Spicy Pickle (Fake Engagement)

by J J Knight

  “But Penny is generally a shortened form of Penel—” and then I get it. It’s short for penis.

  “Clever.”

  She claps her hands. “I knew you’d think so.” She gestures to my outfit. “You’re still all fancy.”

  “And you are no longer wearing Charity-sanctioned outfits.”

  She plucks at the pink sweatshirt. “I was tired of wearing fancy clothes. Normally you only see me dressed like that at weddings and funerals.”

  Interesting. She’s always been so put together when I’ve seen her. “I feel overdressed.”

  “You need to go put on something more casual.”

  This is going better than I thought. “Done. Should we order some room service? Charity would kill us if we got caught out in public in anything less than the designer wardrobe.”

  Magnolia giggles. “Oh, the scandal. Young lovers spotted at a lowbrow burger shack wearing Target sweatpants.”

  “I don’t risk the wrath of Charity.”

  “I hear you. Room service it is. Is there a menu out here?”

  “In the drawer.” I head over to the small table and pull one out. “Why don’t you look it over while I change?”

  She accepts it with a grunt. “It’s heavier than a Cheesecake Factory menu. It’ll take an hour to decide what I want.”

  “We have all night.”

  She glances up from the menu to raise an eyebrow at me.

  What does that mean? Don’t press your luck? Or come hither?

  I wish I were as smooth as my brothers. They’d know exactly what to do.

  I head back to my room and dig through my bags to find something to match her. Jeans. No. Workout shorts. No. Do I even have the right thing?

  I find something unexpected. I hadn’t gone through everything, mostly dumping the contents of the boxes that arrived from Charity directly into the suitcases.

  Plaid pajamas in navy and cranberry. What did Charity think I would do with these? A photo shoot in sleepwear?

  Regardless, they’re the same casual level as Magnolia’s sweatpants.

  I pull them on. I think of all the scenes in movies where the woman goes and prepares herself for the man, putting on a négligée and brushing her teeth.

  Should I brush my teeth?

  It might be weird right before we eat. Toothpaste and wine? Not a thing.

  What else did they do?

  Shave things. That’s come up in movies.

  I head to the mirror to check out my face. My look is always scruffy. When I get rid of all my facial hair, I look ten years old. So, nope.

  What about my balls? Should I shave my balls?

  I have no idea.

  I’d text my brothers, but they’d probably take a screenshot and put it on Twitter.

  Will Magnolia even be seeing my balls?

  Does she have opinions about manscaping?

  I shouldn’t be thinking about this.

  It’s just dinner.

  Besides, I can’t confuse our real relationship as business partners with the public relationship, which is well, a lot more.

  Especially after the penis cactus.

  Penny didn’t shave his balls. He’s downright thorny.

  I settle on a quick rinse with mouthwash and a light application of cologne.

  And I’m ready.

  When I make it back to the meeting room, Magnolia is deep into the menu. “Did you know they have four types of grilled cheese?” She glances up. “Hey! You got fancy sleepwear, too.”

  I sit in the chair next to her. “You got some?”

  “You bet I did. And I won’t be caught dead in it.”

  Now she has my interest. “What is it?”

  She runs her finger down the menu page. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  Yes. Yes, I would.

  I’m guessing she’s not going to tell me, so my imagination runs wild. Baby doll pajamas. Négligées. Peephole bras. Crotchless panties.

  Whoa. Gotta get myself in check.

  Magnolia snaps the menu shut. “It’s going to sound like a ten-year-old got hold of the menu. But I want tater tots, butter pasta, and chocolate cake.”

  I take the menu from her. “That’s quite a combination.”

  “Everything was tempting me.” She tilts her head, her ponytail swinging.

  I could tell her exactly what is tempting me.

  But instead, I flip quickly through the menu. “I’ll get this ordered.”

