Page 40 of Big Dill

“So it’s not hard?” He arches a brow. Ohmigod. “The game. The game isn’t hard.”

He comes out from behind the bar and gestures toward the court. “Let me give you the rundown.”

He starts talking about kitchens and bounces and spreads and points, and I nod along like I’m absorbing information instead of mentally repeating the word hard because apparently, I now have the maturity of a twelve-year-old boy.

“It doesn’t sound hard,” I say.

Hard.

Stop it.

He gestures to a bench. “I’m going to run back to my office and get changed. You can watch us play. If you have questions, keep notes and ask afterward.”

“I promise to sit quietly and keep my unsolicited comments to myself,” I say solemnly.

He grins. “That’ll be the hardest part of your day.”

“Careful, b’y.” He laughs and saunters off. I happily sip my drink as he disappears and turn my attention to the courts. My brother is warming up and waves his paddle at me. He’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt. Zero effort. Pure function.

I glance at the woman on one of the other courts. Shorts. T-shirt. Again.

And then it hits me.

This pickleball social should be the first with signature designs. Cute skirts. Athletic fabric. Functional and flattering. Who says you can’t look hot while aggressively tapping a plastic ball over a net?

Not me. I would never say that.

The idea sparkles for a glorious three seconds before dying a slow, tragic death when I remember I no longer have a sewing machine—or a career.

Still. Maybe someone in this town has one. Brody’s sister? His mom? Churchill Falls feels like the kind of place where sewing machines are passed down like heirlooms. I make a mental note to ask.

Brody comes back, and my gaze drops to his legs. To his tennis shorts to be precise.

Repeat after me: tennis shorts.

Not pickleball shorts.

Something must be done.

Granted, anything I designed would be similar, with mesh to hold the parts, but I’d want them to be known as pickleball shorts. Now, how would I go about that branding?

As I mull that over, my eyes drift to his thighs—muscular, solid—and I take exactly one dangerous moment to remember what it felt like to be between them.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

I am over him. That kiss proved we have zero chemistry. Static electricity at best. Mouthguard-level romance.

“Ready to watch me obliterate your brother?” Brody says.

“In your dreams, dude,” Jaxon shoots back.

Brody spins his paddle. “You think you’re in my dreams, Jaxon?”

Jaxon laughs. “God, I hope not.”

Well. That clears that up. I’d briefly wondered if Jaxon moved to Churchill Falls for a guy. It would be deeply inconvenient if we were both lusting after the same man.