Spicy Pickle (Fake Engagement)

by J J Knight

  I want to kiss him for real. “Be my guest.”

  “When Magnolia said you have to cut with confidence, she meant it. Notice that when she hesitated, the knife got caught in the squash.”

  He turns the acorn squash in his hand and places the tip of his knife on the cutting board. “You have to imagine that you’re murdering someone.” He grins. “I’ll take nominations.” This gets a renewed roar of laughter from the crowd.

  He brings the knife blade down hard and fast. The acorn squash falls into two perfect halves.

  “So it’s not so much about the technique, as the speed. Just be sure no fingers get in the way.”

  His smile is charming as he holds up the two pieces of squash, and the audience claps.

  He fixed my problem. Again.

  Despite Anthony’s prowess in turning my embarrassment into a lesson, I’m a wreck by the time we get back to the hotel. My thoughts are spiraling.

  I should’ve known they would ask me to perform a task I couldn’t do. And I still have all these cooking shows to go. If anyone figures out the fraud, they’ll ask me to do all sorts of culinary feats I’m not trained for. I’ll get roasted more than a Thanksgiving turkey.

  I fling myself onto the bed. I barely spoke to Anthony in the car on the ride back. I didn’t know what to say. What person who claims to be a chef doesn’t know how to slice a freaking squash?

  I lie there, wondering if I can die of embarrassment, when I hear a gentle knock on the interior door, the one that faces the meeting room between our suites.

  It has to be Anthony.

  I lift my head. “What?”

  “I ordered hot tea and chocolate cake. Thought it might help.”

  Why does he have to be so sweet?

  “I think I need something stronger,” I say.

  “Will tequila do it?”

  I sit up. “That might be too far.”

  “How about a nice bottle of red wine? An Australian cabernet will go well with chocolate cake.”

  Anthony always knows the perfect pairings for everything. I drink whatever’s on sale at the supermarket.

  But he’s trying to make me feel better, not worse. “Okay.”

  After about twenty minutes, he knocks again.

  “The food’s here. Should I bring it in?”

  “It’s open.”

  A shaft of light falls over the bed as Anthony cautiously opens the door.

  “It’s dark in here.”

  “I didn’t bother to turn on the lights.”

  He rolls in the cart. “I went a little crazy. There’s cake as promised. And pie. Tater tots, in case you needed real sustenance.”

  I sit up. “You’re too much, Anthony Pickle.”

  He sets the cart close enough to the bed that I can use it as a dining table. “I’ve been told that.” He lifts the smallest silver lid. “Tater tots first?”

  “Wine first.”

  He nods. “I’ll pour your glass.”

  I sit on the edge of the bed, tucking my bare feet beneath the hem of my dress.

  Anthony opens the bottle and pours a glass through an aerator. “Glad I brought my own,” he said. “It wouldn’t do to drink it straight from the bottle without letting it breathe.”

  He’s rambling. He’s nervous. Because of me? Or what happened at the food store?

  I take the glass. “All right. How bad was it?”

  “How bad was what?” He pours a second glass for himself.

  “You know what.”

  “You mean catching a knife in the heart of a squash?”

  “Yes, that.”

  He leans against the wall, swirling the red wine glass. Like me, he’s in his fancy outfit, minus the apron, but he’s rolled up his sleeves. My gaze is drawn to his strong, bare forearms, but I force it away.

  “I should probably do most of the cutting should it come up,” he says carefully. “Not everyone is good with knives.”

  Time to confess. “I never went to culinary school.”

  “But you did go to school. You mentioned that in an interview.”

  I nod.

  “I guess you wanted to study the business part?”

  I nod again and take a sip. The wine is heaven.

  “That’s important. Since Jason got some liberal arts degree, and God only knows what Max studied, it turns out we have to hire out help on financial planning. Nova’s getting her MBA. That will help as we keep expanding.”

  “You seem to know everything.”

  “I ask a lot of questions.”

