Hot Pickle: A Best Friend's Sister Romantic Comedy Page 10

  When my hair is tamed and smoothed into a ponytail, I apply a light smudge of eyeliner and my magical mascara.

  While I brush my teeth, I berate myself for holding Max at arm’s length. Dating someone should be simple, right?

  But it can’t be when your brother tries to murder him with a bench press, and all your interactions involve him being naked.

  No, this is no ordinary relationship whatsoever.

  I start some coffee, adding extra cups in case Max and Lora want some. They’ll both have to hold back on liquids today, so probably not, but I want to offer.

  It’s only five minutes until his appointment, so I swiftly pull out the canister with his color and set out the tarp and stool. I arrange my creams plus all the base makeup for Lora.

  It’s going to start crazy and go long.

  I’m not sure what Max’s chances are at the invitational. I’m not caught up on the competitive level of the heavyweights. But if he shows the same charisma he did two weeks ago he has a shot at placing no matter how developed everyone is. Stage presence matters.

  A light rap on the door startles me to the next level of awake. Come on, Camryn. Time to get moving.

  It’s dark outside, so Max is lit only by the tiny yellow lamp over the door.

  “Good morning,” he mumbles.

  “You’re not a morning person either?”

  “Not even close.” He rubs his chin. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m better off staying up all night.”

  “I made some coffee if you’d like a few sips. I know you can’t have much.”

  “That would be awesome. Maybe a quarter cup?”

  I hurry to the kitchen to fetch it. It feels nice doing something small for him, something normal between a couple, even if I probably killed that idea two days ago.

  I pour his in a mug and fill a travel container for myself. I’m going to need plenty of caffeine until I hit my stride around nine.

  When I come out, he’s already down to his posing trunks and sitting on the stool.

  “You know the drill,” I say.

  He accepts the mug and brings it to his lips. “Ahhh. Smells so good.” He takes a small sip. “You can make coffee for me any morning.”

  Then he seems to catch himself. “If I have an appointment, of course.”

  I’ve put him off. I need to land somewhere in between the outrageous flirting we were doing in the early sessions, and the extreme version where I try to play it safe.

  “What’s on your schedule this morning?” I ask.

  “After this, I meet Franklin for a mega breakfast. Then we will part ways, and I’ll go back home and pack everything I need for the day. My prejudging’s two hours later than his.”

  “I’m doing a tan on Franklin during that gap.”

  Max grimaces. “You going to say anything about me?”

  “No way. But I look forward to seeing you at lunch.”

  He takes another sip of coffee and lifts his gaze to meet mine. “That’s going to be the highlight of my day.”

  Okay, I haven’t totally blown it. I punch his shoulder. “You might win the whole thing. The next level gets you in range for a pro card.”

  He shakes his head. “I can’t imagine in a million years that will happen. I don’t even know what I would do with the pro card. That’s a big traveling circuit, isn’t it?”

  I set my coffee mug on the counter and pick up a tube of moisturizer. Time to get started. “It can be. At that point, you choose which competitions you want to apply for, and they accept you or not. Sometimes they reach out to you with an invitation. But you can always turn it down.”

  “I’ve got a lot to learn.”

  “Plenty of time to figure it out.”

  He tips the cup and downs the rest of his coffee. “That was delicious. It’ll get me through the next few hours.”

  “I’m sorry you have to dehydrate yourself. But you look good.” I press my finger along his muscles. His veins have already begun to visibly pop out, which is exactly what you want on competition day.

  “I’m a little flat. But I haven’t eaten or pumped. That will come.”

  “It’s good to be flat for the tan,” I say. “So when you stretch out, everything will be a nice even color.”

  I walk around him, moisturizing everything lightly and evenly. I find no rough patches. Our extra attention has paid off.

  “Let’s step in the tent. I’ll spray you, and then we’ll come over here and I’ll finish out your face.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I follow him over to the tent. The spray takes only a few minutes, and as he dries beneath the fan I arrange the creams.

