Pickle Cousins Trilogy Book Box

JUICY PICKLE: When a boss and the assistant he just fired get stranded on a cruise line's deserted private island, the two sworn enemies will have to work together to survive with only a hand-crank margarita machine and a ten-gallon bucket of pickles.

SALTY PICKLE: She's eight months pregnant and headed to New York to tell the baby daddy. With her goat.

HOLD THE PICKLE: A deli worker is forced to share a tiny LA apartment with a smokin’ hot hospital intern, only to realize that only one bed might be too much of a temptation to resist.

Hold the Pickle Chapter 1: Nadia

This scheme of mine simply has to work.

I circle the main building of the apartment complex I’ve chosen, looking for a place to park.

There aren’t any spots.

It’s ten in the morning on a Tuesday. Who lives here but doesn’t work on a weekday? Musicians? Night managers?

I finally give up and look along the curb. I find a gap on the street and hop out of my Jeep.

I ought to be working myself. I graduated with my MBA two months ago. My family expects me to take a position with our national deli chain. Not making sandwiches, but on the corporate side.

I’m not sure it’s right for me.

That’s why I’m here this morning. Getting an apartment and signing a lease in LA will give me a reprieve. I can’t be summoned to Pickle HQ if I’m stuck in California.

And I’m going to get a lease, even if this place doesn’t look very appealing. The scraggly courtyard hasn’t been mowed or watered in weeks. Trash has accumulated in the corners.

Undaunted, I trudge toward the apartment office. My navy-blue ballet flats disappear in the overgrowth as I arrive at a shady section of the courtyard where the grass hasn’t been burned into hell’s carpet.

I can’t be picky. Furnished apartments are rare. This is one of only two in a ten-mile radius that I can afford with my meager income. Hopefully, it’s still available, because the other is only a one-room studio.

I’m nearing the office door when I hear a deep, gravelly voice that hums through my whole body.

“Please tell Gina to look after the spinal trauma patient from last night. I’ll check on him myself when I’m back on rotation … yeah, the one with the thoracic injury.”

I slow down. A doctor lives here?

The courtyard doesn’t seem so bad now. Maybe the landscapers have been negligent, and the manager is beside herself. It has character, a meandering stone pathway cutting between the four squat buildings. I bet it’s lovely when cared for.

The voice returns, sending another shiver through me. “I have twelve hours before I come in. See you on the floor.”

Oh, he works nights. Maybe that’s the reason all the cars are here. South General Hospital is nearby.

A building full of doctors. I could live with that.

I wonder if this one is as sexy as his voice. I peer into the shadows beneath a set of concrete stairs leading to the second level. There’s a man standing there, looking at his phone.

He’s wearing scrubs! His sandy brown hair is short and spiky, standing up in every direction from him running his hands through it. He has a modest five o’clock shadow, but it doesn’t seem on purpose, like he’s normally clean-shaven.

He pokes at his phone, then seems to sense my stare because he looks up. His eyebrows lift when he sees me. “Hey,” he says.

He spoke. To me!

“Uhhhh. Oh! Hey.” Nice, Nadia. That was articulate.

But he smiles, and the flash of his perfect teeth is like a light in the gloom. “Scorcher today, isn’t it?”

It is now. “Yeah. Is LA always like this?”

He steps away from the brick wall. His pale green scrubs can’t hide the heft of his chest. A nicely honed bicep peeks out from his sleeve as he grasps the rail of the stairs above him. “I’m not sure. I’ve only been here two weeks.”

He’s new here, too!

“I thought SoCal had perfect weather.” I force myself not to smooth my pencil skirt or fiddle with my shirt. Stay cool, Nadia.

“Perfect beach weather.” He grins at me. “If you’re into sand and sea.”

“I am.” I find myself smiling back. Something’s happening here. Holy hotness, I need to live in this complex, stat!

Before I can ask him about the apartments, his phone buzzes. “I apologize,” he says, and he sounds disappointed. Disappointed! “I have to take this. Will I see you around?”

“I hope so!” My voice is a squeak. Oooh, too eager.

But he grins again as he answers the call.

I skip my way to the office manager’s door. I should check myself, but my heart isn’t listening. I’m useless when it comes to possibilities. And that doctor, new to town, already making eyes at me, is definitely a possibility.

It’s a sign. This is where I’m meant to be. Not in New York, working at Pickle Media with my family. Not in Florida at the Dougherty division with my brother.

Here. By the ocean. Sand and sea.

Maybe with a hot doctor by my side!

I turn the knob on the door to enter the office. A woman with thin, puffed-out red hair sits behind a desk piled with folders.

Maybe I can subtly find out who the mystery doctor is, once I’ve signed a lease, of course. Wouldn’t it be wild if we were neighbors? I could bake him cookies after a long shift of saving people’s lives.

I’m positively giddy.

“Can I help you?” the woman asks, and despite her dour expression and less-than-friendly tone, I slide into the seat opposite her with open excitement.

I’m ready to sign on the dotted line.

My Los Angeles adventure just got a whole lot better.