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Love Story Box

Original Pickle Brother Trilogy Book Box

Original Pickle Brother Trilogy Book Box

Regular price $60.00 USD
Regular price $75.00 USD Sale price $60.00 USD
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Three brothers. Three seriously picklish situations.

This trilogy box by Amazon Top 100 and Kindle All-Star author JJ Knight includes three full-length standalone romantic comedies in paperback, all signed by the author.

"It's laugh-out-loud, snort-your-drink, absolutely-do-not-read-this-book-in-public hilarious, with this crafty writer's clever wit creatively showcased on every page."
~ BookAddict

The box includes:

  • Big Pickle, Hot Pickle, and Spicy Pickle in paperback, signed by JJ Knight: 
  • A crocheted support pickle (about the size of an actual pickle!)
  • A pickle treat bag with three different types of pickle-flavored candy for you to try (if you dare!)
  • A full sticker sheet with the six core pickleverse stickers
  • An "I Read Pickle Smut" button and sticker
  • A bookmark signed by JJ Knight with the full Pickleverse reading order
  • Book boxes are hand packed by us and ship in 2-3 business days.
  • Shipping will be calculated at checkout.

Book Summary

BIG PICKLE: A playboy deli owner pretends to be an employee of his own restaurant to figure out who is embezzling money, only to fall for the smart, sassy manager he's hoping isn't the thief.

HOT PICKLE: A California deli owner turned bodybuilder discovers that every time he's around the woman who helps him with his competition prep, his package gets him in a pickle.

SPICY PICKLE: When a viral pickle challenge goes terribly wrong, two rival deli owners must fake an engagement on national television to save their family restaurants.

"This series has so much hilarity that I can't stop laughing about it." ~ Southern Chics Lit

Read Chapter One

Chapter 1 of Big Pickle

It’s pretty great when a new Pickle comes into the world.

Today my cousin Greta is giving birth.

Like, literally, right now.

She’s walking the halls and refuses to lie in bed.

Her husband Jude is off talking to the doctor, hoping they can convince Greta to lie down and accept an epidural.

Her pain is great. She’s already cussed out all the nurses.

But Greta hates needles. This is a fear we share.

Since I’m on her side, Greta asks me to walk with her to escape the hostility. She stops every few minutes to let out a rather alarming groan.

I’ve texted both my brothers and my dad to walk with me because I have this terrible, awful feeling my cousin is going to squeeze out a kid on the linoleum floor.

And it’ll be my fault.

They’ll say since I hated needles and spouted off about how horrible they were when we were kids, that I’m the one who poisoned Greta on them.

And that’s why she’s currently walking the halls of Mercy Hospital, deep into labor pains, and refusing to even put in an IV.

It’s on me.


I’m the eldest of all the cousins. I’m the big Pickle.

I was a tyrant in our youth. I made everybody listen to me. Follow my lead. Do what I say.

Especially when needles were involved. I provided detailed descriptions of the pediatrician’s office, so the cousins knew where to flee when the vaccine shot came out.

And here we are. Still on the run.

Greta’s wheat-blond hair sticks to her forehead in sweaty clumps. She wears two blue hospital gowns, one open to the back and one to the front, to avoid having to worry about drafts.

I hold her arm as we walk along the hall, the occasional visitor looking at us with alarm as they pass.

“Maybe needles aren’t that bad—” I venture.

She cuts me off. “Shut up, Jace. I’m trying to have a baby here.”

“Wouldn’t it be better in bed? With sheets? And a doctor?”

“Walking helps labor go faster.”

“We’ve been walking half an hour—”

“Shut up, Jace!”

I shut up.

We make it a few more steps when suddenly, Greta’s face goes red, she bends over, and squats smack in the middle of the hall.

The groan that comes out of her mouth would scare off a pride of mountain lions.

I look around frantically for a doctor, a nurse, a janitor. Anybody.

Why is nobody outside their rooms?

We’re at least ten miles from the nursing station.

“You okay, Greta?”

She huffs in several big breaths. “I think he’s coming!”


She lets out another long screech and I do the only thing I can think of, harkening back to my football days.

I lunge to the floor between her legs and hold out my hands to make the catch.

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