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

  I take the basket with the sandwich from Angelo and add the hot pickles myself. “I’ll handle this one,” I tell him.

  “I bet you will,” he says.

  I walk around the counter, snatching up an empty cup as I go. We head toward the soda fountain. “My treat.”

  “Thank you,” she says, taking the cup to fill it with mango tea. “I wanted to congratulate you on your big win.”

  “Thanks.” I glance around. “Let’s take this table here.”

  She follows me to a secluded spot tucked behind the drink station. We’re mostly out of view of the sandwich line. Tiana and Angelo are already whispering and looking our way.

  I set her basket on the table and pull out her chair, then settle across from her. “Thank you for stopping by. I think you probably saved my fledgling career.”

  She unfolds a napkin. “I’m glad we were able to fix your tan. Turns out you were absolutely worth the extra trouble.”

  “That feels like high praise.”

  She pulls a bit of bread from the sandwich. “It is.” She pops the bite in her mouth. “Oh, this is good.”

  “My brother Anthony comes up with all the bread recipes. He’s great.”

  Camryn looks around. “I’ve been here before. But I’ve forgotten how bright and happy a place it is.”

  “Thank you.”

  She takes a bite of the sandwich and sighs. “So good.”

  “I have a great team.”

  She wipes her mouth. I could watch this all day.

  “So,” she says. “It seemed like you had the suits all fired up last night after your win.”

  I clasp my hands together on the table. “You mean the sponsorships? Yeah, I have a company lawyer looking over the contracts for two of them. Seems they want to be in my corner as I head to the next competition.”

  She plucks another bite of the bread. “You know, this doesn’t happen to just anybody. And it doesn’t even always happen to the overall winner. You’ve got real star power. They see it.”

  Franklin said the same thing last night. “I’m a little overwhelmed,” I say. “I didn’t expect it to happen this way.”

  “Well, it has. So, what’s your next move?”

  “Decide whether or not to take the sponsorships. And I guess I compete in two weeks.”

  “You’re going to do it?” Her eyes light up.

  “Of course I am. It would be insulting not to after everyone was so gracious.”

  “Who’s going to do your tanning?”

  Now I get it. She’s here on a professional basis. I ignore the curdle of disappointment in my belly.

  “I’m not sure. I haven’t booked any more Pro Tans for three weeks, because I didn’t think I was going to compete again until San Bernardino.”

  She nods. “They might have an opening or two for this situation. People often unexpectedly level up and need a last-minute spot.”

  “Are you suggesting I go back to Pro Tan?”

  “I would certainly rather you go there than Ride ‘em Shiny.”

  “I won’t use them again.”

  “And you know to keep your pants on for the last day?” Her face is pure mischief.

  God, she’s beautiful. And cute. And funny. I feel bold. “Do you have a proposition for me?”

  She shrugs. “I’m mainly here as your advisor. I thought you did well, and I want to make sure you don’t screw up again. But as long as you go through Pro Tan, you’ll be fine.”

  “So you’re not here to drum up business with me?” A guy can dream.

  “If you want to sign onto my roster, I’m not going to turn you down.” Her eyes drop back to the sandwich, and I wave at it to encourage her to keep eating.

  “Your brother says you’re the best in the business. That you usually have a waitlist.”

  She nods as she swallows. “I do. But nobody is going to call me out on bumping you in. Because they want to stay on my waitlist.”

  I sit back in my chair. Even if Camryn is here on business, having her do my tans means I get her hands on me again.

  But then, of course, there is the small matter of my big boner.

  “I can’t guarantee it won’t happen again,” I say.

  Her eyebrows draw together in confusion. “Winning? I mean that’s the hope, right?”

  “No. I mean the incident. The one that happened before.” I drop my eyes to my crotch and then back up to her gaze.

  She sits up very straight in her chair. “Oh. You mean that. Oh. Well. It was fine. I mean, you didn’t try to flash me or anything. You weren’t being a pervert.”

