Page 27 of Big Dill

She shakes her head, incredulous, a humorless laugh escaping her lips. “Wow. Do I have a tattoo or some holographic script on my forehead that says, just a girl trying to finally please her parents?”

“That’s how they’ll measure success,” I ask.

She doesn’t answer, and that’s okay. It was a statement, not a question.

I hate it. I truly fucking hate the way she’s bending herself into shapes she hopes will earn approval. I’ve never had to fight for love like that, but I know enough to recognize the ache of it.

“What do you want, Jami?” I ask. No judgment. No agenda.

She considers it, really considers it. “I do want to design sportswear. I mean, whose dream isn’t it to turn that into a worldwide phenomenon, right?” She shrugs. “That would be a lovely perk.”

I flatten my hands on the table, redirecting before things get too heavy. I don’t think she’s ready for it, and not only does she have time to figure out her next steps, what she truly wants, today is supposed to be about fun.

“Okay. Enough about that. Today is about making you happy, and since carbs are scientifically proven to do that…”

I open the small paper bag and slide a cinnamon roll onto the table.

Her eyes go wide. “Are you trying to fatten me up?”

“You’re forgetting where you are.” I nod around us. “When in Rome⁠—”

She cocks a brow, suspicious.

“Okay…” I amend, laughing, “…when in the Arctic tundra, you pay attention to how the indigenous species live. Especially the bears.”

She looks around, alarm flashing across her face. “There are bears here?”

I laugh outright at that. “Yes. And you know there are. Bears fatten up in winter. Extra layers. Survival.”

“Says the guy who turned down pie because he’s in training.” She eyes the cinnamon roll and shrugs. “Well. Since I’m in Rome…”

She reaches for it.

“Don’t worry,” I say, a little too easily. “We’ll work it off later.”

Her eyes lift to mine, and that’s when I see what everyone else does. Attraction. Connection…sure. But also, complications neither of us are ready for. Shit.

7

Jami

I met so many people today that if Brody gives me a test later, I’d surely fail. We toured the hotel, grocery store, and the one and only retail shop that carries everything from guns and camouflage gear to ladies’ dresses that were…let’s just say not my style. But if one is in need of a toothbrush or a new vibrator—both of which I will be needing—they got you covered.

Fortunately they have a post office here and I can order whatever I want online, but we’re talking Canada Post, so that could mean five months to arrive, but hey, I can plan ahead. Look at me, seeing the glass half full.

With eyes still absorbing everything around me, I walk beside Brody, our tour of main street almost finished, and I have to say, a part of me is utterly flabbergasted. I never thought a small town could have a personality. But as cars slowly rumble down the main street, the tail pipes puffing out exhaust, Churchill Falls practically shouts it.

Buildings lean with age, not neglect. The hardware store had a hand-painted sign promising “Everything You Didn’t Know You Needed,” and the gas station sports a forgotten Christmas wreath that looked like it had survived three winters too many.

Everywhere, there were small touches that made me grin: a mailbox with a knitted hat, a stray snowman with a crooked carrot nose. Window boxes waiting to be filled with fragrant flowers.

In this town, people wave at each other, an easy performance perfected over decades. Many glanced my way, curious but not unfriendly. There’s humor here, definitely. And stubbornness. I can feel it in the way a lone cyclist just battled the icy hill, in the way the diner sign bragged about coffee “better than your city blend,” and in the sheer determination of anyone trying to get a car started in minus twenty.

But there’s warmth too. Beneath the snow, beneath the frostbite and mosquito jokes, beneath the town’s rough edges, I sense loyalty and resilience that makes the cold feel bearable. The people who didn’t leave, or left and came back…they didn’t give up on it, or each other.

I glance up at Brody. Churchill Falls is his home. It’s in his blood. He built his life here, with that same stubborn pride I sense all around me, and a new kind of warmth blooms inside me.

He must sense me looking. He glances down at me, a smile touching his eyes. “Having fun?” he asks.