  She walks around the room while I talk to the kitchen. I watch her every move as she runs her hand along the side table and spins one of the chairs. She picks up the cactus, and when her finger taps the tip of the shaft, I start to wish I had worn something more structured. I shift the menu onto my lap.

  I focus on describing all the menu items to the woman on the line, adding a bottle of champagne for the success of our show. I squeeze my eyes shut so Magnolia can’t distract me. By the time I hang up, I have my crotch under control.

  She drops into the leather armchair next to me. “I’ve been thinking about something.”

  I can come up with a hundred things I’d like her to say. Naked showers. Hot sex. More showers. My pants stir again, so I leave the menu where it is. “Oh?”

  “We haven’t figured out who tampered with the pickles and released the video.” She gestures to the room. “At this point, we ought to thank them. They’ve made all this happen.”

  She’s right. “I’m assuming it was someone on Milton’s team, and he’s kicking up this big fuss to make sure none of it makes him look bad.”

  “He’s been awfully quiet lately. Nothing since that montage making me look guilty.”

  “I’m not sure how we would find any leads.”

  Magnolia draws her knees up to her chest. “If he got rid of employees as often as that one woman suggested, there might be somebody who’s been fired since our show. They might talk.”

  “Maybe we could ask around. Or Charity could.”

  She stands up to pace the room, animated now. “That would be the ultimate high point of our story. Mystery solved by Anthony Pickle and Magnolia Boudreaux.”

  “You mean BoudRickle.”

  She bursts out laughing. “I forgot about our ‘ship’ name.”

  “I never thought I’d have a hashtag of my couple name with someone.”

  She pauses by the round table. “I never thought I’d give a Pickle brother the time of day.”

  My body is chill again, so I shove the menu in the drawer and head her way. “Are we good about the past? My coming into Boulder with a new deli without even reaching out?” I stop only a foot away from her.

  Her gaze meets mine. “We’re good. I’m glad my terrible plan worked out to bring us together rather than apart.”

  I decide it’s time to take a risk. “Are we? Together?”

  “All of them think so.” She lifts her hand to gesture at the door, but en route, smacks me in the nose. “Oh no! I’m sorry!” She presses her hand to my face. “I got you good!”

  “It’s fine.” It doesn’t hurt, but she’s really close. I can smell a floral hand lotion and a fruity shampoo.

  “Are you sure?” Her face is full of concern as she examines my nose.

  I lift my hand to her cheek and brush away a line of worry. “I’m sure.”

  Now we’re super close. Her breath feathers across my lips.

  It’s like all those times I’ve kissed her.

  But this time, we’re alone. I’m not expected to do anything. There are no cameras. No live studio audience. But Magnolia might be expecting me to try.

  I lean in, but not all the way. She can bridge the distance if she wants to. I’ll know in her hesitation.

  She closes the gap.

  Her mouth is warm and opens to me immediately. Her body presses into mine, her hands at my neck. Every outline of her curves feels carved into me, breasts, belly, hips. Adrenaline shoots through my body, landing in my groin.

  I draw her tightly against
me, and she should be able to feel that I’m not faking this part. She sucks in a breath, then we’re in again, mouths slanting against each other, hands touching every accessible part.

  The longing I’ve felt for her for weeks explodes into need. I’ve been waiting for any sign from her that this is more than pretend. That what started as a ruse has become real.

  My fingers slip beneath the bottom of her shirt, connecting with the warm skin of her back, her ribs. I slide up and realize there is no barrier to her soft breast, no bra. Just her, a taut nipple budding beneath my touch.

  She sucks in a breath, and fire licks through me. We’ve made it here at last. She’s mine. I’ve wanted her to be mine for so long.

  We bump against the table and I sit her on it. Her legs wrap around my hips, and I grind against her, my free hand clasping her neck, the other kneading the plump breast.

  I want to feast on her, so I move, lips shifting to her jaw, her neck. I push the sweatshirt up and bend down to tease the tight nipple with my tongue.

