Page 34 of Big Dill

“Yeah?”

“This heat is making me sleepy.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Have a nap. You’re in a safe place.”

“You’re going to stay?” The vulnerability in her voice nearly undoes me.

“Yeah, Jami,” I say. “I’m going to stay.” God, the way she trusts me—it’s almost too much. Especially considering the lie we’re keeping from her brother.

I dim the lights and return to my desk, letting her soft exhale fill the room. I shuffle through charts, make a few notes, and after about half an hour, she stirs.

“Hey,” I whisper.

Her head turns toward me, a long pillowcase line pressed into her flushed cheek. “You stayed.”

I feel my chest tighten at the sight. “I promised I would.”

“Man of your word, right.” She smiles. “I fell asleep.”

I walk over to her, and lower my voice to match hers. “I know. Everyone here knows, actually.”

“Did someone…” she turns to her side, her worried gaze darts to the closed door, her body tense as she shifts to get up. As a measure of vulnerability flashes in her eyes, I rest a hand firmly on her abdomen, keeping her still. She settles, but wait… Did she just… moan? Does she like being under my hold like that?

Oh this is not good. Not good at all.

“It was the snoring?” I say quickly, teasing, trying to mask the jolt of awareness her reaction gave me. “Rattled the walls.” She chuckles softly and relaxes. I lean closer. “I’d never let anyone in here while you were sleeping. You were safe with me.”

She nods and her hand slides over mine, holding it on her stomach, and my pulse jumps.

“I do not snore,” she assures me.

I lean a little closer, my voice dropping. “Whatever you say, Jams.”

She chuckles. “Jams?”

I put my hand over hers. “What, you don’t like it?”

I lightly run my thumb over her delicate wrist.

She takes a soft breath. “No one calls me that.”

“You’re saying I’m no one?” I tease back, spreading her fingers with mine.

She gives a shaky laugh, her head moving side to side. “I’m saying… what are we even talking about? You’re so annoying I don’t remember.”

I thread my fingers through hers.

“Your nickname,” I counter, voice low as she shifts, her T-shirt lifting, exposing the soft skin of her stomach.

I press my thumb to hers, rub it over her exposed flesh.

Her breathing changes, becomes a bit deeper. “That is not my nickname.”

I move our thumbs lower, her waistband a barrier I don’t dare cross.

“Jams,” I say again, tasting it on my tongue. “I like it.”

She moves her body, like she’s trying to guide our fingers lower. Past the barrier I know better than breaching.