Falling for the Killer: A Dark Possessive Mafia Romance, B.B Hamel [good story books to read .TXT] 📗

I gave him the cash and beheld the perfect pickle.

“It looks good?” Ash said.

“It looks good,” I confirmed, picked up my specimen, and took a bite.

Oh, God above, the crunch, the sour bite, the salty swirl, and then that kick after, the spicy perfect burn of the jalapenos Marshal added to his brine, it played on my tongue like a symphony of perfection. I groaned in ecstasy, took another bite, and nodded at Ash.

“Do it,” I whispered.

She raised the pickle to her lips. She hesitated before sliding it into her mouth.

The snap, the crunch. Her eyes went wide with surprise. “This is, uh, interesting,” she said, trying to smile.

“It’s a real pickle,” I said softly. “Not that grocery store bullshit, which is really just a baby cucumber in vinegar. This is the real thing, Ash. This is the dream.”

“The dream,” she echoed.

“Eat,” I commanded, and set to work finishing my pickle with relish.

Marshal watched the whole time, his annoyed gaze hanging over our every move.

Ash obeyed. She was perfect, my gorgeous Ash. She ate the pickle, though I could tell the gherkin’s majesty was lost on her. She finished it, swallowed it down, and beamed at me.

“You know, that wasn’t bad,” she said. “I like the spice.”

“She likes the spice,” I said to Marshal.

He nodded. “Good,” he said.

I bought two big jars and offered to get more for Ash, but she declined. I tipped Marshal a little extra, simply out of good will and appreciation. We left the tent together, walking side by side, the jugs of pickles sloshing under each arm.

“I’m going to be honest with you, Gian,” Ash said as we passed a stand selling incense. “This thing with pickles is insanely weird.”

“I know,” I said with a sigh. “It’s my one flaw. I love those pickles. I really, really love them.”

She nodded once and seemed to struggle for a moment, but beamed at me. “I understand,” she said. “And you know what? I’m happy you found something you like so much.”

“I appreciate that,” I said. “You’re the perfect woman. And this is the perfect pickle.”

“What a lucky man.” She smiled at me, radiant in the afternoon sunlight, and my heart melted, and for one moment I thought maybe, just maybe, I could give up my pickles for her—