Page 36 of Big Dill

“So fucking hard to be good with you, Little Birdie.”

“What are we going to do about this, Brody?”

I rake my hand through my hair and inch back. “We could try to avoid each other.”

“We work in the same facility.”

I grunt out, “Right.”

“Live in the same house, too,” she adds.

“We could stagger our hours.”

She arches a brow. “That could work.”

“It’ll have to.” Switching back to professional mode, I twirl my finger. “Can you turn over?”

She does and I get to work sticking the adhesive pads carefully along the taut muscles of her trapezius. The cool pads cling to her skin, and I can feel a tiny jolt of electricity run up my spine just being this close.

A beat passes and the air between us cools—at least on the surface—as she asks, “Are you going to tell me whatever it is I told you at the hotel, or is this machine going to make me psychic?”

“Maybe…eventually. But it’s possible I’ll let you remember on your own.”

“Like I said,” she mutters. “Annoying.”

“Are you going to tell me the other reasons you called me Big Dill?”

She huffs out a laugh. “I guess we’ll both hold each other’s secrets.”

Secrets.

I hate them.

They can be as bad as lies, but something about sharing secrets with Jami is…dangerously appealing.

Working hard to stay in professional mode, I begin, “You’ll feel a buzzing, kind of like little fingers kneading out the knots,” I explain, my hands brushing near hers as I adjust the wires.

She shivers.

I turn the dial slowly, watching her reaction. “Tell me if it gets too strong.”

The device hums to life, sending gentle pulses along the muscles. Her shoulders sag a fraction, the tension melting.

“Oh,” she breathes. “That’s… wow. That actually feels amazing.”

I notice everything. The way her neck relaxes under my hands, the soft inhale, the subtle way she leans into the sensation. It’s all so familiar.

“Good,” I murmur, keeping my tone neutral—professional—but my fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary to ensure the pads are in place. “Just… stay still for a minute.”

Her eyes meet mine, a hint of need still lingering there, and I have to remind myself this is therapy. Nothing else.

The buzzing continues, rhythmic, almost hypnotic, and I take the chance to check her posture, gently guiding her head side to side. Her body responds immediately, shoulders dropping, spine lengthening.

“Better?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I lean in just enough that my breath brushes the shell of her ear. “Remember to breathe, Jami.”