6. Brody
Brody
“I’m sorry.”
Jaxon is slightly breathless from running, his words puffing white in the cold as his eyes rake over Jami, checking for damage before he pulls her into his arms. Only when he’s satisfied she’s still in one piece does his attention swing back to me.
“I didn’t mean to throw you off balance,” he says, one firm hand closing around my arm, the squeeze apologetic but solid, reminding me he’s a great guy, a great friend.
“Almost seems like you meant it,” I joke and I brush at my coat, flicking away snow that isn’t really there. My pulse is still knocking against my ribs, more from nearly kissing Jami again, with her brother in the near vicinity.
Jaxon winces. “I didn’t mean for it to send you flying like that. I was just trying to get your attention.”
“There’s this thing called yelling.”
“A text even,” Jami adds playfully.
“Hey, even a smoke signal would work.”
“Carrier pigeon,” Jami supplies.
“Signal flare, even.”
As Jami and I exchange playful banter, Jaxon shakes his head. “Are you two done?”
“I don’t know, are we?” I ask her.
“I could probably think of a few more.”
“My best friend and my sister ganging up on me. What have I gotten myself into?”
He grins and gives me a playful shove. Yup, I get it, we’re playing, teasing, the way brothers and sisters do, and that’s exactly how he expects me to treat her.
Like a sister.
Before he can read anything more into our antics, “You ever think about trying out for the MLB? That’s quite an arm you got there.” But I already know his strength. He’s my pickleball partner.
His laugh bursts out of him. “You’re okay then?”
“Pride,” I say lightly, because it’s easier than admitting I’m still a little rattled. He drops his hand and drags his wool toque back and forth over his head, like he’s scratching an itch.
Jami steps in and punches him playfully in the ribs. “Taking us both out with one snowball. Rube Goldberg would be proud.”
Jaxon laughs again and rubs his knuckles over the top of her head, a gesture that’s pure older brother.
“You’re never going to forgive me for this, are you?” Jaxon asks.
She wriggles out of his reach. “Not if it means I get out of dishes for a week.”
His grin shifts as he looks at me, something softer settling in his expression, like he’s suddenly somewhere else, years ago. A childhood memory. “Some things never change.”
As cold creeps into my bones, Jami steps into me, as if instinctively seeking my heat. I resist the urge to rest my hand at the small of her back, the space between sparking.
“Let’s get you inside. Somewhere warm. At least for a minute.”
“I could use another coffee,” Jami agrees, her breath fogging the air between us.
Jaxon glances at his watch. “I’d join you, but I’ve got some paperwork that needs my attention.”
“Bank meeting go okay?” I ask.
He nods once. “All good. Come by the social after the tour,” he says, already backing away. “I’m excited for you to see the space. Maybe I’ll even teach you to play pickleball.”
“That sounds about as exciting as…” Jami pauses, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “…removing my toenails with pliers.”
“I’ll make a picklehead out of you yet.” He gives her a gentle shove.
She slips.
“Jaxon!” she squeals, and I catch her, my arms coming around her automatically. She fits there like she belongs, her laugh is warm against the cold bite of the air.
Jaxon winces. “Sorry.”
“Big brother,” she says, twisting to look back at him, “I love you, but you do not know your own strength.”
“He really doesn’t, does he?” I murmur. “And maybe we need to get you a new pair of boots,” I add still holding her, maybe a beat too long.
But Jaxon doesn’t notice. And I don’t let go just yet.
Jaxon hangs his head. “I think that just earned me two weeks of dishes.”
Jami stays close, her back pressed against my chest as she points a finger at her brother. “Negotiations will continue once I have feeling back in my face.”
He chuckles. “Go on, get inside. I have to run. See you at the social.”
Jaxon gives us a quick grin and jogs off. Jami shakes her head, still catching her breath. “Pickle Ball Falls. Social space for pickleheads. There’s no way a business like that isn’t going to make itself world-renowned.”
“That’s the plan. Bring people in from everywhere. Competitions, events—”
“Olympics,” she interjects, eyes wide, and I’m about to guide her across the street when she stops abruptly, glancing both ways.
“No caribou or meese,” she jokes. “We’re good.”
