Hot Pickle: A Best Friend's Sister Romantic Comedy Page 4

  Still, I’m here.

  At last, we’re sent off stage, and I’m free for several hours until the evening show.

  When I return to the open room to fetch my gym bag, Franklin is already there. “Max, you crushed it. You were in the last four. You could place!”

  “You think so?” I slide on my jacket and zip it up. “How did you do?”

  “I got a callout. So, who knows, maybe we’ll both take home something big and shiny.” He smacks me on the back. “Looks like Camryn fixed you right up. You were flawless.”

  “I owe you one for that. How should I pay her?”

  Franklin picks up his bag. “She’s my sister. She can occasionally do something for me.”

  I have a feeling Franklin already demands his sister do all his tans for free. But I don’t know anything about their arrangement, so I won’t cast shade.

  “Do you know any of those guys who were called out with me?” I ask. “They looked experienced.” My competitive streak is kicking in. Maybe I do want to win.

  “The one next to you in the yellow is a total asshole.” Franklin picks up my gym bag and hands it to me. “I got thrown out of a competition because of that guy.”

  Franklin’s a hothead, but I can’t imagine what would get him kicked out of a meet. “What happened?”

  “He wouldn’t stop hitting on my sister. He was pushy and needed to leave her the fuck alone. So, I punched him.”

  “Damn, Frank.” We head down the hallway.

  Franklin pushes his hand through his gelled hair, making it stand straight up. “My sister got her heart stomped about a year ago, to the point I didn’t think she’d recover,” he says. “And half the fitness junkies in this circuit are absolute shit. I don’t want them anywhere near my sister.”

  “Well, hell. I hope I kick his ass.” I pull my bag closer to my side to avoid colliding with a woman in a red bikini hurrying down the corridor.

  “Me, too.”

  We push through the doors and into the sunshine. Franklin twirls his car keys around his finger. “I don’t want to think about all the assholes trying to get in my sister’s pants. I’d cut off all their fingers if I could. Should we take my truck?”

  “Your truck is fine,” I say carefully, already imagining him shoving those keys into my eyes upon hearing how his sister got an eyeful of my cock.

  If I’ve just learned anything, it’s that Camryn is absolutely off-limits.

  She might be gorgeous and funny, and my body is on her side.

  But Franklin’s a good training partner. With his help, I got a callout on my very first stage appearance. And, despite his flaws, we’ve been friends for a long time.

  I don’t need an enemy.

  So, I’ll forget about her, get a proper tan next time, and everything will be fine.

  As long as Camryn doesn’t tell her brother about my boner.

  6

  Camryn

  It’s been a long day, but I’m finally done and watching the evening show.

  And holy pectorals. Max is on stage, and I’m feeling the heat.

  Watching him pose to AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” has got me thinking about jumping right on that interstate and taking the ride.

  Pun intended.

  The seats are full for a competition this small. The auditorium smells of tanning oil. Women sit on either side of me, most likely girlfriends of competitors as they’ve shrieked their lungs out only once during all the categories, barely clapping for the others.

  The red curtains are pulled aside, and the back of the stage is simple, a black banner with sponsor logos. This one isn’t much, but it’s a means to bigger and better things. Dahlia already won her category. It’s a good day.

  But Max has got the crowd going. He’s pure charisma up there, rolling through the poses with a jaunty sass that is like honey to the bees.

  I’m not immune.

  Max strikes his final pose and the crowd goes nuts, which is unusual given it’s his first time.

  I grip my seat handle. I’m glad I helped him. He has potential.

  Max gives a wave at the end of his routine and joins the others to wait for callouts.

  I let out a long breath of air to steady myself, and the woman next to me nods in understanding. “He’s a hot one. Several of them were good.”

  She’s right. There are some clunkers in the lineup, but as the callouts begin, the top contenders are excellent. I have to tear my gaze away from Max.

  Of course, he’s one of the callouts.

  It’s clear the others are experienced, and the heavyweight category is one of the hardest to place in. It can take years for a bodybuilder to bulk up in that category, but Max’s genetics are on his side.

  Next to him, in yellow trunks, is Brad, who showed interest in me last season until my brother cracked his jaw.

  So that relationship was doomed before it started.

  I went through a period of rethinking my career choices, seeing as it was putting me way too close to my overbearing brother.

  But nothing in the off-season came close to the love of the work I do with the bodybuilders. Since the circuit only threw my brother out for one competition, he’ll be around to keep trying for his pro card. Watching. Always watching.

  So, getting a bodybuilder boyfriend isn’t in the cards.

  I shift my attention back to Max. I’ve already run my hands over most of this man’s body. And even though I’ve had male clients before, somehow, it’s different.

  Maybe I felt sorry for him with his terrified first-timer’s syndrome.

  Or maybe it was the way we locked eyes in a packed registration room like no one else was there.

  And he blew off Dahlia.

  Nobody blows off Dahlia. When she says come, you come.

  But not him.

  The crowd murmurs as a burly bald announcer dressed in black takes the stage.

  “We will announce the winners of the heavyweight competition in a moment,” he says. “Afterward, we will have the winners in each class return to the stage for a posedown.”

