Page 12 of Wicked Pickle

Even if he’s a hot, tatted biker bar owner.

Bailey rises from her chair, and we stand with her. She opted not to have a maid of honor to give us all equal standing. Rhett has his two brothers and his sister on his side.

Time for me to do my job. “You look wonderful,” I tell Bailey, leaning forward to give her a hug. “I’m so happy for you.”

The photographer snaps shot after shot. I’m walking in first, so even though there isn’t a pecking order, well, I’mfirst.

Grammy picks up her purse. “I best find my seat. Welcome to the family, Bailey. As my son Sherman always says, ‘Every Pickle’s a Pickle.’”

Jenna and I glance at each other, trying not to giggle. Bailey is marrying into a deli empire. Even though Rhett is technically an Armstrong, the Pickle family is a huge extended family based around the restaurant chain and the media offshoots.

And right in front of us is the woman who started it all with a tiny deli in Brooklyn. No matter what they named themselves, she was the original force behind their success.

Bailey kisses her powdered cheek. “I’ll see you inside.”

Grammy heads out, and it’s only the four of us with the photographer.

“Dad will be here in a second to walk me in,” Bailey says. “I can’t believe this day finally got here!”

Marietta starts crying, which is typical. I pull a tissue from a box on the makeup table and pass it to her. “It’s all right.”

Marietta nods.

Then we hear a roar outside.

The four of us exchange a glance, and my heart takes off in a gallop fit for the Kentucky Derby.

Marietta dashes for the window. “I bet it’s him!”

I pretend to be unaffected, heading for the side table where the bridesmaid bouquets are waiting.

Marietta lets out a squeal. “It’s him! It’s him!”

If I had my smart watch on, it would tell me to take a meditation moment because of my pulse rate. I can scarcely catch my breath. My body quivers, remembering the feel of him against me while we were stuck together.

Then the slide of his knife expertly up my thigh, slicing through the spandex.

Sweat pops across my brow. No, no, no. No perspiration right before the ceremony!

“He’s pulled up right in front,” Marietta says. “He’s taking off his helmet!”

I want to see, but I nonchalantly lift my bouquet and examine it. Roses. Daisies. Baby’s breath.

Jenna must have moved to the window because she says, “He’s wearing a suit! And shiny shoes!”

There’s a rustle, and I can’t help but turn. Bailey has also crossed the room. “He cleans up nice,” she says.

I can’t bear it. I spin around and rush to the window.

And there he is, clipping his helmet to his seat. He actually rode a motorcycle to a wedding.

God, he wears a suit like it was made for him. His shoulders are broad in the charcoal jacket. The pants hug his thighs.

Something glints.

He’s wearing the skull chain. I spot the glint of it at the base of his jacket. It’s not bar branding. Helikesit.

Diesel runs his hand through his hair, then tosses his head to shake the layers into place. Nobody in the window is breathing, not even Bailey. He’s that beautiful.

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