I grin as we cross and cast her a glance. “Olympics. You dream big. I like that,” I tell her but she frowns and glances down at her snow-dusted boots. “Was it something I said?”
“No,” she murmurs. “It’s… I have dreams. Big dreams. But…”
“Asshole dug a pothole, put up a concrete barrier, and slapped a detour sign right in front of them.”
“Yeah.” Her voice is half exasperated, half amused. “Wait.” She blinks up at me, and she grins. “How did you know his name?”
“They’re all named asshole,” I admit with a grin.
A bell jingles over the small café door as we enter, the warm scent of cinnamon and fresh coffee swirling around us.
“We’re not going to Verna’s?” she asks, a little surprised.
“You’ve already seen Verna’s. I want to show you somewhere else.” I wave toward the cozy interior, all soft wood and warm light. Heads turn, curious, as we step in. “Welcome to the Cozy Cup.”
“It’s… nice,” she murmurs, wrapping her arms around herself as the warmth hits, though I can tell some of it is nerves at being the center of attention, and not wanting to be left alone.
I slide my arm around her and guide her to a small table by the window, letting her settle into the space between the warm café and the cold world outside. “I’ll get the coffee, and be right back,” I promise.
She peels off her mitts and lifts her hat, setting them neatly on the table.
Her shoulder length, dark hair fluffs slightly from the static, and she brushes a strand behind her ear, finally settling into the chair.
I wait an extra beat before hurrying to the counter where Trish, my sister’s best friend, is waiting.
“That’s Jami?” she asks, nodding in my direction with a knowing smile.
“Hello to you too, Trish and yes, that’s Jami,” I confirm, trying to sound neutral.
“She’s a pretty little thing,” Trish adds, her eyes sparkling with gossip-fueled delight.
Obviously, she’s been talking to Sadie or Verna. Around here, gossip spreads faster than frost on a window. Which means I should have known this was coming.
“Didn’t notice,” I mumble. Okay, maybe I could have shot back with something a little more convincing, because now she’s grinning at me like she knows I’m lying.
I pull my wallet out and force myself to focus. “Can I get two drip coffees, one black, one with milk…” I pause, eyes scanning the display of pastries. “…and one of those.”
“Just one?”
“Just one,” I repeat, a little defensively.
“Sharing.” Her eyebrow lifts, a mischievous spark in her gaze. “Adorable.”
Why the hell is she suddenly grinning at me?
“No. Not sharing. Not adorable.”
She tsks as she fills two mugs, the coffee gurgling and hissing like it too has an opinion on my love life, or lack thereof.
“You’re awfully grumpy this morning, Brody. Didn’t get enough sleep last night? Something keeping you up?”
“Jesus.”
She slides the mugs across the counter and I arch a brow. “Since when does coffee come with a side of sarcasm?”
“Since you walked in here grinning like the village idiot,” she counters without missing a beat, and I suspect she’s right.
I scrub a hand over my face, the rough scrape of my palm doing nothing to sand down the edge I woke up with. I toss some bills onto the counter. “Keep the change.”
She waves the bills. “Oh, that was the plan all along.”
What the hell is going on with everyone?
Is there something in the water? Sure, they can sense my attraction to Jami.
She’s a beautiful woman and any man with a pulse would notice her.
But they also know I’ve been burned, scorched right down to the bone, and I’m not looking to relive that particular lesson.
Not now. Maybe not ever. And definitely not with a city girl who wants out of this town faster than she got herself into it.
She’s hurting. That much is obvious. Trying to stitch together a future from loose threads and half-plans, trying to figure out where she fits when the ground under her keeps shifting. The last thing she needs is me muddying the water with…sex.
Ah, but the sex was so good.
Dammit.
I shake my head to clear it. What she needs from me is a friend. Someone solid. Safe. That’s what I can be. That’s what I’ll give her.
I carry the mugs to the table, the ceramic warm against my palms, and slide one toward her. “Drip with milk.”
She looks up, surprise flickering across her face. “You remembered.”
“I know I’m older than you,” I say, easing into the chair across from her. “But my short-term memory is still hanging in there.” She smirks. I add, “It was only like an hour and a half ago I watched you add milk to your coffee.”
“Right,” she says amused.
