Page 14 of Wicked Pickle

I’m tempted to wait and let her walk by, but a man in a suit appears from inside the French doors and asks, “Bride or groom?”

“Bride, I guess.” I’ve met her, at least. Bailey, if I remember right.

He gestures to the rows of white chairs.

It’s all typical. Flowers everywhere. Well-dressed guests. I sit near the back.

I’ve barely made it in time. Up front, a side door opens, and a man in a tux enters, followed by two other men and a woman in a long black gown.

Wait.

I know them.

Holy hell.

I haven’t seen that bunch for a decade, but I’d recognize them anywhere. Rhett Armstrong. His brothers Court and Axel. And their younger sister Nadia.

The Pickle family. The other side of it.

My motherfucking cousins.

Why are they here? Why areallof them here?

Then I realize—shit, Rhett is thegroom.

This ishiswedding.

He’s marrying that chick.

That means all the Pickles are here.

The whole family I escaped.

What the actual fuck?

There is no woman hot enough for this. I escaped this Pickle nightmare. I’m not getting dragged into it now.

I stand up and stride casually through the French doors. My eyes are fixed on the exit when an arm grasps my elbow.

Assuming it’s the usher, I try to shake him off, but the grip gets tighter. I’m about to force the issue when a familiar voice says my name. And not the one I use now.

“Dean Sawyer Packwood, where do you think you’re going?”

Fuuuuuck.

Only one person on this planet calls me that.

My mother.

I blow out a long gust of air. I am one hundred percent royally fucked.

I consider making a run for it. The idea lingers for a moment.

But I’m not a chicken-shit.

Time to settle up.

I turn to her. “Mom.”

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