3. Jami
Jami
I stand back as Jaxon gives the front door a hip-check because it’s obviously frozen shut. The door finally clicks, and he swings it open. “Mi casa, your casa,” he announces, wiggling his eyebrows in that way he thinks is charming, and it is.
He’s being kind. And funny. And supportive. Meanwhile, the worry that’s been living in my brain all day—rent-free, might I add—tightens like it’s bracing for impact.
I still can’t believe I’m here. That I’ll be sharing a house with my brother…and the man I once hooked up with and never quite managed to forget.
Putting on my brightest, most everything-is-fine smile, I step inside and glance around. Cozy living room. Giant mitten pile. Pickleball gear, and court shoes, in the corner that I mentally vow never to sniff. But then something clicks.
“Wait,” I say, turning slowly. “How many bedrooms?”
“Two,” Brody answers, voice low and warm—too warm—right at my ear as he steps in behind me. His body heat brushes my back and a fine, traitorous shiver skates down my spine. I wrap my arms around myself and pretend it’s from the draft blowing in behind us.
Jaxon closes the door, shutting the world out and the three of us in, and Brody doesn’t move away. If anything, he leans in just a hair. I suck in a breath and hold it as I dizzily work to convince myself breathing is overrated.
Jaxon tugs open the closet and the hinges groan, covering Brody’s voice when he leans into me and whispers, “Breathe.”
I try. I do. Heck, I’m a yoga teacher who helps others focus on breathing.
I got this. At least I think I do. Until my eyes flick to Brody’s lips—lips that were seconds away from kissing me earlier tonight.
Lips I definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent did not imagine on mine the entire time we ate dinner… and then some.
I hate how much I wanted that kiss. How badly a touch from him could have made me forget real life—forget the chaos, the fallout, the reason I’m even here.
Luckily, that kiss didn’t happen because someone in the kitchen had dropped a dish. A loud crash, a perfect distraction.
Luckily.
Ah, babe, that’s not lucky.
Lucky was the night you met Brody in the bar and he smelled like the outdoors, and lumber…sunshine after rain.
Lucky was the way he kissed you against the door of the hotel room.
Lucky was—
Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Not going there. Not now, and definitely not later, when I’m alone in bed under the same roof.
Not. Going. To. Think. About. It.
Much.
And if I do, it will only be three thousand times.
Max.
Jaxon holds his hand out and I shrug out of my coat. I hand it over and my arms fall, just as Brody walks past me, his knuckles brushing mine. Soft. Intentional. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe that’s the problem—we both know exactly what we’re not supposed to want.
We both know the deal.
We can’t do anything to mess up his relationship with my brother. Full stop. No exceptions. No door-kissing repeat performances, despite the fact my hormones are staging a mutiny.
“You’ll take my room,” Jaxon says firmly as he tosses his hat onto a hook. “I’ll sleep on the couch. It’s honestly not a problem. Couch and I are bros.”
I shake my head fast. “Absolutely not. I’m not kicking you out of your own bed. I’ll take the couch. I’m already putting you both out enough as it is.”
Brody takes off his coat, then leans a shoulder against the wall, arms crossed, eyes on me—those slow, assessing eyes that make me feel like he can see past the jokes and the brave face and straight into the part of me that’s terrified of the future.
“I don’t mind,” Jaxon says, already settling into Big Brother Mode.
“Well, I do,” I fire back. “I’m not putting you out.” There. Firm. Responsible. Reasonable.
“Then take my bed,” Brody says, and the knot in my stomach vaults into my throat like it’s trying to escape. “I don’t mind being put out.”
Oh no he didn’t.
Dude, we do not flirt politely in front of my brother. We absolutely cannot do that.
“I… you…” Why are words so hard? Why does my tongue suddenly weigh forty pounds?
“You’ll take my bed,” Jaxon cuts in, voice firm with big-sibling authority and the kind of finality that could silence a courtroom.
“And that’s the end of it.” I’m about to protest because no way is that the end of it, but he nods to himself, pleased, hands already landing between my shoulder blades to steer me toward the stairs.
“I’m sure an apartment will open soon. They’ve nearly finished the construction on the new housing. ” He gives me a gentle push. “Move it.”
