Page 11 of Big Dill

“No problem.” Brody picks up my suitcase and without another word, starts up the stairs.

I open my mouth—ready to protest, argue, beg, file an official complaint—but the moment I lift my head, my brain short-circuits. Because suddenly I’m eye-level with Brody’s… glutes.

And sweet baby Jesus.

Those glutes.

Those perfect, sculpted, annoyingly symmetrical muscles that should come with a warning label.

Jock.

Athlete.

Lumber-snack.

Honestly, who knew casual recreational pickleball could give a man sculpted glutes? I mean, what are they doing on that court? Lifting kettlebells with their butts?

By the time one perfectly formed muscle flexes under his jeans as he climbs another stair, my tongue has rolled out of my mouth. Damn, he’s fine.

He glances over his shoulder, and I’m far too slow to react.

Busted.

A devilish grin curls at the corner of his mouth. “You coming?”

Oh God. He has no idea.

I force one foot in front of the other, pretending I’m a functioning human, while my brain stages a mutiny. He starts up the stairs again, and I work desperately to avert my gaze so I’m not staring at his… well, anything, but fail spectacularly. Every step he takes feels like a deliberate test of my willpower.

We reach the top. Take two steps. A right turn. He guides me into my brother’s room and waves his hand. I quickly catalogue the space.

Double bed—check.

Dresser—check.

Nightstands—check.

Hot guy setting my suitcase on said double bed that would easily sleep two—check, check, check, and a side of I’m in trouble here.

I stop breathing entirely, and he notices.

“Jami, you have to breathe,” he says, voice low, soothing in a way I’m not used to.

“Okay,” I murmur, sucking in a shaky breath. “I just…”

“I know. I can’t believe it either. What are the odds?”

“Math isn’t my thing,” I admit, because clearly numbers are irrelevant when I’m standing in my brother’s room with the hottest guy on the planet. But math…I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t trusted Tristan to do the books…

But I did, and now I have to find a way to move forward.

Brody glances past my shoulders, scanning the hallway as if he’s expecting a SWAT team—or worse, Jaxon—to storm in. “I hate keeping this from him.” His eyes are tortured like he’s waging a war with himself.

“We have to,” I whisper, tension coiling in my chest. “It could ruin so many things.”

“I know.” He steps closer, and my body hums. I lean toward him, as if he’s the sun and I’m a very aware planet.

“We…we have to forget anything ever happened,” I add.