Page 139 of The Dixon Rule

“Maybe he wants to pay his own way.” She lifts a brow at me. “Unlike some people.”

I glare at her. But we both know she’s not wrong, and now I feel like a total asshole.

“Stop making me self-reflect,” I grumble.

She just laughs.

Oak Ridges is eerily similar to my own hometown. I didn’t expect to have so much in common with Diana Dixon, but it turns out we do. We both grew up in small towns. We both have younger siblings. And we’re so sexually compatible, it’s not even funny.

Diana parks the car in the driveway of a modest house with white siding and a tidy lawn. We’re greeted at the front door by Diana’s father, who is not at all what I expected. The square jaw and blond buzz cut make sense, but I was picturing a big, hulking guy wearing camouflage gear and at least seven feet tall. Tom Dixon is shorter than I am, maybe around five nine. But what he lacks in height, he makes up for in build. He’s got beefy shoulders, a barrel chest, and biceps the size of my thighs.

“This is the new boyfriend?” he says after Diana introduces us.

“Yeah.”

“Welcome.” He eyes the cooler in my hands. “What you brought today, son, is really going to determine whether I like you or not.”

I snicker. “Trust me, you’re going to love this.”

“Shane is the sausage king,” Diana sighs.

“I’ve got a guy in Boston,” I reveal to Mr. Dixon. “Nobody knows about him. He operates a tiny little butcher shop in Back Bay between a laundromat and—”

“A Korean karaoke place,” he finishes.

My mouth falls open. “You know Gustav?”

“Kid, I’ve been going to Gustav since before you were born. I know Gustav Senior!”

“No shit!”

He all but snatches the cooler from me. “Ah, I gotta see what Gustav gave you.”

We race into the kitchen like a pair of schoolboys. Tom opens the cooler, his entire face scrunched in concentration as he examines the selection of sausages I brought.

“Well?” I say, holding my breath.

He lifts his head. “We’re best friends now. Diana, please excuse us.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m gonna go find Thomas. You weirdos entertain yourselves.”

Once she’s gone, Diana’s dad gives me a once-over. After an unnervingly long silence, he asks, “Do you treat my daughter with respect?”

The question startles me. “Of course,” I say sincerely.

He nods. “You seem all right.”

And that, other than the barbecue variety, is the only grilling I encounter for the rest of the day.

We exit through the sliding doors and emerge into a sprawling backyard where the tantalizing aroma of sizzling meat hangs in the air. An enormous, weathered barbecue stands on the stone patio at the base of the wooden deck, sending billowing plumes of smoke into the clear, blue sky.

“Wow, this is sort of a big deal,” I remark.

Colorful picnic tables are scattered across the lawn, covered with checkered tablecloths. Children play on the grass, their laughter mingling with the sounds of dozens of conversations going on at once and the occasional clink of utensils against plates.

The grill is being manned by two men who turn out to be the snipers on Mr. Dixon’s SWAT team, only instead of rifles, they’re armed with long spatulas and basting brushes. I peek at the barbecue. Flames are dancing beneath a gridiron laden with various cuts of meat. Racks of ribs, marinated chicken skewers, and thick, juicy burgers sizzle and crackle as they cook to perfection. The tantalizing scent of barbecue sauce and seasonings wafts through the air, making my mouth water in anticipation.

“I’m in heaven,” I tell Diana when she joins us. “You’ve literally redeemed yourself in my eyes.”

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