Hot Pickle - J.J. Knight Page 0,79

the best thing to do.”

“I heard you decided not to press charges.”

“Also a hard decision. The insurance people definitely didn’t like it.”

She does meet my gaze at that. “Franklin predicted you wouldn’t. He knows you’re a nice guy, and he used that against you.”

“The deli will recover. But he’s costing me more than I can bear.” I reach out to touch the loose fabric of her skirt.

“I’m sorry.”

She gets up as if to flee, but this time I grasp her hand. “Can I text you? Can we talk at all?”

She won’t meet my gaze. “Of course. I’ll do my best.”

And with that, she’s gone.

I plunk back down and brace my head in my hands over my desk. We took the wrong path, and it cost us. We should’ve told him from the beginning. I made the wrong choice.

And now I’ve lost Camryn.

36

Camryn

This day is crazy.

I have six bodybuilders to tan from scratch in the next two hours. All of them want shadowing and extra work.

There needs to be three of me.

I dash down the hall of the arena, spotting Amy only in passing. She’s also on the run.

We have too many clients to deal with. And many of them are absolute divas.

And I’m talking about the men.

I burst into a dressing room, where two bodybuilders wait for their final tans before their prejudging. Both are monstrous, veiny super-heavyweights with legs that weigh more than I do. Each.

“Where the hell have you been?” one of them booms.

I ignore his tone as I assess the paler one. “You first because I might need to do two rounds.”

“But I go on before him,” the other yells.

Good God. I force a smile. “I promise I am fast and thorough.”

I glance around the room. The rack of tan canisters isn’t here.

Great.

I jerk my phone out of my pocket. I quickly text out a question to the runner who’s supposed to move the tanning cart from the women’s side to the men’s.

No answer.

This is too much.

But I force another smile. “Just a second. Let me go locate the tanning solution.”

Both men grumble as I take off in the dead sprint down the hall. This is only the second competition we’ve done in Italy, and I’m already over it. The runners don’t speak English, and I’ve taken to carrying around pictures on my phone to show them what I need.

And despite being told we were recruited because the bodybuilders wanted English-speaking service providers, a good third of them are from other countries and don’t speak English themselves.

So, the communication has been painful and difficult, and I’m pretty sure I screwed up the color on at least two clients last weekend.

I can’t imagine keeping up this frustrating pace for three more months.

But I signed a contract.

I dash into the women’s main dressing area and spot the rolling rack of canisters. I check to make sure all the colors are loaded and begin pushing it toward the other side again.

A job like this is the world’s best weight loss program. I may not have a lot to lose, but I am definitely dropping pounds.

If we had time for strolling along the streets of Italy, sampling gelato, and the many pizzerias, maybe I would enjoy myself.

But that is not even within the realm of possibility. The schedule is jam-packed, and the travel is grueling, red-eye flights and train stations before dawn.

But we all keep going. One more day. One more competitor. One more tan.

The only thing good about my life right now is I drop dead asleep every night, and never have time to mourn the loss of Max.

We finally catch a break three weeks in. It’s time for Nationals in New York, and even though we’re not working the event, the recruiters are expected to market to the bodybuilders who qualify for the international circuit.

So, we descend on the city with forty-eight hours to spend on our own.

Amy and I wander everything that’s free. Central Park. Chinatown. We eat hot dogs from street vendors and duck through the museum gift shops.

“One day, I’m going to come here with so much money that I can do anything I want,” Amy says. “I’ll rent a helicopter and fly over the Statue of Liberty.”

We both lick ice cream as we wander down a side street on the Upper East Side.

We’re half the island away from the bodybuilding events happening over the next two days. I try not to think about them.

But Amy finally asks. “So, is Max here? Is he competing?”

I shake