9. Jami
Jami
“Here’s the thing,” I begin, breathless, my body thrumming like a live wire, as his fingers tighten on his grip.
He sucks in a breath, pausing. “There’s a thing?”
“When we hooked up last month. I was clearly going through something.”
“A lot,” he agrees, a soft understanding in his voice that curls around my heart.
“Right. You too. I didn’t know about your ex and how badly she hurt you.”
“Uh huh.”
“So the sex,” I continue. “I was needy. Desperate for something, anything to make me feel good, even if for one night.”
“Yeah.”
“I bet it wasn’t even good.” He cocks his head and I shrug. “I had alcohol.” Two glasses of wine, but still. “You also had alcohol.”
“I had a pint,” he clarifies.
“Exactly.” I tap my temple. “We weren’t exactly operating at peak brain function?” His gaze shifts, his eyes moving from my mouth to my eyes, because he’s clearly confused. I want the kiss as much as he wants to give it to me.
“What are you getting at, Jami?”
“I think we should kiss again. I think I might have had that night built up to something it wasn’t, just because I was feeling so low. Heck, I’m sure if I rubbed up against a bar stool, it could have made me feel good.”
He snorts. “That’s an…image.”
“You get my point.” I push on. “We kiss. Once. Sober. Fully aware. When it’s awkward and weird and terrible—”
“Which, obviously, it will be.”
“Yes, and then this tension dies. We prove to ourselves it was just bad decisions and alcohol.”
He goes quiet, thoughtful for a second before, “Okay, so just to clarify. You’re saying we should kiss again.”
My gaze drops as he slides his tongue over his bottom lip in preparation. “Yes,” I manage to push out. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s a good idea, Birdie.”
Birdie.
That makes me grin.
“Okay, Big Dill,” I tease. “For the record, just because something is big, doesn’t mean a guy knows how to work it.” A grin touches his mouth, and I need to shut up but my brain has other ideas, “I highly doubt you really were a Big Dill—”
“Big deal is what you mean right?”
“Yeah, and you probably came at me with your A-game, so a repeat performance seems highly unlikely.”
“Yeah, highly. So you want to shut up so I can kiss you, prove there’s no chemistry—”
“That I’d probably rather kiss a cod—”
He doesn’t let me finish.
Brody pushes my hair back, his mouth landing on mine, soft at first, testing, familiar and not familiar at all.
A quiet sigh escapes me before I can stop it.
He leans in, caging me with his body, and my hands slide around his back, mapping the play of muscle beneath my palms as his tongue slips in, slow and deliberate.
We both moan.
My body arches, craving more as he deepens the kiss, his tongue gliding against mine like he’s relearning every inch of me. The heat of it steals my breath, my balance, my grip on reality.
It’s the hottest kiss I’ve ever experienced.
Twice.
“Brody,” I whisper, fingers threading through his hair as his hands move to the outer curves of my breasts. My nipples tighten, aching for the rough press of his thumbs. His kiss takes the air from my lungs, the room, the planet—until I’m no longer sure I exist anywhere but here.
Time goes still. The room is quiet except for our harsh, needy breaths. Fire licks up my thighs as his palms brand my sides, and I can’t tell if this is heaven or hell—but the heat between us could melt the Arctic tundra outside.
He breaks the kiss at last, pulling back just enough to breathe.
His dark eyes lock on mine. He stares for a long second, chest rising and falling, then—like his synapses finally fire again—he gives a slow, disbelieving shake of his head.
“Shit, Little Birdie,” he murmurs. “I’ve had better chemistry with a mouthguard.”
I gasp for air, heart thrumming as he plays this ridiculous game with me. “Yeah… I thought I was licking the pavement. Smoother.” God, that rough tongue, the memory of it crawling over me that night…
“So much for spark,” he snorts, mock disgust in his tone. “That was more like static electricity.” He shivers, and I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, shaking it like it’s soaked. “The cod,” I say, voice shaky. “I was right. Would have been less sloppy.”
He crinkles his nose like he just tasted something unpleasant. “I think I need mouthwash.”
“Sage,” I offer.
“Exorcism.”
He takes my hand, helping me sit up. My legs dangle over the edge of the bed as he stays between them, close enough that heat radiates off him.
I jerk my head toward the skeleton in the corner. “Honestly, I’d rather make out with that. More emotion. Warmer hands.”
“Promise me we never talk about this again.”
“Ever.” I hold my hands up, palms out. “I don’t even want to think about it.”
“I wish I could say the same,” he mutters, voice low. “But when I’m in bed at night…”
I cock my head.
He closes his eyes, shivering slightly. “It’s going to haunt me in my nightmares.”
I hug myself. “I’m never sleeping again.”
“Smoothie?” he asks.
“Love one.”
“Kale.”
“Perfect.”
He slides his hands to my hips and lifts me from the table, and suddenly there’s this new, dizzying closeness between us. I wish I hated it, but I don’t. He hands me my sweater and I tug it on, and then finger comb my mess of hair.
We walk to the door, the comfortable silence nice, full of warmth as he turns to me, his brow arched, a quick check in before we leave the room.
With his hand on the knob, I reach up and smooth his hair down. “You look like you just got out of bed.” I don’t hate the look. “Such a mess.”
“All the more reason we never kiss again.” His words are followed by a playful wink as he swings the door open. He touches my back, guides me out first and he follows me. We walk along the perimeter of the courts, and I spot Jaxon warming up.
“I can’t wait to see you guys play.”