  At the word pervert, several customers glance over at us. She claps her hand over her mouth. “I should shut up, right?”

  I grin from ear-to-ear. So, Camryn can lose her composure after all.

  “I would love for you to do my tans. You tell me when, and I’ll be there.”

  Her shoulders relax. “Okay good. I assume you have to work around your schedule here.” She gestures to the deli.

  “More or less. But I can maneuver as long as I have some advance warning. When would I need to do the next tan?”

  Camryn reaches into her shoulder bag and pulls out a notebook. The pages are covered in scribbles.

  “You keep your schedule by hand?”

  She shrugs. “I have some scheduling software thingy Franklin set up for me, but I find this to be easier. I take a picture of the schedule with my phone, in case I lose the book.”

  “Smart.”

  “The competition is in thirteen days. So, Wednesday or Thursday for the first round? I’m pretty booked during the day, but evening might work better for you anyway. After you close here?” Her head is tilted down toward the pages, but her eyes lift to look at me. Those fringed lashes get to me. It’s the same expression I saw when she was on her knees applying the tan.

  I scoot closer to the table when my cock jumps. Down, boy.

  “Wednesday is our late night, and I usually stay to the end. Thursday would be better.”

  She pulls a pencil from a loop on the outside of the book. “Thursday evening it is. Seven? Eight?”

  “Where are you located? I might be able to make seven.”

  “Not far from Buster’s Gym.”

  “That’s close to here,” I say. “So, seven works. Any special instructions?”

  She closes her notebook. “Unlike your final tan, which should be done wearing the trunks so you don’t have to slide them on and off, your base tan should be done without the possibility of tan lines. I will be using a spray, and we will go slowly and carefully to make sure we avoid fine lines in between your muscles. Drink lots of water, let those muscles fill out. We don’t need you to be super cut for the base. We want the tan to be able to get in all the crevices.”

  Pro Tan never told me any of these things. I nod. “So wear something loose and plan to be naked.”

  The word naked makes an elderly woman I served earlier turn toward me with a big smile. I lean forward. “That’s what you’re saying, right? I should skip underwear altogether, so I won’t have to wrangle it on afterward?”

  I’m not positive, but I think Camryn’s cheeks pink up a shade. “Most of my clients find it best to wear only loose shorts and an oversized tank top for the sessions. Plus, slip-on shoes. What’s your number so I can remind you of your appointment and send the address?”

  Even though she’s all business, her eyes lock on mine as we both seem to consider my lack of clothing ahead. My mouth goes dry, but I manage to give her my number.

  She nods, setting her pencil down. Then, watching my face, she lifts the pickle from her plate and takes a hearty chomp.

  Oh, she’s going to regret taking a bite that big.

  I wait while she sucks in a breath, her eyes watering. “Oh my gosh! It really is a hot pickle!”

  I have nothing to say to that.

  8

  Camryn

  I’ve almost got everything ready for Max’s arrival.


  The screens are set up for where he’ll change.

  The tanning tent is prepped so the spray won’t hit my walls or settle on my rugs.

  The ceiling fan is set on high to keep the room aired out.

  But I’m feeling guilty.

  I can tell you why, right? You’re a random spectator and can’t tell Max a single thing.

  But you wouldn’t do that anyway, right?

  Good. I knew I could trust you.

  So here goes.

  Max doesn’t need a tan this early.

  Don’t worry, I’m not trying to bilk him out of money. I’m not even going to charge him for this session.

  I want to see him.

  The tan’s the excuse.

  It’s what you would do, right? If you had access to the perfect man?

  I can’t waste any time.

  Since meeting him on Sunday, I’ve been waiting for the brotherly shoe to drop, for Max to tell Franklin I’m doing his tan again. For Franklin to call and do a lot of yelling.

  But it hasn’t happened.

  So, Max clearly hasn’t mentioned it.

