Page 20 of Big Dill

He pushes back from the table and stands, crossing to a drawer and tugging it open. When he turns back around, there’s a fork in his hand and a glint of mischief in his eyes. “You heard my sister. Around here, it’s perfectly acceptable, encouraged, even, to eat pie for breakfast.”

I laugh as he hands me the fork and peels the foil back from the pie. Without questioning any of my life choices, I dig in. Apple. Cinnamon. Flaky crust that billows just right.

I moan. Out loud. Zero shame.

“Oh my God, this is good.”

He grins, already collecting our plates like he knew I’d need a moment. “Told you.”

“Aren’t you having any?”

“Nope.” He rubs his stomach. “Pickleball competition training.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You cannot let me eat pie alone. I’m pretty sure that’s sacrilegious. Or a crime against society. Or both.”

He chuckles, but doesn’t move. So, I spear a generous bite, stand, and hold it out to him.

He groans at the sight of it. “Training.”

“Open.”

He hesitates for exactly half a second before obeying. I slide the fork in, watching as his eyes close briefly while he savors it.

“We’ll find a way to work it off later,” I say lightly.

His eyes snap open.

When they meet mine—suddenly two shades darker—I realize, far too late, how that sounded. “The tour,” I rush to clarify. “We’ll walk it off. And it’s cold, so that burns more calories and we—” I stop. Swallow. “Because we can’t do that.” I point to the ceiling, upstairs. Where there are beds on the other side. “You know. You’re a man of your word and⁠—”

“Jami.”

“Yeah.”

“Breathe.”

“Okay.” I inhale. Exhale. Why do I keep forgetting how to take in air around him?

He watches me for a beat, amusement and something deeper mixing in his expression. “Want to get out of here?”

“Yes. Very much yes.” I pause. “Can I grab a quick shower first?”

“Yeah,” he says easily. “Go ahead. I’ve got a few emails to send. Take your time.”

I nod, turning away, my pulse still racing—wondering when breakfast turned into foreplay and how I’m supposed to pretend it didn’t.

I hurry upstairs, turn the water on in the shower and strip off. I climb in and work to clear my thoughts. The shower helps. Not enough—but it helps.

Hot water pounds against my shoulders, steam curling around me as I brace my hands against the tiled wall and let out a long breath. Get it together, Jami. He fed you. You fed him pie. He told you something real. He asked you to breathe. None of that is foreplay. Mostly.

I soap up, rinse, repeat, and try not to replay the look in his eyes when I said work it off later. The darker shade. The pause. The way his voice went low when he said my name.

I finish quickly, and dry my hair fast, partly because I don’t want to keep him waiting, and partly because any more alone time with my thoughts feels dangerous. I towel off, pull on jeans and a sweater, and give myself a once-over in the mirror. Normal. Casual. Entirely not spiraling.

When I step back into the kitchen, he’s leaning against the counter, phone in hand, jacket already on. He looks up, and something shifts in his expression.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Yep. I just need to grab my coat, and mitts, and hat, and maybe top that all off with a snowsuit.”