Hot Pickle: A Best Friend's Sister Romantic Comedy Read online

  Dahlia shifts and turns, rolling fluidly through the poses I’m familiar with, minus the two women aren’t required to perform.

  Camryn flutters her brush across the indentions in Dahlia’s skin as she moves.

  When Dahlia sweeps into her final side bicep pose, Camryn stands back, tapping the blunt end of her brush on her cheek.

  “One more thing.” She leans forward to add one more stroke along the woman’s abs.

  Dahlia catches me looking and gives me a big wink. “Is this your man candy or can anybody take a lick?”

  Camryn tucks her brush away. “He’s my brother’s training partner.”

  Apparently, I don’t even warrant a name.

  “He looks nervous.” Dahlia’s voice drops into a low purr.

  Camryn steps away, looking between the two of us. “I’d introduce you, but Dahlia, you’ve only got ten minutes to get to pre-stage.”

  They air kiss again. The whole thing has been incredible to watch. I wonder if Camryn’s at all perturbed that Dahlia came on to me. If she is, I can’t tell.

  Dahlia passes so close to me the gold fabric of her bikini top brushes my arm. “I could eat you for lunch.”

  I flash a wry grin. “Probably not enough carbs for a good pump.”

  Dahlia’s perfectly arched eyebrows lift in surprise. “A sense of humor. Do find me later.” Then she’s out the door.

  In any other circumstance, I might have given that woman my name, number, and the combination to my safety deposit box.

  But now I’ve met Camryn. Nobody can hold a candle to her.

  Plus, the way she watched our exchange makes it clear she expects me to try to hook up with Dahlia.

  And I don’t like being predictable.

  “All right, Romeo,” Camryn says. “Get out of those pants and let me see what other disaster awaits. I hope you’ve learned your lesson. Stay away from any company with a last-minute slot on competition day. Every reputable tanner is booked at least two weeks out.”

  “Understood.”

  A man enters and announces the stage check for the women competitors. The room quickly empties.

  Camryn waits for me to shed my pants. I almost trip over them, anxious and unsure. Damn, but she’s getting to me. I toss them on the floor with my bag and hold out my arms.

  “Tell me the damage.”

  Camryn makes a slow walk around me, tapping the end of a brush against her cheek.

  “You smeared it here when you put on your trunks. You should always wear them for your final-day tan to avoid this.” Her hand smooths something low on my ass, and everything in my body goes warm.

  My eyes blink shut, and I try to concentrate on something other than her touch. I run through my poses, picturing myself on the stage.

  Something bonks my nose, and I open my eyes to see Camryn standing there again. “I have your back acceptable. You shouldn’t lose any points.”

  Before I can even get in a thank you, the end of her brush pokes my chest. “But we have to do something about these abs. You have a light patch below your navel in the critical area from belly button to…” She hesitates. “Below.”

  I don’t know what she was going to call it, but apparently, it’s a word she doesn’t want to use around me.

  I can’t stifle my grin. “You saying my happy trail is too bright?”

  She rolls her eyes. “I’m saying the lack of consistent color won’t do you any favors with the judges.”

  “Do with me what you must.”

  Okay, now hold up.

  I have to pause the story here.

  Because this, my friend, is where things get awkward.

  As I look down, my best friend’s little sister gets on her knees in front of my junk. Her eyes flit up to my gaze, and those lashes about kill me.

  She starts moving her hands along my belly, her fingers spreading something creamy on my skin.

  My brain is no longer on this competition. It is not on my poses, or carbing up, or doing my pump, or where I need to be in half an hour.

  I’m high, like I’ve taken a shot of heroin straight to my veins. Every bit of energy in my being is focused on the motion of her hands.

  I look down at her duotone hair, the hint of cleavage in that yoga top, and her perfect lips, mere centimeters from my competition trunks.

  My swelling trunks.

  Oh, shit.

  She’s right there.

  And these trunks are small.

  Like, my-toddler-nephew-could-wear-them small.

  I have to be tucked a very precise way to fit.

  And things are moving.

  Growing.

  Shit.

  I try to divert my thoughts. Corpses. Zombies. Rotting limbs. The entire cast of Walking Dead stomps through my inner vision.

  It’s working, but not enough. I’m closing in on half-mast, and the elastic band of this these tiny trunks is about to pull away from the very belly she’s working on.

  “How’s it coming?” I ask, then wince at the word I’ve used. Coming. Really? Another rush of blood shifts from my brain to the parts of me I don’t need to be using right now.

  “Almost there.” Camryn’s gaze lifts, and she’s so damn beautiful, and she’s in such a compromising position, that this is it. Full mast. I can feel the cool air hit the tip.

  Oh, fuck.

  I whip around to face away from her.

  What do I say? Do?

  My mind locks up.

  “Max? You okay?”

  Great. I have a name now. Now that my cock has come out to play. Did she see?

  I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “I think I sweated. Can you check my back and see if I messed up your work?”

  Hell, yes, I’m sweating. My hairline is drenched.

  “Seems okay,” Camryn says. “And I need to finish that patch in front.”

  She hasn’t seen. She doesn’t know.

