Page 5 of Big Dill

“Yeah, you’re right.” I glance around at the passengers collecting luggage—not from a conveyor belt, but from a wheeled rack. Modern technology hasn’t quite reached Churchill Falls yet. “It’s not like any of these people know me.”

Just then, a man—a walking sex-in-a-flannel-shirt-coat—sidles up next to Jaxon. His eyes widen when they land on me, and… oh my God.

Oh-my-freaking-God.

I was dead wrong about no one here knowing me.

2

Brody

What the ever-loving⁠—?

I stumble backward like someone just yanked the rug out from under me.

Tami.

My Tami, standing here like a sweet, sugary temptation. My brain short-circuits. My heart decides to audition for the role of jackhammer. And my mouth? Yeah, it’s officially on vacation.

She’s gorgeous. Ridiculously gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous that makes a guy question every life choice that ever led to this moment. And, oh yeah… she’s the gorgeous woman I had beneath me a little over a month ago.

I scratch my head. What is she doing here? “Uh…”

Christ, Brody. Say something. Do something. Breathe.

Wait. Hold up. My gaze goes from her to Jaxon, as one brain cell kicks in.

Tami is…Jami?

Jaxon’s sister?

No. No way. No fucking way.

“Jami,” Jaxon begins. “This is Brody. Brody, this is Jami.”

My brain performs a rapid-fire loop of all possible disasters. Bobblehead on steroids has nothing on me right now. Do I pretend I’ve never met her? Do I confess I went to Halifax and…well, let’s just say she didn’t leave the pub alone? Do I gamble my entire friendship with Jaxon—a guy who treats his little sister like a medieval knight guarding the crown jewels—on the honesty card?

Before I can formulate a single coherent strategy, Jami comes to my rescue by extending her arm. “Nice to meet you, Brody. I’m Jami. Jaxon’s told me so much about you, it’s like I already know you.”

Then she mutters something under her breath. I almost—but not quite—catch it.

Big dill?

I blink.

Did she just say…big dill?

My eyes snap to Jaxon, who’s looking at me like I might have a pickleball paddle sticking out of my head. His brow furrows, bewilderment vibrating off him, and I realize he knows something’s up. He just doesn’t know what.

Please Lord, don’t let him figure it out.

“Yeah,” I choke out, attempting casual. Casual is a lost cause. My coat is suddenly 10 pounds too heavy, the airport terminal feels like the Sahara, and my damp T-shirt is going to stiffen the second I walk out into the cold.

Stiffen.

Jesus.

I’m in bad shape here.