Page 47 of His Pickle Her Jam

I needed my hands on her. It was like I couldn’t tell if she was real unless I was holding her.

“Good morning, David,” she said, rising on tiptoes to kiss me.

“You guys, they’re here!” Delani whisper-screamed excitedly.

But I didn’t care about anything other than the woman in my arms.

“Good morning,” the familiar sound of Mrs. Montgomery’s voice interrupted us, and I frowned as Jan winked at me then turned around.

“Allow me to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Jones,” the realtor said, gesturing to the two older people beside her.

“Good morning,” I said, my arm around Jan’s back as she shook hands and introduced herself.

“Well, it looks like the block party has already started,” Mrs. Jones said, smiling kindly.

“That it has. Where would you like to begin?” Mrs. Montgomery asked and glared at us.

“Better get to our corners,” Jan whispered, squeezing my hand before ducking around her counter.

I frowned, but I went, too.

Delani was standing with Jan, and they both talked animatedly to Mr. Jones, who’d decided to try her selections first. Sonny was putting samples of my wares into the tasting cups while I answered Mrs. Jones' questions.

“How long have you been doing this?” she inquired, holding a cup of my classic dills.

“A few years, though it began as a hobby,” I told her, keeping my smile open and friendly, though I kept stealing glances at Jan.

“She is lovely,” the keen-eyed older woman said, looking at Jan, then back at me.

“Um, yeah, she is.”

“You know, you have that same look in your eye as my husband did when I first applied to work in this store forty-seven years ago. I was only seventeen at the time, still in school. But by the time I graduated the next year, he proposed and bought the store from his father who was retiring.”

“Really? I didn’t realize this place had been here that long,” I said, surprised.

“Oh yes, this place has been run by couples working side by side for three generations. Unfortunately, our children were not interested. But I can see you and Miss Morrow have something between you, yes?”

“Yes,” I said, not even trying to play coy.

“You love her, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Does she know?”

“I told her, yeah,” I said, biting my lip.

“So, why are you doing this? Why compete? Why not work together?”

Suddenly, I was struck dumb.

The hair on the back of my neck rose, and tingles danced up my spine. I watched Jan, taking in her smile and charm and natural grace.

Mrs. Jones was right.

I didn’t care anymore about winning this thing.

I just cared about her.

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