  The break won’t be long, so I stay in my seat. The bulk of the judging is done during the morning competition. The evening show is mainly the fundraiser part of the day, when attendees pay for tickets to watch all the oiled bodies at work.

  But sometimes, if it’s close, performing well in the second show can make the difference.

  And Max was flawless.

  The announcer turns off his mic and chats with the heavyweights on stage. Max shows no sign of nervousness. He talks confidently, his smile broad and easy. He looks nothing like the frightened deer he was this morning.

  I’m beginning to think my first impression was way off. I saw him anxious about his tanning problem, and then off the charts when he got his wild boner before the judging.

  His easy manner on stage tells me he’s much different in ordinary circumstances.

  A runner carries a piece of paper up to the announcer. He nods at the men and steps away.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to announce the winners of our heavyweight competition.” He pauses for dramatic effect.

  A recorded drum roll begins over the speakers. “In third place, we have Brad Peters.”

  A leggy blonde in a tight red dress and outrageous heels steps forward to place a bronze medal over Brad’s head. He gives her a quick nod then strikes his favorite pose. I should feel a pang at the lost opportunity, thanks to my brother, but I don’t.

  Max stays on the far right, his hands clasped gently in front. The amount of distance he’s put between himself and the other callouts suggests he doesn’t expect to place. He claps heartily as the second-place medal is given to Jeremy, one of the veterans on the circuit. He was, in fact, expected to win tonight.

  Does this mean…

  “And our first-place winner tonight might surprise you. It’s our rookie, right here from L.A., Max Pickle.”

  Cheers break out, as well as laughter at the name. My br
eath hitches. Pickle? Is he the Pickle brother who owns the deli on Lucas Street? I’ve been there a time or two, and I was vaguely aware the Pickle brothers use the same last name for the franchise. Franklin never mentioned his training partner was an actual Pickle.

  Max seems shocked as the gold medal is lifted over his head by Red Dress Girl. He pays her no mind, his eyes seeming to squint to the crowd. Before I can stop myself, I’m standing and screaming and waving my arms. “Way to go, Max!”

  I’m shrieking way above the random crowd. I feel faces turn toward me, and I know I’m showing preferential treatment. But I don’t care. Max is awesome, and he won. None of the other men are my clients, so it won’t cost me too much ill will.

  Besides, Max sort of is my client.

  Isn’t he?

  I pick out my brother’s loud hoots amongst the general noise of the crowd. Having a training partner at this level will be good for him. Franklin didn’t place in his category an hour earlier, but he’s nearly there. His next competition could be the one.

  This is a great day for both of us.

  Max strikes his pose, then sweeps his arm into a hearty bow, pleasing the crowd. The noise grows deafening, and even if I shrieked again, I wouldn’t be heard.

  The announcer nods. “Seems like we have a new favorite here in the Los Angeles bodybuilding circuit. Max Pickle, everyone.”

  Red Dress Girl takes the gold medal away from Max, since it’s time for the posedown. Max doesn’t seem the least bit intimidated as the other winners stride out onto the stage. And he shouldn’t. He’s in the largest category, so he is going to have the most well-developed physique.

  I settle back in my chair, enjoying the show. It’s usually the spectators’ favorite part. All the winners in each class do open posing, trying to impress the judges. The music pulses, and the crowd claps along.

  I can’t take my eyes off Max. He’s obviously never done this before and has not been prepped. He keeps gazing from side-to-side, doing whatever the others do. Somehow, it’s even more endearing that he’s a little lost, and soon a chant for, “Max! Max! Max!” breaks out.

  Eventually the music cuts and the judges’ callouts begin. Three numbers are called, and of course Max is one of them. As the heavyweight contender, that would be expected.

  The judges request poses in rapid succession.

  Max is back in known territory, moving fluidly through the poses. The tingles I felt earlier in the day return, and I know I’m probably not alone. Many of the women are shifting uncomfortably in their chairs as we watch the men display their perfect physiques. Max’s overwhelmingly handsome face and charming smile are winning over the crowd.

  It’s no surprise when Max is named the overall winner for the entire competition. I want to run up to him as the crowd crushes forward. But Franklin is already on stage shaking his hand, and I don’t want to clue my brother in to my interest.

  Besides, several men in suits are already approaching Max. He’s going to have sponsors.

  He can’t get a pro card from this small of a show, but he will undoubtedly be selected for the invite-only one in two weeks.

  Max Pickle is leveling up.

  But what makes me smile as I exit the row and head toward the door is one important fact.

  If Max is going to keep competing, he’s going to need more tans.

  7

  Max

  The day after the competition is surreal.

  I sit at my desk in the office at L.A. Pickle, the family deli I own, sorting through emails and contracts for sponsorship offers in bodybuilding.

  I didn’t expect any of this. Not to win. Not to move up so quickly.

  I’m simultaneously thrilled and concerned. Franklin seems stoked for me, but I have to wonder if he doesn’t resent my immediate success.

  And I do have this restaurant to run. My focus was already divided when I was training. Now it will be even more fractured.

  A knock at the door drags me from these concerns. I swivel in my chair. “Come in.”