  I chug another gulp of wine.

  “Time for tater tots?” he asks.

  I nod. He passes me the plate.

  I set down the wine and start inhaling tater tots like they are the last marshmallows at the campfire.

  “So what would you consider your strengths in the kitchen?” he asks. “That way as we go into these cooking segments, I know where I might need to shore up the presentation.”

  I have trouble swallowing my bite. I don’t know how to tell him that I have no strengths. That pouring cereal without spilling it might be the shining star of my culinary skill set.

  I switch out my tater tots for the wine again. I should get it over with. “I can’t cook.”

  His head tilts. “Like, not at all?”

  I hold the wine glass to my forehead and nod.

  “Okay. That might explain a thing or two.”

  “Sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t want to be the one to do Milton’s show. We had to draw straws because my sister didn’t want to do it and I got picked.” My words are a rush. “I practice dishes ahead, but I can’t always predict what I might be asked to do. Like cutting acorn squash.”

  “In hindsight, we should have picked something simpler.”

  “They wanted something fancy. My family isn’t fancy. They are deli owners. We make sandwiches.”

  “I get it. I think we salvaged it. I really think we did.”

  I set down my wine. “Really?”

  “We were Abbott and Costello, riffing off each other.”

  He circles the food trolley to sit beside me on the bed. “Besides, it was just a food demonstration. There was no big press junket. Nobody’s going to think anything of it.”

  “But I have to cook again tomorrow,” I say. “And this one’s on live television.”

  He brushes my hair behind my shoulder. “I’m glad you told me, Magnolia. We’re in this together. Now that I know, I can predict what you might struggle with and make sure I handle it. I’ll make it look like I’m being a good boyfriend.”

  “You are a good boyfriend.”

  Something flickers behind his gaze, and I know he’s thinking of last night.

  “Should we talk about it?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.” He lets go of my hair. “I’m not sure what’s happening here.”

  “I didn’t either for a long time,” I say. “I thought you were doing this out of a sense of obligation. To fix the problem.”

  His smoky eyes fix on me. “I was and I am. But last night, it felt like more than that.”

  “It is.” I squeeze my fists. This is hard. “I don’t have a ton of experience with men. I mean, I have some. But not a lot. It’s scary. And this tour is so important. I’m afraid.”

  “I am too,” he says, astonishing me. “Because I have been falling for you ever since New York, and it’s been killing me to think that this was all an act for you. You clearly did not like me one bit before New York.”

  Butterflies flitter through my belly. “You were the enemy.”

  “I know. And I wanted to fix it. Then you were about to confess on that show, and I couldn’t stand it. So I kissed you, and suddenly I realized it was just an excuse to do what I’d wanted to do all along.”

  I can’t stop looking at his face. Anthony wouldn’t lie. He’s not that kind of guy. He’s the sweet kind. The sort of guy you look for and think you’ll never find.

  He lifts my hand. “You cut y
ourself on the squash, didn’t you?”

  I feel drunk even though I’ve only had a few drinks of wine. “I did. I’m a mess.”

  “This one?” He lifts a finger to his mouth and kisses the tip.

  “It’s fine.”

  “Is it?” His attention moves to the finger. “Yes, you’ll live.”

  My belly flutters. We’ve come so far. “It was a tiny nick.”

  Our eyes meet. “Should I leave?” he asks.

  I shake my head no.

  He holds onto my hand, letting my fingertips trace down his chin until it rests on the rapid thump of his heart.

  He was so ardent last night. I know he wants me.

  I’m ready to explore. I lift my hand to run through his light brown hair. His eyes close, reveling in my touch.

  I move down to his shirt. “Is it okay if I unbutton these?”

  He nods, not opening his eyes.

  It’s been quite a while since I last dated someone, and even longer since I slept with anyone. The memories are distant and forgettable.

  I reach the bottom button and push his shirt open. His chest is smooth and warm. I remind myself of all muscles, hills, and clefts I felt last night. His abs are subtly defined.

