dazzle them with knife work, and I’ll be the butt of the joke.

  Her smile is as fake as a Stepford wife. “We’d like to interview you. I have a camera crew set up outside.”

  I suck in a breath. “I can’t do that. I don’t have anything to say. No comment!” I take several steps back, but she walks forward like we’re doing some terrible predatory dance.

  “It’s only a few quick questions. Everyone is dying to know if there’s a rivalry between you and Anthony Pickle. Did you or him, or the two of you together, doctor the pickles to make Milton Creed look bad? No one would blame you. Milton has his share of enemies.”

  She’s baiting me. The negative press could be tremendous.

  “No!” I say, “we’re closed. Please leave right now.”

  Amelia is unfazed. “Your hours are posted on the door.”

  I continue walking backward, away from her. “We reserve the right to refuse service!”

  Shane stands by the sandwich line, his mouth open in shock.

  “It’s just a few questions, Magnolia. We would like to hear your side of the story.”

  “There is no story! We did a segment. Something went wrong! I didn’t have anything to do with it!” My butt rams a table, and the metal legs screech on the floor.

  “I assure you Anthony will tell his side of the story. You don’t want your version to go untold.”

  Her smile is glossy. I shudder as I walk backwards to the kitchen. There are other people there. Maybe someone can get this vulture off me. Shane seems frozen in horror.

  “I’m going to the staff kitchen. Customers aren’t allowed back there.”

  “Magnolia, it’s just a few questions.” She’s getting perturbed, speaking through gritted teeth.

  My shoulder smacks against the kitchen door. I’m about to push through, terrified Amelia will follow me, when the elderly man from the corner takes the reporter’s arm.

  Amelia turns to him with daggers in her eyes. “What are you doing?”

  “Magnolia said no one is to go back there other than staff. I’ll call the cops if you don’t back off.”

  His wife comes up behind him, holding her finger over her cell phone screen with all the menace a curly gray-haired woman can possess. “Don’t make me hit the green button!”

  I realize they are long-time regulars. They’ve got my back.

  “Thank you,” I say and turn to race through the kitchen.

  The staffers whip their heads around as I hurtle by. “No one talk to the press!” I don’t stop until I’m in my office and the door is closed and locked.

  I sink into my chair. What is happening? What will I do?

  I sit for a moment, taking deep breaths. I don’t know what’s going on out there. I keep thinking someone will bang on my door.

  When several long minutes pass, I shakily pick up my cell phone to text Sakura, our manager. Is she gone?

  Sakura answers quickly. She left but the crew is still outside. Should we shut down the deli?

  Yes. Lock all the doors, front and back.

  I send a quick text to Dad saying footage from the show has gotten out and that reporters are starting to arrive. Then I send one to my sister.

  While I wait for responses, I Google my name.

  The hits line up, one after the other. Entertainment shows. Cooking blogs. The Twitter link that has the original footage. Thousands and thousands of comments.

  It’s happening. The cat is out of the bag.

  As I scroll through all the coverage, I wonder how Anthony is doing. The reporter said there were news vans at the Boulder Pickle. At least he’s confident in front of a camera.

  They’ll have to slide food under my door from now on.

  Because I am never leaving my office again.

  I hole up for two hours before I hear a timid knock that could only be Sakura.

  Our manager can be tough on the staff, particularly when it comes to the quality of the food. But with our family, she’s like a doting aunt.

  “Magnolia?” she says through the door. “There’s someone here to see you.”

  Surely, she hasn’t let a reporter back here.

  “Who is it?” I ask.

  I do not expect the voice I hear coming through the door. “It’s Anthony Pickle. I wanted to see how you are doing with the reporters. My deli got invaded, and I figured you were getting the same.”

  I press my hands to the door. “Anthony?”

  I can almost hear the smile in his voice. “The one and only.”

  “I’ll leave you two to it!” Sakura says brightly. I swear I hear the matchmaking in her tone. As if. Anthony owns the deli that could bring down ours!

  My hand moves toward the doorknob when I suddenly realize, oh no, my hair is in a bun. I don’t have any makeup on. My pant
s are dusty. My shirt is wrinkled.

  I don’t look anything like the girl he saw at the filming.

  “Go away,” I say.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. I just—I just don’t want you.”

