Page 20 of Hold the Pickle
He stares at my feet. “I was wondering what those said.”
“What said?”
“Your socks.”
“Oh.” I self-consciously pull in my feet to sit cross-legged.
“So, you lovepickles?” He says it the way he’d said “cock” earlier.
Oh, God, he thinks it means penis. Like the eggplant emoji does on social media.
“Pickles, like the deli. My family isreallyinto pickle jokes.”
He leans back, elbows out, his hands clasped behind his head. In his scrubs, his biceps bulging above the sleeves, he could be filming an episode ofGrey’s Anatomy.
Which I’ve watched. Three times through.
Is he a Dr. McDreamy? Or more of a Dr. McHottie?
I have to shake this line of thinking off.All the wayoff.
But it’s hard to shed that initial attraction we had in the courtyard. Especially when we’re this close, this informal, thiscozy.
“So tell me one,” he says.
I’ve gone so far out in my train of thought that I have to go back and find the thread of conversation. “A pickle joke?”
“Sure, if your family has so many.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m not a good joke teller.”
His grin sends my heart skittering. “But I’m an excellent audience. I promise to laugh like you’re Taylor Tomlinson.”
“You like her?” She’s my favorite comedian.
“Love her. See, we have something in common.” He yawns and quickly covers his mouth.
“You have to be exhausted. You haven’t slept since yesterday.”
“Nope, I’m wide awake and ready for a pickle joke.”
He’s not going to drop it.
“Okay, but only one.”
“Excellent.” He kicks off his shoes and crosses one foot over his ankle.
“Okay, let me think.” I run through the repertoire Uncle Sherman loves to pull out at Christmas. Max is also one to repeat the favorites.
There’s the dill dough one. No, not going there.
The giggling dills. No. Not funny enough.
The door being a-jar. No. I hate that one.