I take a hesitant step, because apparently, even as an adult, muscle memory remembers that when Jaxon uses that tone, childhood-me obeys.
“I’ll give you the tour once you’re settled,” he adds, grabbing my suitcase. “The tour of the town will have to wait till tomorrow.”
“Jaxon,” I groan, dragging out his name like a desperate plea, and with one last determined attempt, I dig in my heels—literally—like I used to when we were kids and he wanted me to jump off the high dive with him. “Please, I’ll sleep on the couch.”
He opens his mouth, probably to shut me down again, but then his phone pings. Loudly. Dramatically. Saved-by-the-bell style. He glances at the screen and winces. “Shoot, I have to take this.”
He looks at Brody, who’s leaning casually against the banister like he’s auditioning for a calendar. He’d get the part. Probably July. No shirt.
“Would you mind helping her get settled?”
“No problem.” Brody picks up my suitcase and without another word, starts up the stairs.
I open my mouth—ready to protest, argue, beg, file an official complaint—but the moment I lift my head, my brain short-circuits. Because suddenly I’m eye-level with Brody’s… glutes.
And sweet baby Jesus.
Those glutes.
Those perfect, sculpted, annoyingly symmetrical muscles that should come with a warning label.
Jock.
Athlete.
Lumber-snack.
Honestly, who knew casual recreational pickleball could give a man sculpted glutes? I mean, what are they doing on that court? Lifting kettlebells with their butts?
By the time one perfectly formed muscle flexes under his jeans as he climbs another stair, my tongue has rolled out of my mouth. Damn, he’s fine.
He glances over his shoulder, and I’m far too slow to react.
Busted.
A devilish grin curls at the corner of his mouth. “You coming?”
Oh God. He has no idea.
I force one foot in front of the other, pretending I’m a functioning human, while my brain stages a mutiny.
He starts up the stairs again, and I work desperately to avert my gaze so I’m not staring at his…
well, anything, but fail spectacularly. Every step he takes feels like a deliberate test of my willpower.
We reach the top. Take two steps. A right turn. He guides me into my brother’s room and waves his hand. I quickly catalogue the space.
Double bed—check.
Dresser—check.
Nightstands—check.
Hot guy setting my suitcase on said double bed that would easily sleep two—check, check, check, and a side of I’m in trouble here.
I stop breathing entirely, and he notices.
“Jami, you have to breathe,” he says, voice low, soothing in a way I’m not used to.
“Okay,” I murmur, sucking in a shaky breath. “I just…”
“I know. I can’t believe it either. What are the odds?”
“Math isn’t my thing,” I admit, because clearly numbers are irrelevant when I’m standing in my brother’s room with the hottest guy on the planet. But math…I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t trusted Tristan to do the books…
But I did, and now I have to find a way to move forward.
Brody glances past my shoulders, scanning the hallway as if he’s expecting a SWAT team—or worse, Jaxon—to storm in. “I hate keeping this from him.” His eyes are tortured like he’s waging a war with himself.
“We have to,” I whisper, tension coiling in my chest. “It could ruin so many things.”
“I know.” He steps closer, and my body hums. I lean toward him, as if he’s the sun and I’m a very aware planet.
“We…we have to forget anything ever happened,” I add.
He scrubs a hand over his face, jaw tight. “Hard,” he says between clenched teeth.
God. This pull. This electricity. How could my brother not have noticed it? I’m fairly certain his aunt had it all figured out the second she set eyes on us.
Hard.
Wait. Was he talking about pretending we didn’t know each other…or something else entirely?
My stomach does that swoopy, impossible thing again. My hands twitch like they want to reach for him, and suddenly every rational thought I had is scrambling for cover.
And Brody… He just stands there, dangerous and impossibly close, his scent, his presence—his complete awareness of my breathing—overwhelming me. I need sleep. Maybe that will help.
He jerks his thumb toward the door. “I, uh… should go.” He moves away.
His name tumbles out of my mouth before I can stop it. “Brody.”
He pauses, half-turned, and when he looks back, his eyes snag mine.
There’s a flash of something—agony, yes, but it mingles with warmth, like the last curl of heat from a fire that’s almost gone out.
