Page 95 of Big Dill

“I hardly think I’ll eat five.” I open the loaf of white bread, slapping slices onto the plates. “What do I use for spread? Butter, mustard, ketchup…or mayonnaise?” I mock shiver, remembering that guy at the café who dipped his fries into mayonnaise. “You Newfoundlanders are a strange bunch.”

“If you didn’t think so before, you sure will now.” He slides a couple of sizzling bologna slices onto one slice of bread and squishes the other on top. The smell makes my stomach grumble again. He hands the plate to me, and I stare at him.

“That’s it? No spread?”

“Not even jam,” he says, winking. “And you know how much I like jam.”

I laugh as he picks his sandwich up, biting into it with exaggerated satisfaction.

“We don’t slice it?”

“Nope.”

“Do you turn into barbarians at the cottage?”

“You eat it just like this, babe.” He takes another bite.

“When in Rome…” I pick up my sandwich. The bread is warm, the bologna perfectly crisp at the edges. I take a bite, and my eyes go wide. “No freaking way,” I whisper, shocked at how good it is.

“Freaking way,” he responds with a laugh.

“Brody, why is this so good?”

“It just is,” he says simply, with that easy confidence that somehow makes my heart stutter.

We grab our plates and move into the living room, sinking onto the couch with a groan of contentment. Feet up on the coffee table, the warmth of the fire curling around us, a quiet, comfortable silence settles. I glance at him, and my stomach twists when I find him watching me in return.

What was that he said about love?

22

Brody

With Jami’s arms wrapped tightly around my waist, I give the snowmobile a confident shot of gas and weave through the narrow trails, snow spraying up in soft white arcs behind us. Her laughter cuts through the engine’s growl, and I can’t help but smile. Then—a soft thump—a clump of snow drops from an overhanging branch and explodes across my helmet.

She squeals, half laugh, half shriek, and buries her face between my shoulder blades.

“Nature is attacking us,” she yells.

“I warned you.” I shout back. “These trees are ruthless.”

Up ahead, the clearing opens, the light thinning as the afternoon slips toward evening. We’ve been out for over an hour, and as much as I’d keep going just to hear that laugh again, I figure she’s probably cold, maybe tired.

I slow the machine and turn us back toward the cottage. She tightens her grip as we retrace our tracks, her helmet knocking lightly against my back, the pressure of her right there, settling something in my chest I didn’t know was restless.

I pull up in front of the cottage and kill the engine. Silence rushes in, broken only by the whisper of falling snow. Jami hops off, cheeks flushed pink, eyes bright as she tugs off her mittens and lifts her helmet free, shaking out her hair.

“That was so much fun, Brody,” she says, breathless, and I swear to God if I could, I’d bottle the moment.

“Next time, you drive.”

She scrunches her nose and glances toward the trees, beyond the clearing. “Absolutely not. I’d wrap us around a tree in under five minutes.”

“Nah.” I grin. “I have faith in you.” She snorts, and I nod toward the door. “Go on, head in,” I say, and I glance up. Heavy clouds are rolling in now, swallowing what’s left of the late afternoon sun. “I’ll put this away in case we get weather and be right in.”

Once she’s inside, I fire the machine back up and swing it around back, securing it in the shed. As I head toward the front door, the distant thwap-thwap-thwap of blades fills the air. I look up just in time to see a helicopter slicing through the clouds.

Not Frank’s.