  My only goal, the only thing in the whole damn world I care about, is getting this dick in place before I turn around. I have to stall.

  “Uh, what about the back of my neck?”

  I frantically try to shove my dick back in the shorts. Stop this, I warn it, and feel lightheaded when it springs right back out. Oh my God. How do I make it stop?

  “It seems fine. Max, are you sure you’re okay?” Camryn tries to move around front, but I turn with her, keeping myself carefully out of view. Except now, of course, I’m facing the door.

  “I’m fine. Just nervous. I’m sure my abs are fine.” Sweat pours from my hairline. A trickle runs down my back.

  A man enters the room, making Camryn’s head turn. I take the moment to snatch my jacket from the floor to cover my stupid turgid junk. Why now? Damn it! Fuck!

  “Male heavyweights on deck,” he says. “Head to the staging area.”

  “That’s me,” I say. “Can you send me a bill?”

  Camryn grabs my arm and forces me to turn. I pin the jacket to my belly with my arm. I’m not going to let her take a single peek.

  “What the hell is going on, Max?” She glares at me, and entire constellations shoot out of her eyes like an angry ambush of stars.

  “Just nerves. You’ll bill me?” I try to sidestep away from her, but she easily moves in my way.

  “That’s it? Bill me? When I saved your damn bacon?” She snatches at the jacket. “What are you doing touching this to your skin? That oil is too fresh to—”

  She stops talking abruptly. “Oh!”

  I glance down.

  And yeah. That’s it.

  All the goods.

  Standing straight at attention.

  And my best friend’s sister saw every damn inch.

  4

  Camryn

  Well, that’s impressive.

  I can’t drag my eyes away from Max’s rather exuberant body part.

  I’ve seen my fair share of male junk, both in my business, and outside of it.

  But this one has my attention.

&
nbsp; Long. Thick. A beautiful blue vein pulses along one side.

  It’s like it’s happy to see me.

  But, it’s not for me.

  He’s a client.

  And a friend of my brother’s.

  And a total stranger.

  I take a few steps back. This boy needs some space.

  He smacks the jacket in front of his crotch again, and I wince at what the pressure of the fabric is surely doing to his newly oiled belly.

  The runner has left and the room is empty, so I close the door and twist the lock.

  Max turns to the back wall, staring up and out the high windows, possibly wishing he could fly out of one right now.

  I find some words. “So, Dahlia got to you after all. You wouldn’t be the first.”

  Max grunts. “Hardly.”

  “Not Dahlia?”

  No answer.

  Wait.

  Is he saying I caused this?

  It’s not like a man has never had a reaction before. You get all up close and personal with people’s skin, and things can happen.

  But nobody’s ever flown out of their trunks.

  I’m not sure how to help, but I say, “You’ll be fine before you go on stage. The nerves will draw the —”

  “I know.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  His body is held so stiffly he could be made of granite.

  Stiffly.

  I swallow my giggle.

  To be honest, I’d take a Max statue in my living room. Especially in his current...er...state. My mind quickly drifts to an image of that, and then I have to push the thought away. The man is in distress.

  I need to focus.

  “I could talk about fire ants. Spoiled eggs. Bathtub mildew.”

  He groans.

  “I’ve got plenty more. Sour milk. Roaches in a cereal box.”

  He holds up a hand. “Okay, okay. I’ve got it. I’m nearly there.”

  Nearly. But not all the way.

  “You might have time to take it to its conclusion if you want me to step out. There is a lock.”

  His head turns slightly, his jaw set. “This is one hell of a conversation to be having with my training partner’s sister.”

  I have to bite my lip to avoid laughing. “Would it be better with someone else?”

  He shakes his head. His back looks good. Max may not realize it, but he’s already above two-thirds of the competition. If he can hold it together on stage, he has a shot at placing. I’ve never seen someone arrive at their first competition in such perfect shape.

  And I would be lying if I didn’t say a few sparks weren’t flying in my girl parts.

  Thankfully, it’s not so obvious as his.

  “Should I go?” I ask.

  “That might be helpful,” he said. “Apparently there’s something about you I can’t resist.”

  “Oh.” Now that’s something. The newbie god has a weakness.

  Me.

  I feel like Meg in Hercules.

  More sparks.

  I take a few slow steps toward the door. “Well, it was fun. Interesting.”

  “Thanks for your help.” His voice is monotone.

  “All right, see you around.”

  I unlock the door and slip out.

  The halls are quiet, so I take a moment to lean against the wall. My heart is hammering an awful lot over someone I just met.

  But whoa.

  For a moment, I entertain a fantasy about going back in there, sliding those trunks right down, and straddling him in the ultimate one-off before sashaying away. I can almost feel those muscles under my hands again.

  Max is a rare specimen of a man.

  And he preferred me over Dahlia.

  That’s new.

  I haven’t dated anyone in a while, not since Malachi, who I helped fly up in the bodybuilding ranks before he ditched me for the next anyone who could help his career.

  That was a bad scene.

  And a broken heart.

  But that was last season.

  Max is now.

  He has the most perfect rumbly voice.

  And a great sense of humor.

  I have already touched a lot of him.

  And seen even more.