It hits me square in the chest. He didn’t have to say yes to any of this.
He didn’t have to open his newly launched pickleball social or his home to me.
I insisted on teaching yoga for free to pay for my room and board, but he and Jaxon shut that down fast, insisting on paying me a salary.
A salary I absolutely do not deserve.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice a mere whisper. One dark eyebrow quirks. I wave vaguely at the room, at the house, at the whole situation. “For taking in a stray.”
I try for humor, but it doesn’t land. He drags his knuckles down the rough line of his jaw, thoughtful, then says, “I think you’re going to really like it here.” A beat. “You just have to be open to it.”
I snort. Loudly. “Open to what, exactly? The arctic tundra? Does anyone ever really get used to it?”
His frown is small but noticeable, and crap, did I insult him? Did I insult the town he grew up in and clearly loves? Or the concept of winter itself?
“I didn’t mean—ugh. Tired.” I press my fingers to my forehead. “I’m only here for a few months,” I add quickly, trying to smooth over my verbal disaster. I force enthusiasm into my voice. “But I’m sure there are things I’ll love.”
Sleeping under the same roof as Brody is not one of those things.
He nods, a low rumble in his throat. “If you need anything…”
Oh, I need a lot of things. None of them what he means.
“I’m looking forward to seeing your town tomorrow,” I say instead. “And meeting the rest of your family.”
That makes him grin—a small tug at the corner of his mouth that hits me with the force of a warm fireplace after a snowstorm.
“Dress warm,” he says.
I laugh, and my gaze follows him as he walks away. The way his muscles shift under his sweater is… criminal. He disappears through the door, pulling it closed behind him, and the room exhales with him.
I spin, close my eyes, and breathe deep. Slow in. Slow out. Because it feels like Brody’s presence vacuumed the oxygen straight out of the air, taking my sanity with it.
A door shuts down the hall. A dresser drawer slides open, then closed. Then I hear his voice. He’s on his phone. My God, he’s right there. One thin wall between us. One overprotective brother a flight of stairs below. The math is bleak.
No complications.
No complications.
No. Damn. Complications.
I repeat it like a mantra, as I stare at my bed.
Then knuckles rap against my door. My whole body tightens. My pulse trips.
“Can I come in?”
Jaxon.
Relief washes over me. If it was Brody again…let’s just say my resolve can’t take much more. “Yes.”
The door creaks open, and the moment my brother steps inside, my heart softens, unspooling from the tight knot it’s been in for months now.
“Hey,” he says gently. I step into his arms without a word. He squeezes me, solid and warm and familiar. “Hey, Jami. It’s okay.”
The words crack something open in me. Tears burn, then surge, and an embarrassingly loud sob bubbles up before I can swallow it down.
“It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs, and I want to believe it, I really do.
He eases back, studying my face. “You’re just tired. You need sleep.”
“I am tired.” I rest my forehead against his chest.
“Do you need anything? Water? Snack?”
Lumber-snack.
“I’m so full,” I add. The salted beef. The cabbage. The potatoes. I’m basically ninety percent root vegetable at this point. We fall into a comfortable quiet before I say, “That was really nice of Brody to arrange the traditional Newfoundland dinner with his aunt.”
“Yeah.” Jaxon squeezes my shoulders. “He’s a good guy.”
He pulls back fully now, hands firm on me. “I’m taking tomorrow off to show you around.”
“No, no, you have to work. I can find my own—”
“I’ll show her around.”
Jaxon and I both turn. Brody is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression unreadable but… something sparks behind his eyes when he looks at me.
“I know this town like the back of my hand, so it makes sense,” he says casually. “And you’ve got that bank meeting tomorrow.”
Jaxon frowns. “Yeah, but—”
“My schedule’s clear.”
Wait, the phone call…did he just clear his schedule?
For me?
Brody’s gaze lifts to mine. “I’m game if Jami is.”
My heart glitches—two beats, maybe three. And not from the whole flannel thing he has going on, but from the quiet thoughtfulness behind it.
Who clears their schedule like that?
Who steps in without hesitation?
Apparently, Brody does.
And suddenly he isn’t just Jaxon’s best friend, the man I once hooked up with—he’s someone whose kindness could undo me if I’m not careful.