  “I might touch you up when I see you for lunch, if that’s okay. On the house.”

  “I’d love that,” he says. “But I’m happy to pay.”

  “We’ll see.” I dab dots of color along his cheekbones and spread them with a sponge. It’s a high reach for me, and as soon as he’s dry, I drag the stool over to make it easier.

  “What all will you eat for breakfast?” I ask. The bodybuilders love to talk about the food they consume on competition day. It’s a feast after months of famine.

  “So much French toast. So many pancakes. All the hash browns. I might even pick up a cheeseburger on the way.” He closes his eyes and rubs his belly.

  I laugh. “You make it sound better than sex.”

  His eyes pop open. “No way.” His voice rumbles as he says it, and I can feel it all the way to my core.

  “I can’t wait to hear how you do.”

  I take a step back to see if I have gotten everything perfectly even, and he reaches out to grasp my wrist.

  “I know you want to be at the final show at the open, to see your clients. But if you can make it over to mine, it would mean a lot.”

  Wow. He’s really asking.

  “I don’t have to stay for the whole open. No one expects it. It’s a courtesy.”

  “So, you’ll come?” His face is so full of hope, I could never turn him down.

  “I’ll come.”

  He squeezes my hand. “Thank you. So how are we doing? Am I acceptable?”

  “Stand up and let’s take a final look.”

  I walk around him, checking out every inch. Ankles. Thighs. Back. Shoulders. Neck. Face. Tan. Dry. Perfect.

  “You’re stunning,” I say. “You’re going to bring this competition to its knees.”

  His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. I don’t know if it’s because he’s thirsty, or if it’s because of the way I’ve examined him.

  His voice is scratchy as he says, “Text me when you arrive and are finished with Dahlia. I’ll have lunch for us.”

  “I will.”

  We stand there another moment, emotion playing across his face. And I can’t bear it. He probably thinks I don’t care about him anymore after Thursday.

  I have to find a middle ground.

  What would you do?

  Let him go?

  Or make him stay?

  There’s a lot at stake.

  But the sparkle in those dark eyes of his makes the decision for me.

  “Can I kiss you for luck?” I ask.

  He doesn’t answer but draws me against him fiercely. When his lips meet mine, it’s no gentle peck. It’s a torrent of passion and need. I want to drown in it, lose myself, let the world fall away.

  His lips are insistent. His arms crush me against him, and I can feel every muscle hard against mine.

  I want to fall into the bliss of it, hold on forever. Taste him. Do all the things I’ve thought about.

  But there’s a knock at the door.

  “Another early client,” I whisper.

  He nods and reluctantly lets me go.

  “Lunch, then,” he says.

  “Lunch.”

  I touch my lips as he heads behind the screen to put on his clothes. By the time I open the door for Lora, I have composed myself.

  When Max comes out, he waves at both of us
and wishes Lora luck. Then he’s out into the dim light of sunrise.

  “Whoa, he’s something,” Lora says.

  I can only nod.

  Because he really is something.

  17

  Max

  The invitational is a completely different experience from the beginner contest. There are no tents in the parking lot, hawking their wares to the masses of competitors.

  The numbers are controlled, and none of the rooms are crowded.

  It’s strange being alone, and I start to wonder if I shouldn’t hire a trainer to be with me on these days. Everyone stands around in pairs, completing their weigh-in, chatting up the registration people.

  I sit against the wall in the massive room, idly pumping a small barbell with one hand while eating rice cakes.

  If I thought the last competition had fit, bulked-up bodies, it’s nothing compared to this.

  As competitors ditch their sweats for oil and pump, I’m blown away by how professional they all look. And big. Really big.

  I’m not alone for long. Amy arrives in a shiny red tracksuit, joking around with a karate chop to tell me to kill it on stage. We run through my routine, make a plan for a potential posedown, plus go over other optional comparison rounds the judges might request on stage.

