Page 76 of Big Dill

I bite back a grin. Something tells me that as the town mayor, he simply can’t stand not being part of whatever’s happening—even if it means he might end up in traction. Honestly, the man really is adorable.

“Henry, over here!”

I turn to see Sandra Phillips waving him over, already settled on her mat. As the room fills and the chatter softens, I take a breath and square my shoulders. Class is starting. The door is closed. And whatever just walked back into Brody’s life will have to wait—at least for the next hour.

I jack the heat in the room and take my place at the front of the class. The soft hum of the heater vibrates through the wooden floor, mingling with the faint, calming scent of lavender from the diffuser. I draw everyone’s focus, and in doing so, work to center my own. I tap the playlist, letting gentle, airy music fill the space, a soundscape that threads through the rising warmth.

For the next hour, we move together. Limbs stretch, shoulders release, spines lengthen, muscles waking slowly in the rising heat. I call for drink breaks at intervals, careful to remind everyone that hydration is sacred here. I don’t want anyone leaving depleted. Between breaths and movements, I watch faces soften, hear exhalations that feel like tension leaving the room. It’s meditative and chaotic all at once—the kind of energy that leaves the skin tingling and the heart quiet.

When the final pose dissolves into stillness, we sit quietly, mats creaking slightly beneath us. The air is warm, heavy with effort and calm. I finally open my eyes and let my gaze drift across the room. Chatter begins to fill the space, low and easy, people laughing at small, shared moments. Everyone looks relaxed, happy, their bodies glowing with post-practice satisfaction. A little bubble of warmth wells up inside me. I feel…happy.

I’m not home in Nova Scotia, but here, in this studio, I’m doing what I love. And now, thanks to Brody, I’m back to designing athletic wear—beyond just yoga clothes. The pieces I’m working on feel like they have purpose. They’re niche, intentional, not just another pair of leggings in a sea of identical designs. They carry a little more meaning now and honestly I never would have gone down this road back home.

Home.

I don’t even know where that is anymore.

What was that Jaxon said about making a home here? I snort, because that’s ridiculous.

People begin rolling up their mats. Even though I’ll need to wipe them down, I don’t stop them. Their energy is alive, their muscles sore but invigorated, and I don’t want to interrupt that glow. I move toward the door to see them out, inhaling that faint scent of sweat and eucalyptus that lingers after a good session, and for a heartbeat, the world feels perfect.

Then I glance out toward the court, and reality bursts the bubble I’ve built around myself over the last hour. Liam is chatting with Elise, the overhead light glinting off his paddle as he laughs. He spots me and raises the paddle in greeting.

“Jami, you ready?” he calls, grinning. He gestures toward Elise. “I found a partner.”

Well, isn’t that swell.

“I need to grab a shower first. Hot yoga.” I could go out there like this—sweaty, warm, flushed—but I’d look disastrous.

Oh, are you cleaning up because it’s Elise—Brody’s ex—and you’ll be playing against her?

Nope. Not at all.

Are you feeling a bit competitive, maybe even jealous?

Not even a little.

Whatever you have to tell yourself to sleep at night, girlfriend.

I retreat to my private space and grab the clean clothes I’ve tucked in my cubby. The fabric smells faintly of Brody’s laundry soap. Back in the hall, clothes tucked under my arm, I pass Brody’s clinic. The door is open. My steps unconsciously slow. He’s hunched over his desk, head down, working.

I’m about to walk past when his head lifts, and his eyes lock on mine.

“Jami,” he says quickly.

“I’m just going to have a fast shower,” I say, tugging at my damp shirt. “I know I’m going to sweat on the court, but I just did hot yoga.” My hands fumble with the fabric. “You won’t want to play next to me like this.”

I try to make it light, but the words tumble out faster than my brain can keep up. I ramble, as I always do when I feel awkward, flinging out half-baked excuses. “I’ve yet to try out the showers here. Might as well do it now.”

He stays quiet, letting me fill the space with my nervous chatter. When I finally run out of steam, he rises, moving around his desk with quiet authority.

“Come on in,” he says, his tone calm, but with an undercurrent that makes me pause.

“I…uh.”

“Come in, Jami.”

My shoulders slump in surrender, and I step inside, shutting the door behind me. The small sound echoes in the space. I lean back against the door, feeling suddenly aware of the quiet hum of the office, the faint scent of his cologne, the rhythm of my own heartbeat.