  Yeah, I’ve seen plenty.

  I’m more than sparking. It’s a straight-up ache. I’m not a one-night-stand sort of girl, but I could play one for a day.

  My hand is on the door handle when my phone buzzes.

  Right.

  Work.

  I’m at the top of my game.

  And it’s competition day.

  Shoot.

  I shake my head at what I’m contemplating.

  Pull it together, Camryn.

  I take a deep breath and move down the hall. It’s mostly empty. The majority of competitors are either in prep, on stage, or are sitting in the seats to watch the other classes.

  I need to head to the other dressing rooms and tackle my last two clients prepping for prejudging. Then I will have about two hours before it all starts again for the evening show.

  I won’t have a chance to go see Max on stage, sadly. I couldn’t even carve out time to see my brother.

  But he’ll be around. All day.

  I thumb through my paper schedule as I hurry to my next client. I’ll be done with everyone by the time the heavyweights go on for the evening show.

  It might be fun to watch this Max fellow when he can’t see me gawking. Mostly naked. In the spotlight. Posing just for me. Well, and a thousand other spectators.

  I haven’t thought about dating someone since last year’s disaster.

  Maybe it’s time I did.

  5

  Max

  I made it.

  The competitor in front of me bounces lightly up and down to stay warm as we all wait for our turn on stage.

  The hall leading to the steps is narrow, so I can only see a few people in front of me. Twenty bodybuilders are queued up for my category. It’s a good showing. I’m trying to focus.

  By the time I got my jets cooled and left the room where Camryn had fixed me up, I was tight on time. I barely managed to cram some rice cakes down my gullet and start pumping hand weights to make sure my muscles were as defined as possible.

  Even now, as we wait to go on, the competitors who are farther back in the line constantly drop to the floor for more push-ups to avoid going flat.

  I run through the poses over and over, the thump, thump, thump of the bass driving the beat from the music in the main arena.

  I’m not as nervous as I thought I’d be. Maybe all my panic got used up with Camryn.

  Or maybe compared to that scene, this is nothing.

  We move forward, and the stage comes into view.

  A young man easily five years younger than me walks confidently out and waves at the crowd. At this point in the competition, we don’t get our own music for each routine, so he waits for the right moment to start morphing into the mandatory poses.

  He shifts a little fast for me, so maybe his nerves are showing. I remind myself to take it easy and slow and use up every second of my allotted time.

  He heads to the far side of the stage, where he’ll remain while the other competitors take their turn. That’s the tiring part, holding position for as long as it takes until all the bodybuilders have posed. It does not pay to be first.

  We go up another step.

  I’m ready for this.

  I can see one side of the crowd, at least the edges where the lights don’t blind me. A woman catches my eye. She’s somewhat indistinct, but her high ponytail swings when she turns. Is it Camryn? I can’t be sure, and I wonder if she’s out there watching.

  My cock stirs lightly, and I immediately switch gears. No thoughts of that woman. None. For some reason, she’s my erectile kryptonite.

  The competitor in front of me heads out on stage. I let out a rush of air, trying to relax. It’s only my first show. What happens here affects nothing.


  I watch the man move through his poses, too fast, too sloppy. He steps aside without even doing his final pose. I kind of feel bad for him. It’s a lot of work to screw up at the end.

  My turn. I stride across the stage with a smile and a wave. A shout of “Knock ‘em dead, Max!” from the audience tells me Franklin is out there.

  I move straight into my first pose, letting it settle before shifting to the next.

  My routine is well-practiced, almost muscle memory, and the rhythm of the music is perfectly timed. I turn my back to the audience and pull out my lats, and more cheers go up than I expect from a single friend in attendance.

  That’s good. I turn and finish out my poses with another wave and a smile, then take my place near the back center, as the right side of the stage is almost full.

  Also good. Being in the center is always where you want to be.

  The next fifteen minutes are a blur. I focus on light flexing, good posture, solid poses as the attention shifts to the rest of the competitors.

  They fill in the other side, near the back to avoid blocking the entrance to the stage.

  Then everyone’s done, and it’s time for the comparison round.

  We line up, and I naturally fall near the center due to my placement. A couple of the bodybuilders jostle, trying to get a prime position. Some seem to care a lot about who they’re standing next to.

  I realize I haven’t assessed the others to determine whether or not it’s advantageous to be compared to one or the other, but the amount of shifting to avoid being next to me tells me I might be the man to beat.

  That’s surprising.

  We all stand facing front, arms relaxed so our symmetry can be judged, until a man on the microphone starts re-arranging us.

  “Twenty move next to seven. Thirteen next to five.”

  I’m not asked to move, but then, I’m already in the center.

  “Everyone step back. Four move forward. Sixteen come forward. Three come forward.”

  Then I get a surprise.

  “Eleven, step forward. Next to four.”

  I have a callout. It’s the best sign that I’m a contender. Franklin’s going to piss himself. He didn’t get a callout until his fourth show.

  The disembodied voice calls out various poses and quarter turns. I move to the instructions and take a quick glance at the men at my right and left. I have no way of competing against them. They are polished, confident, and roll through the poses as if they were born doing it.