  Her head falls back. Our bodies rock against each other. Everything I’ve envisioned is happening. Magnolia is in my arms, my hands, my mouth.

  I jerk the sweatshirt over her head, tossing it to the floor. I pause a moment to take her in, the alabaster skin, pale pink nipples. Her long blond ponytail falls down her naked back. She’s perfect. Absolutely perfect.

  I lean down, feasting on every newly exposed part of her. Neck, collarbone, both pert breasts. I’m on fire, desperate to know every inch of her delectable body.

  She unbuttons the front of my pajama top, her hands learning the breadth of my chest and sliding down my abs. Her breathing is heavy.

  For a moment, our gazes meet again, and I pull her face to mine. This kiss is frenzied, hot, and we hold nothing back. A groan escapes my mouth as she pulls me close, our naked chests making their first contact.

  I move both hands to the waistband of her sweatpants to make absolutely clear where I want this to go. How much I want her. How I’ve waited. I start to slide them down.

  Then comes the knock on the door. “Room service.”

  Shit.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  I hold her another second. “I guess we have to get that.”

  She nods. “We ordered it.”

  “We can’t be assholes and ignore them?”

  She slides off the table and reaches for her sweatshirt. “We’re not asshole types.”

  I step away and button my shirt while she pulls on her top.

  As the busboy rolls in the linen-covered table with its silver dishes, I watch her. She retreats to the leather chair to fix her ponytail, not making eye contact with me or the delivery boy.

  When he’s gone, she scurries to the silver domes and lifts them until she finds all of hers. She takes them to the table like nothing crazy just happened between us. “I’m starved.”

  I’m not sure what to say, so I chime in with, “Me too.”

  But I’m pretty sure we’re not talking about the same thing.

  Dinner goes on like it might have before the frenzied kissing.

  When we’re done, she slips back to her room with a quiet, “Goodnight, Anthony.”

  And just like that, the moment is gone.

  22

  Magnolia

  Readers, that was close. So, so, so close.

  I almost lost my head there.

  I need to focus, right? We need good publicity. We need me to get us out of this mess.

  Not get into a bigger mess!

  But the next morning, as the makeup artist prepares me for the demonstration at the gourmet food store, I can’t stop thinking about last night.

  Was I going to have an affair with Anthony Pickle after all?

  I definitely feel like I might.

  You already know this, don’t you?

  Anthony has always struck me as a cinnamon roll kind of guy, tender from the early loss of his mother.

  But last night, he was all heat.

  I’ve never felt like this before.

  I’ve done the deed a few times. But I thought the reason I never had a long-standing relationship was because I was unwilling to have sex right away.

  So I did.

  Even doing the whole number was nothing like that encounter I had with Anthony.

  That was fire.

  But I can’t afford fire. We need a business relationship. We need to be able to travel. Something like what happened last night could blow up in our faces. Or burn too hot and extinguish, leaving us in an awkward place if we still have to pretend to be lovers in public.

  I can’t do it.

  I turn in the mirror to double check the gold A-line dress and cranberry apron that Charity provided me for this kitchen demonstration.

  I run the recipe over in my mind. It’s simple. Roasted acorn squash covered in spices.

  Today I have to prove I am a chef. I have no training, so I’ll stick with stories about how I grew up next to the stove while my parents planned recipes. Deflect on questions about culinary school or my qualifications.

  I can do this.

  I hear Anthony’s door open and close in the room between us. I check my hair and lipstick one more time. This event won’t be televised, so there probably won’t be any need to kiss. I’m relieved. I have this terrible feeling that our next kiss will lead to much, much more. I’m glad there will be a little distance between them.

  I grab my cell phone and my purse and head into the meeting room.

  Anthony waits in his leather chair. His navy pants and cream shirt set off the cranberry apron folded in his lap. “All set?” he asks.

  I have to set a professional tone. “Yes. It will be fun. Cooking. Smiling. Selling food.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  When we drive up to the two-story smoked glass store, I’m in awe. Even from the street, you can see that the bottom floor is filled with beautifully presented displays of gleaming pans, bakeware, and well-appointed linens.

