Page 48 of Fiona and the Fixer

Dax turned his head, grinned at the guy. “You know pregnant women. They love their pickles.”

I sucked in a breath through my teeth.

“They’re all out of them,” I muttered.

“Then I guess we’ll let this guy get back to work.”

I shook my head. This was my one shot, and I wasn’t letting Dax blow it. “Where’s your bathroom?” I asked the guy. I forced another smile. “Gotta pee all the time when pregnant.”

He grimaced and thumbed over his shoulder.

I slithered out of Dax’s hold and went down the side hall to the unisex bathroom. Then went right on by and to the swinging door with an Employees Only sign on it. After hearing someone else was in the back, I paused. Only a Fleetwood Mac song and something heavy being moved. I nudged the door open with my toe a few inches and peeked in.

A guy, pickle containers–some with lids off and empty, some with lids on–and nothing else. No jars of pickles or relish. No pickles of any kind that I could see. The back exit to the alley was propped open and he was carrying the closed containers out the door to the now-familiar waiting van. He did the same thing twice, before I remembered I was supposed to be peeing.

Returning to the front, Dax and the guy were chatting about which teams’ chances were the best to get to the World Series.

I barely had a chance to nod my thanks to the guy before Dax steered me out of the place and down thesidewalk. Once we were clear of the store’s front window, I tugged out of his hold and spun on him.

Set my hands on my hips. “Pregnant?”

God forbid. I didn’t want kids. I would suck as a mother, I never had one growing up and the shitshow childhood I had was beyond bad for my parenting resume.

“Peeing?” he countered.

“I had to see what was going on in there.”

“I thought we were doing this together,” he countered.

“I only went into the store. I didn’t serve them a search warrant.”

“You weren’t the only one carrying a gun,” he commented.

“You noticed that, too?” While it wasn’t a hot summer day, the leather jacket the guy wore was excessive, but hid a weapon well.

“There was a second guy in the back loading the five-gallon containers into the back of their van. What kind of pickle shop is all out of pickles?” I asked him.

“A good one. Maybe he’s loading up the van to pick up more.”

“Yeah, maybe, but have you seen people coming and going from the place? There’d have to be a mad rush to clean them out completely.”

“The mad rush is all in the bookstore,” he muttered.

I stepped closer. Close enough to see his eyes flare a deep, dangerous blue. “I think it’s drugs,” I said, my voice tempered so passerby didn’t overhear.

His dark brow went up, but didn’t seem all that surprised. “Why do you say that?”

“I heard them talking.”

His eyes widened for a sec. “Oh? When?”

Good point. When?

I shrugged. “Before you came in.”

“You overheard the guy in the leather jacket and someone else talking about drugs.” He ran a hand down his face. “Then decided to snoop? Jesus, sweetheart. Do you have a death wish?”

“If it looks like a pickle and smells like a pickle, it’s probably smuggled drugs.”

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