  Maybe he knows somehow not to.

  And I definitely haven’t mentioned it.

  I certainly know not to.

  I pass the full-length oval mirror set into a frame in the corner.

  Am I ready to see Max again?

  My hair is pulled back into a ponytail. There’s no changing that, as I can’t let it get in the way of my work.

  I’m wearing a black yoga top and pants with a bit of flair on the bottom. It’s best not to have anything loose or flappy, as I could brush against a wet tan.

  And bare feet. I work best that way. I did paint my toenails a soft green. I’m not sure why. Green is for go, maybe?

  I’m so nervous.

  Max is the full package. Gorgeous, funny, fit, hot. He owns his own business. I can tell from the way he banters with his employees that he’s a good boss.

  It took a while for me to figure out whether or not he was single. I searched for him everywhere possible. All social media. New articles. Society columns.

  But I couldn’t find any pictures of him with a woman.

  For a while, I thought maybe he was gay. It’s common in bodybuilding.

  But I eventually drummed up a girlfriend from a few years back. And once I did a deep dive into the public feeds of his college crowd, there were plenty of girls.

  Yes, I’m stalking him.

  I don’t intend to throw myself at him or anything. But it’s good to know what you’re up against. I’m not a homewrecker. I don’t go full-tilt after somebody else’s man.

  But he’s single. So, all bets are off.

  Because I like this guy.

  And I think, judging by his reaction during our tanning session, that maybe there’s interest on his end, too.

  I pause by the mirror for the thousandth time, questioning the spirals of hair near my ears. I agonized with a curling wand for twenty minutes over two simple curls. Was it obvious? Had I done too much?

  God, I’m nervous.

  I’m so excited to see him. I haven’t felt this way in a long time. I hope he’s everything I think he is. And if so, I should work fast. His meteoric rise up the bodybuilder ranks means every woman on the circuit is going to make a play for him.

  Dahlia sure did.

  And yet he popped that boner for me.

  My phone buzzes. It’s my brother.

  God, he has terrible timing.

  You’re working the Open Classic, right?

  I tap out an impatient reply: Expecting a client any second.

  I stare at the door, wondering why he’s asking. I am working the Open in two weeks, but Max won’t be there. He’ll be at the invitational.

  The phone buzzes.

  Who’s coming?

  My stomach twists. I can’t tell him, but I also don’t want to be caught in a lie.

  They’re here. Later.

  I set the phone on silent.

  The last thing I want is an interruption. Or to answer my brother’s question.

  A sharp rap on my door startles me out of my skin.

  He’s here.

  Max Pickle is at my door!

  Everything inside me wants to sing. I’ve only seen him twice in my life, but after all my stalking, I feel like I know him.

  Still, I have to be professional today. I can’t come on too strong. I must do my job and see where it leads.

  When I open the door, Max holds up a white L.A. Pickle bag. “I brought you a veggie sandwich on olive bread.”

  I accept the gift, the aroma making my mouth water.

  Or maybe it’s Max.

  “That is amazingly sweet.”

  My heart wants to hammer straight out of my skin. I’ve never believed in that love-at-first-sight business. And honestly, it wasn’t love at first sight. I thought he was a big pain in my schedule the first time.

  But seeing him today, it’s different. I can’t remember being this excited to see someone before.

  Certainly not Malachi.

  “Let me run this to the fridge,” I say. “Be right back.”

  When I return to the living room, Max stands with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing up at the artwork covering the walls. “There’s some beautiful stuff in here.”

  “I like supporting local artists. I practically live at farmers markets.”

  He turns to gaze at me and I melt a little. He’s so arrestingly handsome, his sparkly eyes, half-smile, and that bulked-up body in a thin white tank top and shiny red shorts.

  For a moment I think about his lack of underwear, and I know if I possessed the right anatomy, I’d be popping a boner the size of a baseball bat.

