Page 73 of Big Dill

She holds up a roll. “What do you think of this? It’s nylon and spandex.”

“As long as it doesn’t fit me like bicycle shorts.” I mock shiver. “It’s not a good look for me.”

She laughs. “Or for any guy. This is for the women, though. The cotton spandex blend is for the guys.”

I touch the fabric. “Moisture wicking?”

“Right here.” She holds up another roll. “Polyester blend. I’m going to start with just a few fabrics but eventually I’d like to do hats, and heavier lounge shorts for court to street transitions.”

“This is fantastic, Jami.”

Grinning at my approval, she heads to the cubby, flips open a design book with just the faintest hint of nerves, says, “Now for the big logo reveal.” She holds it out for me. My gaze drops, and my first reaction is immediate—I laugh.

It’s a little cartoon pickle, face focused and determined, sporting a tiny headband. Its body curved just so, like it’s about to commit fully to a dive into…Churchill Falls. The motion in the sketch somehow makes it feel alive. Silly. Ambitious. Perfectly ridiculous.

I glance up at Jami, suddenly worried I made a mistake laughing at her creativity, or hurt her feelings. But when I see her grin—proud and a little relieved—all doubt leaves me.

“This is really cute,” I say. “I love it. It’s perfect for our social.”

Her shoulders slump as she lets out a long, relieved breath. “Whew. I was worried you’d think it was too cutesy. But I want it whimsical, playful. Not everything in life has to be so serious.”

I nod. “Agreed. Sports are about having fun, too.”

She tilts her head at me, eyes sparkling. “So… you really like it?”

“I really do,” I say firmly.

“Good,” she says, flipping back through the pages. “Because I already sent the design off. Badges are being made.” She claps her hands together. “Can you just imagine? My own label. A cute boutique. Limited editions and small batches.”

I shake my head, smiling at her enthusiasm. Somehow, that tiny diving pickle—so utterly ridiculous on paper—is exactly the kind of thing that makes Jami, and this little world she’s building, feel alive. I am so happy to be along for the ride.

“Okay,” Jami says, shoving me lightly. “You need to go.”

“Why don’t you tell me what you really think,” I add, grinning.

“I want to play with some ideas before my class starts,” she says, backing me toward the door, hands pressed against my chest, warming me from the inside out “And I do not need you here distracting me.”

“That’s what I am to you?” I ask, teasing. “A distraction?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “A big one.”

I grin. “Big dill?”

She groans, and as she pushes me away, the way she’s always leaning into me betrays her actions and her words. “Bye, Brody.”

“Lumber-snack?”

“Go,” she says, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling.

I should walk away. I know the rules. Don’t start something—again—that could blow up in both our faces.

Instead, I lean in.

Before her brain—or mine—catches up, my lips are on hers. She melts, hands sliding up my back, pulling me closer, hips pressing in. Every careful thought I had vanishes. There’s only heat, only this, only the pull I’ve been trying to ignore.

A low moan rumbles from my chest. She shivers into me.

Jesus, this is dangerous. Risky. We could get caught any second, yet I can’t seem to stop myself.