  She sits with me a while, and we watch the lightweights and middleweights prep for the stage. “Life would be a lot easier if you’d drop ten pounds and go light heavyweight,” she says. “There are some real monsters when you move up.”

  “I’ve never been strategic. I am what I am.”

  She laughs. “Like Popeye. Fair enough. You never did strike me as a career pro.” She passes me a protein bar. “You’re going on soon. Eat one of these.”

  When she takes off to see one of her other clients, I think about what she said. Not a career pro. If she sees that, the judges probably will, too.

  The announcer shouts for the heavyweights to get on deck. I cram two more rice cakes down, take a single swig of water, and run through a set of push-ups.

  It’s go-time.

  When we line up, I count twelve of us, and to be honest, I’m nowhere near the top of the field.

  Not everyone is huge. Maybe half of us are roughly the same size.

  But at the top end of the spectrum, the men are unbelievable. Veins popping. Muscles on top of muscles. This is an entirely different level.

  I’m not disappointed that I’m going to lose today. Bodybuilding isn’t my bag, really. I like doing it. But I do have my deli and a whole life outside of it.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have asked Camryn to come to the evening show tonight. I’m going to get skunked.

  As the routines begin, there are no rookie mistakes like I saw two weeks ago. Everyone hits the poses and holds them well. Charming smiles.

  I spot some subtle nuances in the way they move, trying to set themselves apart. Amy has shown me ways to hide flaws. A waist that’s thicker than you’d like. Underdeveloped calves. She tells me I’m lucky to be so balanced. Some competitors get grossly overdeveloped in one area over another, and that costs them points.

  When it’s my turn to step out, I work fluidly through the routine. Even though this is technically a more prestigious competition, I sense there are fewer people in the audience. Maybe it’s the newbies starting out who have the most support from friends and family. At this point in many careers, maybe it’s gotten old.

  The dedication required makes it easy to lose friends who don’t understand this way of life. My brothers already tease the hell out of me about not drinking anymore. I didn’t even eat cake at my nephew’s first birthday. Sugar is a beast, and even one slip-up can send you spiraling into a carb crisis that’s impossible to resist.

  I finish up and take my spot in the back, near the far left of the stage. Probably the worst position I could be in.

  But I wait, staying semi-flexed as the other men do their routines.

  When we all move into a line for comparisons, I figure the callouts will tell me what I need to know about how I’m doing.

  But the judges don’t send people to the back. They keep rearranging us, asking for pose after pose. Side triceps. Side chest. Front lat spread.

  I’m never placed next to the monstrous men, so I figure I’m not in the running against them.

  When we leave the stage, I have the sense of, well, that was fun. There are competitions I can do, open contests where they allow former winners to compete with the ones starting out.

  But who knows? Maybe I’m done. I can support Franklin’s efforts without exerting my own.

  Been there, had a good time.

  I’m super glad I didn’t sign with any sponsors. They might have required me to do more competitions than I’d like.

  Dodged a bullet.

  When I get back to the hall where we all sit and wait, I spot Dahlia.

  She sees me at about the same time, and even though she’ll probably be flirtier than I want to deal with, she’s a friendly face.

  “It’s the man candy from two weeks ago,” she purrs. “Did you already go on, darling?”

  Man, this woman is tall. She meets me eye-to-eye in her heels. She’s switched out her shiny gold bikini for red satin.

  “Yeah, I think I probably maxed out my ability to impress the judges, but it was fun,” I say. “Have you already seen Camryn?”

  “Heading her way. Maybe I’ll talk to you later?”

  “Sure. Good luck.”

  She gives me a wink with spidery false eyelashes and heads down another hall. I’m tempted to follow at a distance, just to get a glimpse of Camryn.

  But I don’t. I can wait my turn. I head back to my space with my weights, my duffel bag, and my warm-ups stacked on top.