  I have to get back to business.

  “So, here’s how it’ll go.” I gesture to a colorful hand-painted set of screens in the corner. “You’ll change back there.”

  I walk to the center of the room where a stool rests on top of a bright-blue tarp. “Here is where I will do the initial exfoliating and moisturizing. That way your skin will be prepped for the first layer of tan.”

  I turn to a narrow pop-up tent. “Over here is where I’ll spray you. And I’ll have you stand under the ceiling fan while you dry.”

  He nods as he looks around. “It’s a great setup. Lived here long?”

  “I moved into this neighborhood about eighteen months ago. I get a lot of my clients from Buster’s Gym, so it made sense to be closer. I’m centrally located to several competitions.”

  He nods again. “I’m grateful you took me on as a client. You certainly got me out of a jam. I feel absolutely confident knowing my tan is in your hands.”

  My hands itch to get onto his body. My professional detachment is out the window, but I have to roll with it. “You ready?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.” He heads to the screen in the corner.

  I watch the shadow of him undressing, beset with nerves. I’m on my own turf, doing what I do best.

  But something about Max Pickle has me completely off balance.

  9

  Max

  I need an anti-Viagra.

  Taking off my clothes in Camryn’s apartment is fucking hot, even if I’m behind a screen. I can hear her moving around only a few feet away.

  I bite the inside of my cheek. I’m not going to have a repeat of last weekend.

  Not.

  I act like this is the doctor’s office and she’s about to dig for my prostrate.

  That helps.

  When I step out, Camryn waits on the canvas tarp. She snaps out a large colorful towel and I have to look away as she bends down to straighten it. That ass is perfect in her fitted yoga pants, and I’ll never keep control.

  She turns, glances down, and lets out a sudden, “Oh!”

  I look too, wondering if I was rising to the occasion.

  “Did you bring a modesty pouch for your…” She hesitates. “I have some.”

  “I think it’s
too late for modesty?”

  She bites her lip in a gloriously sexy way. She takes a bright-white towel from a stack on a side table and hands it to me. “You can cover things I haven’t gotten to yet.”

  I unfurl the towel in a hurry because it’s happening again already, the blood-rush to my junk. Damn. “So, what first?”

  “I’ll look for dry patches of skin to exfoliate.”

  That isn’t sexy at all, so it simmers me down.

  She points to the stool at the center of the tarp. “Sit here for this part.”

  I keep the towel on my lap as she sets a white pail full of bottles and scrubbies next to me.

  “Since your hair is short, I’ll start with the ears and neck. Then we’ll work our way down.”

  I nod.

  Her hands feel along my jaw, neck, and shoulders. Her hands are cool and soft. I take in more of the room. She’s bohemian, with hand-hooked rugs and tie-dyed silks on the walls. A large painting portrays two figures entwined. Only after I stare at it for a while do I realize the swirls of colors depict them having sex.

  Must. Avert. Eyes.

  I think of changing the oil in my car. Scrubbing the grill at the deli. Cutting jalapeños.

  That’s better.

  Camryn switches to a loofa and begins gently rubbing it near the center of my back.

  “I’ll have to undo what I did before, since it was a patch job,” she says. “There’s product build-up here.”

  I drop my head as she moves down, the scratch of the loofa like the perfect ease of a terrible itch.

  She moves in front of me. “Chest time. Look up.”

  I stare at the ceiling as her thumb presses against every muscle, feels inside every crevice. She’s like a sculptor making sure every ounce of clay is exactly as it should be.

  “I’m going to shift this,” she says, and the towel moves. She spreads my knees and the stirring begins again. I’m covered, so I let my imagination go wild, her cool hands moving up my thigh, and in my mind, grasping my heavy cock. She works it before sliding it into her mouth, her hair falling across my knees.

  And I went too far. I’m at such full-mast the tent of the towel could be seen from space.

  “Other side,” she says, shifting to my other leg.