“Not to me.” With flourish, August piles the grated carrotonto the sandwich and adds a dab of chili crisp oil. He grabs another jar but stops. “Pickles?”
“No thank you.” My nose wrinkles. “I’ve tried multiple times to like pickles because they look delicious, you know with that snap crunch sound they make when you eat them? But they’ve never grown on me. They’re too overpoweringly sour.”
“Maybe you haven’t found the right one.”
“At this point, I don’t think I ever will.”
“I get it.” He adds a couple of slices of pickle on his, and then puts the tops on the sandwiches before deftly cutting each one in half. “I’m the same with olives. People pop them in their mouths like candy but, blech. No. Horrible.” He shudders.
Laughing, I hop off the stool and head for the fridge. “What do you want to drink?”
“I think there’s some lemonade.”
I pour us each a glass, and we meet in the middle, setting our late-night meal on the counter. Sitting side by side, we’re silent as we take our first bites. I close my eyes and enjoy before looking over at him. He’s turned my way, clearly waiting on a verdict.
“You make a mean sandwich, Pickle.”
He huffs a breath. “Pickle? Harsh, Sweets. Harsh.”
“Why’s that?”
“You just told me you didn’t like pickles.” He takes a huge bite and chews while giving me the stink eye.
“But it sounds cute, doesn’t it? And it’s not as though I’m going to be eating you—” I cringe, blushing hot. “Oh, stop. No, that was too easy.”
August’s chuckle is warm and smooth. “Amateur hour. Don’t worry, Sweets, I’m not gonna tease you for being easy.”
I pick up my sandwich half again. “I see what you did there.”
“I always knew you were a quick learner.”
“Did you?”
He pauses midway from taking another bite. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
I dab at a little crumb that’s fallen on the counter. “Like what?”
“Like I have two heads.”
“Well . . .”
August chokes on his bite, then thumps his chest as he laughs. Cheeks ruddy, he looks over at me in shock. “They have no idea what a little devil you are, do they?”
I’m not sure who “they” are but it doesn’t matter. Few people see that side of me. I suspect that’s my fault; I hide away as much as I can. It’s a reflex now, something I mentally have to fight against. But the fact that August knows it is unsettling.
I take a sip of lemonade. “You’re different tonight. That’s why I was looking at you.”
“How?”
“I don’t know... teasing, funny. More like March—” As soon as the words leave me, I know they’re a mistake. The problem with words spoken is that they can’t be taken back.
“Like March.” August studies his sandwich. “I guess that’s true.”
“I only meant that you’re usually stiff and reserved with me.”
“And March isn’t,” he adds with an absent nod.
I feel terrible. Because it clearly insulted him to be compared to his brother this way. I don’t know how to fix my flub.