  I push the shirt off his shoulders. My hands glide along his arms, then back into his hair. I want to memorize him.

  He reaches behind me for the zipper of my dress. It slides down my back, cool air hitting my skin. His mouth finds my neck, then moves along my body as the dress falls to my waist.

  The cream-colored bra is trimmed in lace, and his warm breath flutters along the edges as he kisses his way into the cleft between my breasts.

  He reaches for the back of the bra, and some of my tension dissolves with the release of the band. He drags it away and tosses it to the floor.

  “So beautiful,” he murmurs as his mouth feasts greedily, taking a nipple into his mouth.

  My hands run along his back. I let him play, drowning in his perfect attention after the stress of the day.

  He slides me onto my back. “Can I look at all of you now?”

  I nod as he presses me down on the pillows, my hair spilling everywhere.

  He eases the dress over my hips, and I’m left only with a pair of cream lace panties.

  “I’m going to kiss every inch.” He starts with my mouth, delving deeply. He tastes of wine, his tongue sliding along mine. I shiver, already feeling lost. Every worry, every thought, every care falls away except for him.

  He moves down my neck, between my breasts. Then his breath tickles my ribs and belly. He nibbles along the lace of my panties, then his fingers slide inside the edge and ease them down.

  My body hums with anticipation, one arm thrown over my forehead.

  When the panties have gone, he murmurs, “So lovely.”

  He kisses the inside of my knee and begins moving up my thigh.

  “I could never have pictured how beautiful you are in all the times I’ve thought of it.”

  So he has been thinking about this.

  His stubble brushes my inner thigh, and I suck in a breath.

  “I can’t wait to taste you,” he whispers. “Is that all right?”

  I grip the pillow with both hands, the fire licking through my body like nothing before. “Yes.”

  He places a kiss at the apex of my thighs and slides his tongue lower.

  He makes his way slowly, and a moan escapes my lips.

  Anthony is a man who takes his time. I begin to throb, aching for more.

  He pauses to say, “You’re delicious. This is what we need to bottle.”

  I choke out a laugh. “Whatever would we call it?”

  “Magnolia’s petal…” He hesitates.

  “Sauce?” I suggest.

  He laughs, pressing his face into my belly. “Now that’s a title. What have I done without you?”

  I tangle my fingers in his hair. “I think the question is what are you going to do next?”

  As if I’ve given him a dare, he drops his face and sucks lightly on my clit.

  My hips lurch forward with the sudden explosion of pleasure. “Oh!”

  Heat spreads through my center as he licks, his tongue warm and wet, then he does it again, with more suction.

  “Oh my God!”

  “You like that?” His voice is husky.

  “Yesss.”

  He licks again, and this time when his lips fasten on my clit, I slide over the edge, my body shuddering with orgasm. I’m released, pleasure spiraling through me, my breathing labored. “Oh my God, God, God.” My arms fall to the bed.

  “Not a bad start,” he says. He kisses his way back up to my breasts, his mouth closing over a nipple to mimic the sucking he did below. “Mmm. Who needs food when I have Magnolia Boudreaux?”

  I reach between our bodies to unfasten his belt. The leather slides from the belt loops with a sensuous hiss. I pluck open the button and zipper and push the designer pants down.

  He kicks off his shoes. In seconds, the pants, and the boxers beneath them, are crumpled at the end of the bed.

  I drop my gaze. He’s long and hard. A thrill zips through me.

  I slide my hand down. Everything is smooth. Did he shave his balls?

  My eyes meet his. “Manscaping?”

  He grins. “Maybe I planned ahead.”

  A giggle escapes. “Anthony Pickle, you’re terrible.”

  He touches my chin. “Before we do this, you should know my last name is actually Packwood.”

  I sit up. “What?”

  “Dad wanted us all to use Pickle as a last name to support the franchise.”

  “But Packwood, it’s—” I can’t even say it.

  “I know. It’s basically the same thing.”