  I slide on my sweats and pick up a couple of rice cakes, then set them back down again, unwilling to eat them in my already dehydrated state. They’ll go down like sidewalk chalk.

  I’ll hold out for Camryn and chocolate.

  Time seems to stand still. The physique classes approach the registration desk to get their pins. I envy them in their long board shorts. That’s loose enough to hide a Camryn-level sin, unlike my tiny trunks.

  I check my phone. It’s been forty minutes since I ran into Dahlia. I feel jealous of the time, worried I won’t get to see her after all.

  But then Camryn enters the room, a tiny figure against the backdrop of the muscled crowd.

  I jump to my feet and wave as she hurries forward.

  “I’m sorry it took so long. Dahlia had a lot of issues for us to manage. Cleavage shadow doesn’t draw itself.”

  I’m not sure I should, but I lean forward and place a soft kiss on her lips. I haven’t forgotten our morning encounter and hope this can be our new normal.

  She responds lightly, squeezing my arm as she pulls away. “How did it go this morning?”

  “I’m outclassed. I have a feeling this is going to be the end of my rise to the top.”

  “You sure? Because I talked to some people who watched the heavyweights, and they said you had the best stage presence, even if a couple of them were more developed.”

  I shrug. “I think the muscles are going to matter a lot.”

  “I’ll be able to tell you more after watching the evening show. Remember big isn’t always better if there isn’t symmetry.”

  We sit back down in my spot. I feel completely different with Camryn kneeling next to me. On top of the world.

  I pull a small insulated cooler from inside my bag. “I packed the bread separate from the inside of your sandwich so it wouldn’t get soggy.”

  “Brilliant.” She accepts the cooler. “Did I get a hot pickle?”

  “Of course you did. I wouldn’t dare deprive you of that.”

  Her smile is like dawn breaking. My day is completely turned around. The inferiority I felt on the stage falls away. Bodybuilding brought me Camryn. It’s done more than I could have asked for.

  She opens the pouch and quickly assembles
her sandwich. “I’m starving,” she says before taking a healthy chomp.

  “I’ve already eaten more than I want to today, but I know I will have to cram more in.”

  “No lunch for you then?”

  “Maybe in a bit.”

  Her eyebrows lift. “Oh! I have chocolate for you.”

  She unzips a side pocket on the complicated belt that holds all her brushes and tools.

  After a bit of tugging, she extracts a slender bar and passes it to me. “Dark chocolate, almonds, cranberry, and bits of peach. Divine.”

  “Sounds like it.” I tear off the end and take a bite. The chocolate melts against my tongue like sin.

  “So good,” I say.

  She sits up taller. “I knew you’d love it.”

  We face each other, grinning foolishly. I feel completely and utterly happy.

  She swallows another bite and says, “Dahlia said you ran into her. That you would only talk about me.”

  “It’s true. I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”

  “This morning was something, wasn’t it?” Her eyes practically spark.

  “I most certainly look forward to the next opportunity to kiss you like I mean it.”

  She pokes the last bite of her sandwich in her mouth and chews slowly. When she swallows, she says, “I know a very quiet place here. I have another ten or fifteen minutes. You want to go?”

  “Hell, yes.”

  We exit into a long hall. We pass fewer and fewer competitors until it is almost quiet.

  “In here,” she says.

  We enter a large room filled wall-to-wall with stacked chairs. Camryn takes my hand and leads me to a far corner, well away from the door. “About as private as you can get in the middle of a competition.”

  “Ms. Schultz, should I question your intentions?”

  Her hand reaches behind my neck to pull me closer. Her kiss is soft, inquisitive, as if she’s asking me if it’s okay.

  I wrap my arms around her to draw her close. I return the kiss as lightly and gently as she gave it.

  Her arms encircle my neck. She tastes of pickles, deli meat, and mustard. It’s like home to me, growing up sitting on a stool in Grammy Alma’s deli, then my father’s, and now my own.