Page 72 of Fiona and the Fixer

He went inside, kept the door open, which meant I couldn’t sprint off.

I watched as he twisted the lid off the first container I tried and pulled out a pickle with his bare hand.

He returned to me, holding the pickle up like a popsicle and shoved it at me. “Here. Only a few left.”

I had to take the dripping pickle. “God, thanks. You’re a lifesaver.”

He grunted, then went inside, pulling the back door shut behind him.

Fuck. FUCK. I took a second for my heart to calm, then dashed down the alley, tossing the pickle into a shrub before I hit the side street.

I met the Highcliffs at their car and pretended to notice if they had any purchases. “No luck?”

Mrs. Highcliff frowned. “They don’t have any pickles.”

“Huh.”

“Did you know a gherkin is a baby pickle?” Bob asked.

“Did you get the bullets, dear?” Mrs. Highcliff asked, ignoring her husband. She went around the car to the driver’s side. Even if her husband wasn’t drunk before lunch, I still knew she’d drive. She obviously wore the pants in this family.

“No luck, either,” I replied.

I had goodandbad luck. The pickle people really were smuggling drugs. I had the proof I needed tucked in my pants. Except if the men counted their supply, they’d know they were short. And Mr. Leather Jacket would definitely remember me.

Because Dax made me the crazy, hormonal pregnant lady.

32

DAX

From the bookstore front window,I watched the Highcliffs enter the pickle shop, then five minutes later leave. Empty handed. Who I didn’t see was Fiona.

That had been over an hour ago. I tried calling her, but SHE DIDN’T PICK UP HER FUCKING PHONE. Where the hell was she? On the trampoline with Briana? Helping Bob pet his beaver?

When my cell rang in my hand, I blindly answered it. “What?”

A male grunt came across the line. “I have a job for you.”

Pulling the phone away from my ear, I looked at the nameon the screen. Shit.

Max Pinter.

Shit.

“You weren’t happy with my previous performance. Why should I do another job? You’ll drop my star rating on Google.”

He didn’t laugh. “Because you owe me.”

I glanced around the store. There were six women in the place. One was tucked in the comfortable storytime chair. Two were in the historical section and a trio were whispering about something–probably naughty–by the paranormal titles.

“I think we have to agree to disagree on this one,” I muttered.

“A friend is having someone snoop around his business.”

“That’s it? No dead bodies?”

“You have permission to fix this problem however possible. The flow of product could be impacted so you need to get on it immediately.”

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