5. Jami
Jami
Curiosity hums through my veins as he turns the stove off and slides the eggs onto a plate. The scrape of metal on ceramic sounds louder than it should in the small kitchen, probably because there’s a new kind of quiet hovering over us.
Elise.
She’s clearly someone he doesn’t want to talk about—and I know I shouldn’t pry—but I can’t stop thinking about the way his entire body went rigid the second her name slipped from his sister’s lips.
He carries the plate to the table and sits, the wood rattling softly beneath him.
“Elise Jennings. She’s my ex,” he says, too casually, like he’s practiced saying it that way.
But there’s something under it. An ache he doesn’t bother masking, or maybe just can’t.
Then, as if trying to lighten the moment—trying to convince himself more than me—he adds, “We all have them, don’t we? ”
“That we do.” I lean back in my chair while he cuts into his eggs. He keeps glancing up at me, eyes flicking away just as fast, and it’s clear he’s bracing himself. Waiting for the question. Or maybe the judgment.
I debate whether I should let it go. I probably should. But before I decide, he exhales and says, “Go ahead. Ask.”
I shrug, taking the last sip of my coffee. “I mean, it’s not really my business,” I say carefully. “But you do seem to know a lot about me.”
There’s a long pause. Long enough that I wonder if I’ve crossed the line after all. Then he speaks.
“The thing about small towns,” he says slowly. “Is that most people think anyone who grows up in one can’t wait to leave. College. Work. New experiences. Diversity.” He nudges a piece of egg around his plate. “And they’re not wrong. Most do want to leave.”
I stay quiet, sensing this isn’t a conversation to rush.
“But a lot of them come back,” he continues. “Family. Familiarity. A sense of community. Knowing where you belong without having to explain yourself.”
I watch him stare down at his plate like it might give him the peace he’s looking for.
“It’s good to leave,” he says. “To experience those things.”
I nod in agreement.
He finishes eating, sets his fork down, and leans back in his chair. When his eyes finally meet mine, there’s something vulnerable there, unguarded. “Sometimes people don’t come back, though,” he says. “And sometimes the ones who never left when they were young decide to do it later in life.”
“Like your father and Ray?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Elise was the first scenario?” I venture.
He nods. “Yeah. We both went off to college. I went to St. John’s. She went to Toronto.”
“Culture shock,” I say.
A corner of his mouth lifts, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Exactly. And she loved it. Toronto University for costume design. The fast pace. The noise. The crowds…” He hesitates, then adds, quieter, “I was happy for her, until…the men.”
Something tightens in my chest. “Ah,” I say, wincing. “Damn. I’m sorry, Brody. That had to hurt.”
“I’m over it.”
Is he, though? I once heard that when you’re truly over something, you reach a place of detachment.
Indifference. The kind of emotional neutrality where the name doesn’t make your shoulders tense or your jaw tighten.
What I saw earlier was…not that. I get it.
Tristan pushing me out for a hot yoga girl named Lucy still rattles me.
“It’s just…” He shakes his head, frustration flickering across his face. “She lied about it for months. Why do that?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But it’s not fair. And I know that from experience.”
He lets out a short laugh, the sound edged with irony. “Look at us. City girl. Small-town boy. Completely different worlds.” His gaze flicks to mine. “And somehow, way too much in common.”
He’s not wrong and oddly enough, I share design aspirations like his ex—not in theater but in yoga clothes.
Still…similarities that seem almost unnervingly close.
That night, if he were looking for me, which he wasn’t, I’d question his motive.
The replacement girlfriend? Sliding in, filling the void, taking the place she left behind without too much fuss.
But that’s not what happened and the biggest thing Brody and I share is my brother—a brother we’re both lying to. And standing here, it’s painfully obvious we both hate liars. “Lies hurt,” I say. Then hesitate. “But…”
“But Jaxon,” he exhales, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I think we both agree in this case…it’s for the best.”
“Yeah.” I wince at how badly that word—my agreement—tastes on my tongue.
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.”
He chuckles and follows me down the hall. I suit up and wave toward the door. “Tour guide, lead the way.”
Outside, the cold hits my skin and my eyes water as we walk down the steps. He doesn’t lock the door behind us. The sky is pale and bright, the feeling of new beginnings. I soak it in as we head toward his truck.
“I’ll drive you around town and show you the other complexes and then we’ll head to town.” I nod and jump into the passenger seat. I lean toward the heater as he puts the truck into gear and starts down the icy road.
“These complexes all look alike. Good thing I’m with you. I don’t think I’d be able to find my way back.
He chuckles. “Company houses. Everyone here basically supports the generating station. People do come in from all over though for the fishing, and hunting. They stay at the Ritz, usually.”
I laugh “And soon they’ll be coming for pickleball.”
He grins at me. “That’s the Newfoundland Constabulary building there.” He points out a small building with one car in front of it. “We have two police officers in town at all times.”
“Two, huh? Good thing there’s no crime.”
“Oh, there’s crime.”
I angle my head, waiting for the punch line.
“Caribou jaywalking.” He shakes his head. “Always crossing the road at the worst possible spots.”
Look at that. The man does not disappoint.
I roll my eyes at him and he points out hiking and snowmobile trails, and picnic areas in the summer. “Maybe I can get you on the helicopter that takes families to Lab City for shopping. They fly over the falls. You get a great view of the one-thousand-foot drop. It’s quite something.”
“What’s the waterfall called?”
He gives me a cheeky grin. “Churchill Falls.”
I throw my hands up. “Duh, of course it is.”
“Sometimes you can see a herd of moose or caribou from the helicopter.”
“Moose,” I say to myself.
“Working something out?”
“Goose, geese. Moose, meese?”
He laughs out loud. “It’s moose.” I eye him and he continues, “Hey, English is hard and I don’t make the rules.”
He tells me more about the history of the town, the truck slowing, snow crunching beneath the tires as he circles back and heads the same way we came.