  “I’m here on business. We need to talk about how to manage all this.”

  He sounds determined to talk to me. I turn to search around the room. There’s no makeup. Nothing for my hair. No sister to help me. God.

  I don’t know why this is so critical. I’m happy being me. The accountant. The back-of-the-building daughter.

  But something resists. Anthony saw something else. Something almost magical about me. I don’t want to spoil it.

  He goes on. “I wanted to make sure we were on the same page about the publicity.” His voice is low and rich enough that I can feel the vibration in my belly. I press my hand to my stomach. If you could get pregnant from a voice, I’d totally be knocked up.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We hired a social media coordinator. We felt we needed to control the message, at least until we can react to whatever Milton Creed is going to do.”

  I lean my forehead on the door. “He’s not going to be happy the footage got out.”

  “I bet not.” Anthony’s laugh makes my skin tingle. “Do you want to review notes? Come up with a plan?”

  “I didn’t talk to anyone,” I say. “And I don’t intend to.”

  “That’s certainly a strategy.”

  “What did you say to them?”

  “I mainly put them off. Said that there had been a mishap on the set, and we were waiting for a full investigation.”

  “You sound like a politician.”

  “The words came straight from the social media company.”

  “You can’t think of your own statement? Something that reflects the values of your family business?”

  There’s an edge to his voice when he speaks again. “I’m trying to protect my family business. Our chain has to support all of us.”

  I step back from the door. “Right. Poor you with all your fancy branches. I’ll have you know that this one restaurant supports my grandmother, my parents, and me and my sister. We have a lot to lose.”

  “I get it,” he says. “That’s why we hired someone to spin this.”

  My frustration peaks. “There’s nothing to spin! Someone who hates Milton decided to screw him over. I thought we decided this.”

  “Maybe so, but we can’t accuse his crew. We don’t have proof.”

  “Well, how do we get it? If we don’t figure out who did this, then we go down.”

  He’s quiet for a minute, and I assume he’s pondering the wisdom of my words.

  “Can you come out, so we can talk this over?”

  No, no, no, no.

  “I’m already late for something,” I say. “Can you call me tomorrow?”

  “I’m here now. You’re impossible to get a hold of. You have the restaurant on automatic voicemail.”

  I had done that in a panic when I first holed up in the office. “Are you saying you want my number?”

  “It might be useful.” He’s starting to sound perturbed.

  I press my back to the door and frantically glance around my office for something to help me.

  Grandmama’s gigantic wraparound sunglasses sit on a shelf where she keeps some personal things. I snatch them up and stick them on my face.

  I have my white coat. It’s long enough that you can’t tell what I’m wearing underneath it, especially if I zip it up all the way.

  I pull it on.

  Somewhere, I have a knit hat one of the staffers made for me last Christmas.

  I open a drawer or two and finally find it under a pile of mismatched gloves. It’s thick and deep purple.

  I jerk the pencil from my hair and let it fall. With the hat pulled down low, my blond hair spills out without revealing there is no styling to it. The sunglasses hide the fact that I have no eye makeup on.

  I bite my lips and pinch my cheeks, remembering the scene from Gone with the Wind where Scarlett tries to heighten her color. I snatch up my purse.

  Here goes.

  I open the door.

  Anthony Pickle stands in the hallway between my dad’s office and mine. Despite the half-dark due to the sunglasses, I can see that he’s exactly as I remember. Tall, handsome, friendly.

  I try to maintain my disdain in the face of his absolute adorableness. There’s no apron today, just a fitted black jacket over a green polo that probably has his deli’s logo on the pocket. His jeans fit the way jeans were invented to do.

  In any other circumstance, I’d be drooling.

  But we are soldiers in a bitter war, finding ourselves reluctantly on the same side against a common enemy.

  “Give me your phone,” I say.

  His eyebrows lift at my order, but he unlocks it and passes it to me.

  “This is only if something happens where we need to communicate about Milton Creed.” I punch in my numbers. “No hanky-panky.”

  “Oh, but I love to hanky-panky. Especially in texts.”

  I glare up at him. His impish smile is bright and endearing. I have to harden my resolve. “You’re not taking this seriously at all. It could be the ruin of both of our businesses.”

  He takes his phone back and pockets it. “All right. I’ll be serious. No cat videos or pickle memes.” He’s still grinning, though.