  I glance down at him. “Well, you’re definitely packing wood.”

  He rolls over on top of me. “Magnolia, you have one filthy mouth.”

  I can’t stop laughing. “Only when I say your name.”

  His breath is warm on my ear. “I’m hoping you’re about to say it a whole hell of a lot.”

  He reaches down and slides his fingers inside me. His thumb circles my clit.

  The same ache I felt when he first began floods me a second time. I clutch his shoulders.

  “I want inside you,” he says. “What do we need to do to make that happen?”

  Unlike my sister, I’m on the pill. But I flash to her situation and wonder if we Boudreaux are somehow super fertile. “Do you have condoms?”

  “I do.”

  He rustles around in his pants pockets, then returns.

  I relax again. I’m protected. Twice over.

  He leans over me and parts my thighs with his knee.

  For a moment, our eyes lock again. “I knew I was meant to be with you,” he says.

  He slides inside. I am so wet and ready that he glides in as if he was made for me.

  Maybe he is.

  He moves carefully, propping himself up on his arms to watch my face. He’s attentive, and at the same time intense. I can feel the pleasure ripple through him as I spread my hands across the muscles of his back.

  I don’t want to close my eyes. I love seeing him. But he reaches between us, circling my clit again, and need of him overtakes me.

  “Anthony, yes.”

  “Yes,” he breathes in return. I realize I’ve said his name, just as he asked.

  His strokes increase in speed and intensity. He lowers his head to capture my nipple with his mouth.

  His thumb on my clit works in quick circles while he slides in and out of my body.

  The tension I felt earlier when he licked me is nothing compared to the burgeoning need in my body now. Bright flashes of pleasure start to spark from where we are joined.

  His mouth moves from one breast to the other, and my back arches up to meet him.

  I clutch his shoulders, moving with him, finding our rhythm.

  “Anthony, Anthony, Anthony.” It’s happening again. “Faster. Har
der.”

  Anthony is more than happy to oblige.

  We rock together, the bed shifting quietly beneath us. I feel hot and swollen around him as he moves over me again and again.

  “Magnolia,” he says, and that first beautiful expression of my name sends me up the spiral even farther.

  There’s a distinct sensation that we’re floating, that we’re no longer even on the bed. We clasp each other.

  I kiss his cheek. “Make me come again,” I whisper.

  His motions slow down, become more deliberate. His hand moves in tandem with his strokes. Our bodies sync, blending together like the perfect ingredients of a favorite dish.

  The tension gathers, clenching where he works my body.

  But suddenly, it flashes like a hand grenade. I cry out, shocked at the intensity, and say his name, God’s name, every word I know.

  “Magnolia, Magnolia.” His thrusts become fierce. I’m already coming, my body pulsing when I feel him begin to shudder as well.

  We hold onto each other, waiting out the storm. The beauty of it settles around us, and we rest, clinging to each other on the bed.

  His hand twists into my hair. “Magnolia,” is all he can say.

  I nod against his neck. “I know.”

  “I never will leave here,” he says.

  “Me neither.”

  So we don’t, curling tightly together. We sleep until the buzzer reminds us that it is a new day, and we have a cooking show to do.

  And our fake relationship might not be nearly so false.

  Readers, you were right.

  23

  Anthony

  Mama Nita’s cooking show the next day goes perfectly.

  During rehearsal, Magnolia and I go over every step to ensure she knows how to handle the ingredients.

  But it wouldn’t have mattered. Mama Nita is a warm grandmotherly chef specializing in interior Mexican cuisine. She treats everyone on her set like family.

  It’s a long show, though, and the recording takes most of the day.

  We have our driver grab a deep-dish pizza as we sit close in the backseat to head back to the hotel.

  “Three down, two to go,” Magnolia says.

  “That means we’re over halfway.”

  I rub my thumb up and down her arm. Today was good. I woke up with Magnolia in my arms, and I look forward to ending the day the same way.