  The door opens. It’s Angelo, an employee who works the sandwich line.

  “What’s up?” I ask him.

  Angelo fingers a blue, pink, and white striped bracelet, pulling it from beneath his plastic glove. He’s a pistol and fun to have on staff. “We had an early run on the bread of the month,” he says. “Miranda’s wondering if she should bake more or if we let it go for today.”

  I glance at the clock. It’s only eleven-thirty. The biggest part of the lunch run will come late on a Sunday. “I think we have time to do another batch.”

  “I’ll tell her.”

  As he’s about to turn away, I ask, “Does she need help? Should I scrub up?”

  Angelo gives me a grin. “You know what Miranda’s like with her bread. I’d stay far away and let her do her business.”

  I give him a salute. “Point taken. I leave it in her very competent hands. Thanks for paying attention.”

  He mimics my salute. “I’ll let you know if we need your help in the afternoon. We are short one with Andre out.”

  My manager is off today. “I’m at your service,” I say.

  He gives me a grin and heads out.

  I spin back to the computer. I shouldn’t sit in here thinking about bodybuilding. When I’m at work, I should focus on the deli.

  Besides, we close early on Sundays. I’ll have plenty of time to get my workout in and confer with Franklin about my next move.

  We didn’t plan for this possibility. I assumed I would have a whole month before the next small competition in San Bernardino. But now it looks like I won’t be attending that one at all. After winning and getting invited to a regional contest, I’m not even eligible for the beginner meet.

  I’m doing it again. Thinking about bodybuilding when I should be worried about pickles.

  I head out to the kitchen.

  Miranda is well into mixing another batch of dough. She works it so hard and fast that the black knot of hair on her head wobbles. She’s barely twenty-five but her soul is old. She adds character to the staff, that’s for sure.

  Her eyes narrow when she sees me. “I’m fine,” she says.

  I hold out my hands. “The dough is all yours. Can I at least fire-up the proofing oven for you?”

  “Already done. I’m a professional, remember?”

  “Never doubted it for a minute.”

  Miranda looks me up and down. “Did you fall asleep in a tanning bed?”

  Figures Miranda would be the first one to say something. I exfoliated the hell out of myself last night, but I’m still five shades darker than normal. “Something like that.”

  “Well, it looks awful. Don’t do it again.”

  I have to laugh. “Noted.”

  When I turn, Roger, who is busily chopping onions at the cutting block, quickly looks down. He’s a shy fellow and seems uncomfortable with Miranda’s treatment of me.

  I wrap my knuckles on the corner of the chopping block as I walk by. “Thanks for your hard work, Roger.”

  He barely nods in acknowledgment.

  Out in the main dining room, the line is starting to grow to the door. Time to jump in.

  Tiana has the cash register well in hand, so I tie on an apron to help Angelo with the sandwiches. I greet an elderly couple and recommend a sandwich and pickle combination.

  The line moves, and the three of us fall into a rhythm. I take orders and start the sandwiches, passing the tray along to Angelo for sides. I slide into a flow, an endless sea of sliced bread, deli meats, cheese, and pickles.

  I have my head down, wiping up breadcrumbs between customers, when I realize I’ve asked, “How do you take your pickle?” and haven’t received an answer.

  I glance up to a vision both familiar and entirely strange.

  It’s Camryn, looking completely different than she did yesterday in her ponytail and yoga pants.

  Her glorious mix of brown and auburn hair is down, curling gently at the end to cup thos
e perfect breasts. She wears a black lace tank top with tiny spaghetti straps I’ve already begun to envision sliding off her shoulders.

  Sparks shoot through my groin, and I can’t believe it’s already coming to life merely by spotting her in the sandwich shop.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  She tilts her head. “Is that how you always greet your customers, Max Pickle?”

  I have to physically shake myself. “I’m sorry. Did you want a sandwich? I’m happy to make one for you.”

  Her eyes sparkle as they meet mine. She’s teasing me. “Maybe.”

  My heart pounds like I’ve just come off a deadlift. “Can I interest you in the bread of the day?”

  She leans forward against the glass protecting the sandwich line. “Can you describe it to me in succulent detail?”

  My cock stirs even more at the word succulent coming from her lips. I feel completely brain-dead. What is it about her that turns me into a drooling twelve-year-old?

  Angelo pops over to help me out. “Our bread of the day is called ‘Olive You So Much.’ It’s mostly olives, but also has garlic and artichoke.”

  “Thank you,” she says to Angelo. “Is your boss always this speechless?”

  Angelo glances from me to Camryn and back again. “Not usually.”

  “I’ll take a veggie sandwich on that bread,” Camryn says. “And your hottest pickle. I assume you have a really…hot…pickle.” Her gaze never leaves my face as she says it.

  Angelo clears his throat. “Sure. And it’s a really big dill…” He smirks to himself at his joke and begins making the sandwich.

  I tug at the collar of my shirt. Suddenly I’m frying in this apron.

  I glance behind Camryn. There’s only one other couple in line, and they are holding a laminated menu like they’ve never seen it before. With no other customers in sight, it seems safe enough to leave the sandwiches to Angelo and Tiana.