“How about now?” Jaxon lifts his head when he sees us. “Game?” Brody calls out.
Jaxon nods. “Let’s make you a smoothie first.”
We head to the juice bar. “Who works this?”
“People make their own.” He gestures with a nod to a cash box. “It’s the honor system, until we can hire more employees.”
“Maybe I can help with this. In between yoga classes.”
“You think?”
“Sure. It’s not like I have anything else to do.”
He opens his mouth like he wants to say something but then closes it again. “Yeah, I’m okay if Jaxon is.”
He tosses juice and kale into the blender, and slaps the lid on. The machine buzzes to life and a minute later, he pours a thick green concoction into a plastic cup. He tops it with a lid, slides a straw in and slides it my way.
I take a long pull and promptly moan. Oh wow. “This is delicious.”
He shifts, uncomfortable. Was it the moan?
Nah. Couldn’t be. We’re past that. Completely. One hundred percent cured of whatever this used to be. That kiss was like penicillin, but for bad decisions.
“Is pickleball hard to learn?” I ask, casual as anything.
“Not even a little.”
“I’ve played tennis.”
“A bit the same. A bit different.”
“Oh good,” I deadpan. “That clears it up perfectly.”
He grins. “Such a smart ass.”
I lift a brow. “And you’re annoying.”
“Yes, we’ve established that.”
“So it’s not hard?” He arches a brow. Ohmigod. “The game. The game isn’t hard.”
He comes out from behind the bar and gestures toward the court. “Let me give you the rundown.”
He starts talking about kitchens and bounces and spreads and points, and I nod along like I’m absorbing information instead of mentally repeating the word hard because apparently, I now have the maturity of a twelve-year-old boy.
“It doesn’t sound hard,” I say.
Hard.
Stop it.
He gestures to a bench. “I’m going to run back to my office and get changed. You can watch us play. If you have questions, keep notes and ask afterward.”
“I promise to sit quietly and keep my unsolicited comments to myself,” I say solemnly.
He grins. “That’ll be the hardest part of your day.”
“Careful, b’y.” He laughs and saunters off. I happily sip my drink as he disappears and turn my attention to the courts. My brother is warming up and waves his paddle at me. He’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt. Zero effort. Pure function.
I glance at the woman on one of the other courts. Shorts. T-shirt. Again.
And then it hits me.
This pickleball social should be the first with signature designs. Cute skirts. Athletic fabric. Functional and flattering. Who says you can’t look hot while aggressively tapping a plastic ball over a net?
Not me. I would never say that.
The idea sparkles for a glorious three seconds before dying a slow, tragic death when I remember I no longer have a sewing machine—or a career.
Still. Maybe someone in this town has one. Brody’s sister? His mom? Churchill Falls feels like the kind of place where sewing machines are passed down like heirlooms. I make a mental note to ask.
Brody comes back, and my gaze drops to his legs. To his tennis shorts to be precise.
Repeat after me: tennis shorts.
Not pickleball shorts.
Something must be done.
Granted, anything I designed would be similar, with mesh to hold the parts, but I’d want them to be known as pickleball shorts. Now, how would I go about that branding?
As I mull that over, my eyes drift to his thighs—muscular, solid—and I take exactly one dangerous moment to remember what it felt like to be between them.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
I am over him. That kiss proved we have zero chemistry. Static electricity at best. Mouthguard-level romance.
“Ready to watch me obliterate your brother?” Brody says.
“In your dreams, dude,” Jaxon shoots back.
Brody spins his paddle. “You think you’re in my dreams, Jaxon?”
Jaxon laughs. “God, I hope not.”
Well. That clears that up. I’d briefly wondered if Jaxon moved to Churchill Falls for a guy. It would be deeply inconvenient if we were both lusting after the same man.
Brody serves first. They volley for a while, both playing well, and when Brody scores, he gloats just enough to be annoying.
And… fine.
Adorable.
I watch the game unfold, and they’re both really good. I’d actually love to see them play as a team. Maybe even travel with them. Alberta isn’t that far. I could be their equipment manager. Their stylist. Their personal brand visionary.
Because honestly, they look like they got dressed in the dark at two different garage sales.
The game ends—Brody wins by two—and they meet at the net. Then Jaxon turns and looks straight at me.
Oh no.
“Any questions?” he asks.
Was I really supposed to be paying attention?
I’d been far more focused on their outfits—and my drink. Seriously, how did he get the kale this smooth? Sorcery.
I’ll have to tell my bestie Lauren about this drink. I have to, in fact, tell her a lot of things. We’ve exchanged a few texts but I’ve yet to tell her about Brody. I’m not sure why. Maybe I just want to keep it close to my heart for now.
“Got it all figured out,” I say brightly, giving a dismissive little finger wave. “Some would now consider me an expert.”
Brody smirks. “Come play with us.”
Crap.
I do not want them witnessing the tragic decline of my cardiovascular fitness. Things sort of… slid downhill after Tristan. I glance down at my boobs. Not downhill yet, but gravity is patient. Gravity always wins.
“I would,” I say, scrambling. “But rules say two or four players, and we’re at three. So. Tragic.”
Well done, Jami.
While I congratulate myself on my quick thinking the front doors open and as if right on cue, a woman in her mid-thirties, dressed much like everyone else walks by.
“Hey, Amanda, join us,” Jaxon calls, waving her over. “You and me against my sister and Brody. Let’s show them how it’s done.”
She nods and walks over to Jaxon.
I glare at her.
Fantastic.
Way to ruin my life, Amanda.