Page 32 of Big Dill

“Fine, fine,” she relents and I hear a kettle boil in the background. “Tea is ready.” Her voice is a bit distant, like she pulled the phone away, but then it’s vibrant again when she adds, “But no excuses this weekend. I expect you all for Sunday dinner, and yes, that includes actual vegetables on the table.”

I snicker at that. I’m an athlete, and Iron man, so yes, I eat my vegetables. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll check with Jami, okay?”

Then, as if on cue, a familiar warmth drifts into the room. Vanilla.

I don’t need to look up to know she’s here. And the fact that her presence alone sparks something low and electric in my chest is… inconvenient. Especially here. Especially now.

Her eyes go wide when she realizes I’m on the phone, and she takes a half-step back, but I shake my head. “I’ll talk to you later, Ma, okay?”

After I hang up, I gesture for Jami to come in.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s okay. That was just Ma. She was on her break.” She grins, and I shake my head. “What is it about me saying ‘Ma’ that makes you smile?”

“I don’t know… it’s just… adorable.”

“What did Jaxon call your mother?”

“Mom,” she says, trying to keep her voice casual, though the corners of her mouth betray her. “The way you say ‘ma’ is⁠—”

“Adorable, right. Got it.”

She leans against the doorjamb, hovering in a space where I use tools to fix people, and all I can think about is how I want to fix her—help her—yet her mere presence thoroughly undoes me.

I shift in my chair, willing my body to behave.

It doesn’t.

“Do you think tomorrow is too early to open the yoga studio?” she asks, a new kind of excitement lacing her voice, and I can’t help the small surge of pride that comes from knowing I had a hand in making this space hers.

“Probably,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t come in here. First, we need a schedule posted, get it up on the website, figure out pricing. All that boring business stuff.”

“Right. Right. Of course.” She glances at the chair across from my desk, and I gesture toward it.

“Come in.”

She steps forward, taking in the room with quick, curious eyes. “Physiotherapy,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “How did that happen?”

I laugh, leaning back in my chair. “There was a need in this town, especially with a new pickleball social, and I was… very familiar with physio.”

“Hockey?” she guesses, eyebrow arched.

“You nailed it,” I reply.

“Wait,” she says as if she just landed on a medical cure that will save the world. “You’ve got some gimmick going here, Brody.” I take in the mischief in her eyes as she circles a finger above her head. “Some operation…”

“Meaning?”

“People pay to use the court, then they need your physiotherapy services. Now that’s some kind of racket.”

“Racket? No, we use paddles in pickleball,” I fire back, grinning. “You really don’t know much about the game, do you?”

She laughs, and absentmindedly rubs the back of her neck.

“Look at you. Don’t even play the game, but in need of my services anyway.”

Shit, I don’t think that came out right.