I shrug out of my coat, drape it over the back of the chair, and really look at her. The light from the window catches the rim of her cup, shadows settling under her eyes like she didn’t sleep much either. The smile fades, replaced by something quieter. Heavier.
“You okay?” I ask.
She hesitates, just a fraction too long. Her fingers tighten around the mug. And then I see it—fear, maybe, or the beginning of it. The kind that sneaks in when you’re not sure what comes next. For one awful second, she looks like she might cry.
I clear my throat, keep my tone easy. “If you didn’t want milk, I’ll switch cups.”
That does it. The moment passes. She grins, small but real, and lifts the mug to her lips. “This is delicious. Why does everything taste so good here?”
“One,” I say, relieved. “Everything tastes better when you don’t have to make it yourself. And two, I think it’s the fresh air.”
She hums thoughtfully, staring into her coffee like it might offer answers.
Time to be the friend she needs.
“Jami.”
She lifts her gaze. “Yeah?”
“You were talking about your dreams,” I say after a moment. “What were they? If you don’t mind me asking.”
I already know some of it, the broad strokes. But there’s more under the surface. I can feel it.
She exhales slowly, like she’s deciding how much truth to let out. “I wanted… well. I have a childhood education degree, as you know. I did that for my parents.” Her mouth twists. “Then I opened the yoga studio. Started designing my own fitness wear. And I want…”
Her voice trails off, the rest of the sentence dissolving between us.
“What do you want?” I ask gently, lifting my mug but keeping my gaze fixed on the frost-edged window when she looks away. Outside, the world is white and endless, like anything could happen or nothing at all.
She turns back to me. “Maybe it’s silly. Maybe I’m dreaming too big.”
I snort into my coffee. “I’m opening a pickleball social in Churchill Falls. You’re talking to the wrong guy if you think dreaming big is a problem.”
That gets a laugh out of her. “Right,” she says. “I wanted to have my own fashion brand someday. You know, like Lulu.” She blinks and looks off into the distance. “I can see it now, my own show in Paris, France, Toronto, New York.”
“What would you call this brand?”
The question stops her cold. She wasn’t ready for it. Not because she doesn’t want it, but because, I suspect no one’s ever treated the idea like it was real. Like it deserved a name.
“I… I haven’t really thought that far ahead.”
That gives me pause. Because that’s when I see it, the truth behind her big dream.
“Do you want that for you,” I say slowly. “Or—”
I don’t need to finish. She knows exactly where I’m going.
She shakes her head, incredulous, a humorless laugh escaping her lips. “Wow. Do I have a tattoo or some holographic script on my forehead that says, just a girl trying to finally please her parents?”
“That’s how they’ll measure success,” I ask.
She doesn’t answer, and that’s okay. It was a statement, not a question.
I hate it. I truly fucking hate the way she’s bending herself into shapes she hopes will earn approval. I’ve never had to fight for love like that, but I know enough to recognize the ache of it.
“What do you want, Jami?” I ask. No judgment. No agenda.
She considers it, really considers it. “I do want to design sportswear. I mean, whose dream isn’t it to turn that into a worldwide phenomenon, right?” She shrugs. “That would be a lovely perk.”
I flatten my hands on the table, redirecting before things get too heavy. I don’t think she’s ready for it, and not only does she have time to figure out her next steps, what she truly wants, today is supposed to be about fun.
“Okay. Enough about that. Today is about making you happy, and since carbs are scientifically proven to do that…”
I open the small paper bag and slide a cinnamon roll onto the table.
Her eyes go wide. “Are you trying to fatten me up?”
“You’re forgetting where you are.” I nod around us. “When in Rome—”
She cocks a brow, suspicious.
“Okay…” I amend, laughing, “…when in the Arctic tundra, you pay attention to how the indigenous species live. Especially the bears.”
She looks around, alarm flashing across her face. “There are bears here?”
I laugh outright at that. “Yes. And you know there are. Bears fatten up in winter. Extra layers. Survival.”
“Says the guy who turned down pie because he’s in training.” She eyes the cinnamon roll and shrugs. “Well. Since I’m in Rome…”
She reaches for it.
“Don’t worry,” I say, a little too easily. “We’ll work it off later.”
Her eyes lift to mine, and that’s when I see what everyone else does. Attraction. Connection…sure. But also, complications neither of us are ready for. Shit.