  I brush past him to enter the kitchen, then push my way out the back door. He follows close behind.

  “You’re not going to speak to the reporters?” he asks. “They’re aggressive.”

  “Not a one.”

  “Good luck with that. Let me know if it gets to be too much for you.”

  Ugh. Typical man. Thinks he can solve my problems. “For what? So you can send your social media coordinator to tell me what to say?”

  “I want to help. We’re in this together.”

  That makes me stop. “Anthony, I went on that show specifically to get publicity for my deli. To steal it from you. There’s no reason for you to feel like we need to team up over this crazy mess we’ve found ourselves in.”

  “You really want to take me down, don’t you?”

  Now that we are out in the sunlight, I can see him better. His face is scruffy, but it’s the right amount of stubble to look sexy. He’s nice. Earnest. I should like him.

  But I can’t. I can’t afford to.

  “We all do what we have to do,” I say. “If that means we have to work together for something, then I will do it. But generally speaking, the better your deli does, the worse it is for me.”

  I try to turn away, but he holds out a hand to stop me. “You truly believe that don’t you? You don’t think there’s room enough in Boulder for both of us?”

  He doesn’t get it. “Your pickle chain expands aggressively. You don’t even look at what damage you might cause small businesses without your money and power. That New York branch is a powerhouse that propels you into the limelight in ways little guys like us can’t compete with.”

  “You shouldn’t have to,” he says. “There’s plenty of sandwich lovers in Boulder.”

  “Wake up, Anthony Pickle. My demographic is loyal but becoming elderly. You’re cornering the market on the young. My family can’t afford to lose.”

  I jerk open my car door and thrust myself inside.

  Only when I’ve slammed the door, silencing my conversation with Anthony, do I start to question what I’ve said to him. It’s not his fault his deli is bright, attractive, and youthful. That TikTok made it a wild success.

  We don’t even have a TikTok for the Tasty Pepper. I wouldn’t know the first thing about what to put on it. Mom manages the Facebook page. It’s her speed.

  I realize I haven’t started the car. And Anthony Pickle hasn’t moved.

  He’s watching me like he’s trying to figure me out.

  Fat chance of that. He doesn’t even know what I normally loo
k like.

  We have a stare-off through the glass for a full thirty seconds.

  I break it by honking, startling him.

  He gives a wave and walks away.

  All right, readers. I know you’re judging me.

  Don’t throw the book at the wall. It’s just I don’t know what to do. I’m scared as hell. When I told Dad about what happened at the taping, he assured me that the Tasty Pepper’s customers are loyal. That they’d see us through.

  But there’s a reason my sister and I live together in an apartment. Our restaurant doesn’t support all of us. Our customer base tends to dwindle, not expand. Almost everybody who walks in is over fifty.

  At some point, Havannah and I will want a life. Our own houses. We need the Tasty Pepper to do better than it is.

  To be honest, I’ve been trying to find a way to open a second branch. Scrimping, saving, moving money around as I do the books. We need another store, a second round of monthly profit.

  But now there’s Boulder Pickle and Anthony’s obvious prowess in running it. He knows how to get publicity, to be clever with his specials and flavors. And he has the backing of a chain to help them through a difficult publicity problem.

  He has all the advantages.

  We just can’t win.

  7

  Anthony

  Everything hits the fan again on Saturday night.

  I’m sitting in my condo, waiting for my friend, Sebastian, to come by for an evening of pizza and killing zombies, when my phone starts buzzing like crazy.

  There’s a text from Charity, the social media coordinator, asking to call her.

  One from Max, saying, “What are you gonna do about it?”

  My cousin Sunny has sent a link with a thousand exclamation marks.

  I click on it right as Sebastian knocks on the door.

  I walk over absently and open it, my eyes on the phone.

  “Hey,” Sebastian says, smelling of sausage and jalapeno from the box he carries in his arms. “What’s got you all up in your apps?”

  I don’t look up as I kick the door closed. “Something’s happening again.”

  “From that cooking thing you did?”

  “I’m getting texts from every direction.”

  The website Sunny sent must be getting hit like crazy, because it won’t load. Sebastian retreats to the kitchen, his long black ponytail swinging. People say he looks like Lin-Manuel Miranda. I can see it.