Page 19 of Wicked Pickle

“You won’tlet me, you say?” His voice is low and hard. His face is so close I can see the rough stubble along the edges of his jaw.

“I-I won’t allow it.” I straighten my spine, bringing my face even closer to him. God, he’s beautiful. And brooding. My whole body feels alive.

A smile curls on his lips. “What’s it worth to you for me to leave her alone?”

What is he asking? I imagine having to give him a blow job in a bathroom stall. Good God, I don’t know this man at all.

“I-I don’t know. A lot.”

He lets my words hang in the air. The tension is thick.

Finally, I screw up the courage to ask, “What do you want?”

His eyes land on my lips. “I’d settle for a kiss.”

That’s it?

Except … the family is right behind us.

“Here?” I glance around.

“The location of your choice.” His gaze skims the bridesmaid dress as if he means on my body, not just the place in the building.

Why am I revving up at the very thought?

“On the cheek?” I suggest.

His hand slips around my waist and down. I realize he’s interpreting my answer asbutt cheek.

Then the door rattles behind us.

“Fuck,” he mutters and steps away from me.

I dart for the corridor and pause, my hand against the wall.

The French door opens.

It’s Grammy Alma, the one who put on Bailey’s veil.

“You’re missing the family picture!” she says gaily and winks in my direction.

That woman misses nothing.

She takes his arm and threads hers through it. “What does it take for a doddering old woman to get her grandson to walk her up an aisle?”

Grandson. So, there it is.

They disappear into the room.

I stay in the hall, running through the family as I know it.

To be a direct grandson, Diesel has to belong to one of Grammy Alma’s two sons. Rhett’s dad isn’t one of them. He’s related to the Pickles through his mother’s marriage.

But Diesel sat next to Greta, who is the sister of the Pickle who married a prince. Bailey told us right away the royal family wouldn’t be in attendance. I think she was hoping, even though they were only cousins.

That’s it. Diesel is a cousin. He’s Greta’s brother. I bet those were his parents in his row.

I desperately want to move back to the French door and watch, but I’m certain Diesel will look there for me.

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