Page 2 of Her Maine Squeeze

“They’re happy tears,” she says with a laugh, using her hands to wipe the tears from her face. “You were right. It’s even more adorable now.”

I shake my head, incredulous. Charley Corbin is a tough-as-nails businesswoman. She owns a contracting firm and primarily works with men. She does not cry over jars of pickles. “Who are you, and what have you done with my friend?”

Her shoulders rise and fall. “I can’t help it. I’m in—”

“Love,” I say in unison with her. “I’m aware.”

She smiles apologetically. “Sorry. I know it’s annoying.”

“It’s not,” I assure her. And I mean it. “I’m happy for you. Truly.” I place the pickle jar back onto the counter and pick up another, wrapping it with twine. “How are the rest of the wedding arrangements coming along?”

“Good. Everything is mostly in order. I’m getting the final fitting for my dress tomorrow. Luke still needs to finish crocheting the flowers for the bridesmaids’ bouquets, but he finished mine, and it’s to die for. It’s seriously the most beautiful thing in the world.” She pulls her phone from her pocket to show me a photograph. “It’s even prettier in person.”

“Wow, Luke,” I breathe, taking in the meticulous work he’s put into the wedding bouquet. My brother’s been crocheting since we were kids, and I have countless things that he’s made me over the years. He’s made me gorgeous sweaters and cardigans, amazing blankets and throws, and even a pair of beautiful, tailormade pants with a playful pickle pattern. He’s even made me an adorable Emotional Support Pickle that I’ll treasure forever. Butthis? It’s truly a work of museum-quality art. He’s used a variety of stitches to crochet delicate roses, ranunculus, dahlias, and baby’s breath, all wrapped with an intricate ribbon of crocheted lace.

“I know, right? He’s so unbelievably talented.” There’s an unmistakable tone of pride in her voice.

I nod in agreement. “And to think, he kept his crocheting a secret for most of his life because he was afraid of what people would think. He may even be better at this than he was at hockey—but don’t tell him I said that. His overinflated ego couldn’t take it. I bet he’s still in shock that the Thoroughbreds are able to continue playing without him.”

“Hush,” Charley says with a laugh, swatting my arm. “That’s my fiancé you’re talking about.”

I grin at her. “True… but he was my brother first.”

“Have you seen the boutonnières he made for his groomsmen? They’re amazing, too.” She scrolls through her phone and holds it up to show me a picture. I lean forward to take a look, expecting to see a boutonnière.

Instead, it’s a photograph of Oz. A lot’s changed in the eleven years since I’ve seen him. The baby fat has completely melted away, making way for a chiseled jawline. His wild curly hair has been tamed, too—or at least beaten into submission with hair product. He’s wearing a tuxedo and looking more like 007 than any of the actors who’ve ever played the character. I briefly note the crocheted boutonnière pinned through the buttonhole of the tux before my gaze homes in on his piercing green eyes. Those haven’t changed. Not even a little.

“Oh,” I gasp. The jar of pickles I’m holding slides from my grasp and hits the tile floor. The jar bounces off the title before landing again, this time exploding with a spray of pickle brine and shattered glass. Charley and I both leap backward. Nevertheless, we’re each casualties of the pickle bomb. It’s a good thing we’re both wearing pants.

Charley stares at me with wide eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. You? You’re not cut?”

She glances down at her legs. “No, but I’ve been pickled.”

A shaky laugh escapes my mouth. “S-sorry about that.”

She gives me a weird look. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

I guess she’s only unobservant when my brother’s around to distract her.I fight the urge to reach for my hair. If I tie a knot in it, she’ll know something is up for sure. “Like what?” I ask, faking a tone of innocence.

Her eyes narrow as she closely inspects my face.Oh, no. Is it turning red? I bet it’s turning red…“I showed you a picture of Oz, and you practically went into convulsions. Is there something between you two?”

I wave a hand dismissively. “Don’t be silly. I didn’t go into convulsions. I just dropped a jar. It happens. It’s a shame that those pickles were utterly wasted, though. And I’m so sorry about your pants.” I walk past her to grab a broom and dustpan from the pantry. “I can pay the drycleaning bill, if you’d like.” I hope she doesn’t take me up on the offer. I’ve never actually taken anything to a drycleaner since everything I buy is wash-and-wear, but it’s what they always say in television shows and movies.

“It’s just pickle juice. No harm done.” She watches me closely as I sweep up the broken glass and pickle chips. “So, about Oz…”

“What about him?” I ask, careful not to meet her eyes. “I haven’t seen him in years. Have you?”

“Not since high school graduation,” she says. “I know he was Luke’s roommate in college, and they still get together a couple times of year to go on a camping trip with your cousins, Benson and Maddox.”

I nod. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“So, when was the last timeyousaw him?” Charley presses.

I raise a shoulder noncommittally. “I don’t remember.”

“You know,” she says slowly, like she’s about to serve up the world’s hottest gossip, “I always thought he had a thing for you in high school. I thought he might even ask you to prom.”

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