  “This is something,” Anthony says.

  We head inside. The owner Joe Franken greets us. “Anthony, Magnolia. I’m so glad you could make it today. Our test kitchen is upstairs.”

  We follow him up the glass staircase. Everything gleams.

  The top floor houses their collection of cookbooks, plus a test kitchen that rivals Milton Creed’s. A significant chunk of the space is taken up by rows of chairs for audience members.

  “We’re expecting a full house,” Joe says. “Mostly press. But we have also invited some VIP customers.”

  Anthony seems to remember that we’re supposed to be a couple and puts his arm around my waist.

  Joe and his crew beam at us. “Young love,” he says. “I will let you get acquainted with the set.”

  The demonstration starts smoothly with a staff member explaining we will be giving fresh takes on Thanksgiving dinner sides. Anthony announces he will make a potato-leek au gratin with crumbly blue cheese.

  I watch while Anthony describes how to prepare the leeks to avoid the grit between the fine layers. I had no idea they had that.

  He chops the potatoes swiftly and with great skill, tossing the knives like he did on Milton’s show. No one ever got to see that amazing footage, and I’m glad he gets to do it here.

  Beyond that, his ingredients are already prepared, and he quickly layers his dish and slides it into the oven.

  Then it’s my turn.

  I face the audience. “My great-grandmother made roasted acorn squash at Thanksgiving when my mother was a girl.” I lift two expertly cut sections of squash, done by the crew before we arrived. “You want to leave them in big chunks, like this.”

  The next part will be easy, tossing on the spices from the pre-measured cups.

  But a voice comes from the crowd. “I understand that cutting acorn squash is quite difficult.”

  My heart beats faster. “You must have confidence and a good sharp knife.” I lift the small bowl of ground pepper.


  Another voice, “I’ve tried cutting big squash, too. We would love to see your technique.”

  Panic starts to set in. “Do we have time for that?” I turn to Joe, who stands off to one side.

  He grins. “You guys do whatever you need to do.”

  I force a smile. “Of course.”

  I lift an uncut acorn squash from the bowl. It’s green with patches of orange and gold.

  “We’re lucky acorn squash is in season this time of year,” I say, wincing at the shake in my voice. I reach over to the knife block and select the largest handle. I’m fairly sure that’s the one Dad used when he taught me the steps. He warned me not to even try to cut it, but let the prep crew do it.

  But here I am.

  “We’ll be cutting it into four pieces.” I step sideways to the cutting board. Anthony watches from the end of the counter. Sweat trickles down my neck.

  Please don’t be tough, I pray as I set the squash on the board. Please don’t be super hard to cut.

  I hold the acorn squash carefully. It’s round and difficult to keep in place. I press the knife down.

  It digs in about a quarter of an inch, then stalls completely.

  I push down harder. It sinks a little farther, but now the knife won’t go any direction, not down, not up.

  My face flames. I wiggle it, shifting my hand. I feel a prick on my finger and panic flares. I can’t bleed on the dish!

  The room has gone silent. I smile unconvincingly. A few cell phones are raised, recording me. Cameras snap.

  “I wanted to show how tricky this is,” I say, but I can hear the fear in my voice. This is bad. So bad. My finger feels wet. Am I bleeding? I quickly swipe it on my apron, so glad it is cranberry and will hide the stain.

  Anthony swoops in. “That is a brilliant tactic, Magnolia,” he says. He takes the knife from me and lifts the acorn. “Now we have a hammer.”

  He moves the knife up and down, demonstrating that the acorn squash is well attached. “This is no way to start a Thanksgiving tradition unless you have a beef with your uncle.” The room erupts in laughter.

  He taps the acorn squash on the cutting board and wiggles the knife in some subtle way I can’t fathom until it comes free.

  “I’d love to show my favorite technique, with Magnolia’s permission.”