21. Jami
Jami
“It’s been a hell of a week, huh?” Brody says, glancing at me as we navigate the narrow, snow-packed road. If you could even call it a road. Snow clings to the trees, bending branches toward the ground, and the headlights cut through a foggy haze that hovers over the frozen earth.
I rub the sleep from my eyes, trying to shake off the early-morning grogginess. He’s right. It has been a crazy week. Between my morning yoga classes, running the daycare in the evenings, and sewing my new clothing line, I’ve been burning the candle at both ends.
Add in the social—now swarmed with a wave of new customers—and the fact that both Brody and Jaxon have been going all out, juggling work and daily pickleball practice, and I feel like I barely have a moment to breathe.
Sneaking in a few pickleball games myself has been my only small victory, and I can’t lie—I’m actually proud of how much I’ve improved.
“Yeah, so why couldn’t we just sleep in this morning?” I groan, flopping back against the seat. For some reason, Brody thought we needed to rise before the crack of dawn to drive to his cottage. My brain is still half in bed, and my body is staging a full-on protest.
He chuckles, the sound low and easy, brushing against me like a caress. “I wanted you to see the sunrise.”
I lift my phone, the modern-day security blanket. “There’s this thing called Google. You can literally watch sunrises all over the world from your couch.” I tap the screen, only to realize I have no signal.
“What the heck?”
“Middle of nowhere, remember?” he replies, smirking.
“You mean we’re going to be off the grid today and tomorrow? No phone, no Wi-Fi, no escape?” I cross my arms like a defiant child. “You should have mentioned that before I agreed to come.” I glare at him. “Wait, I don’t even remember agreeing to come.”
Brody turns that signature grin on me, the one that’s equal parts possessive and devilish, the one that sets my insides on fire without even trying. “You didn’t. But I’m sure I can think of something to help you pass the time.”
My body reacts, reminding me we haven’t had a single stolen moment since dart night.
I didn’t think we’d have this weekend either.
We’d asked Jaxon to come along. We didn’t want him thinking we were sneaking off to the cottage to do, you know…
things. Though, honestly, that’s exactly what we’re going to do.
But Jaxon had conveniently bowed out, drowning in administrative work with the influx of new customers.
He insisted we take the truck, with the warmer weather he could easily walk back and forth to work.
“Brody, look!” I yell, and he slams on the brakes. The truck sways slightly on the icy road before settling into a full stop. My heart skips a beat as I lean forward, eyes wide, and a herd of four-legged creatures glides across the snow in front of us.
“Are they…deer?” I whisper, mesmerized.
“Caribou,” he corrects, grinning at me like I just asked the cutest question in the world.
“They’re just…crossing like that? They’re not afraid of us?”
“Yes. And no,” he answers.
“Ohmigod,” I breathe, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
“Good thing we got up early,” he says smugly.
I whack him lightly on the shoulder. “Uh, remember Google?” I shake my now useless phone at him.
“Not the same,” he says with a chuckle.
He’s right. This snow-dusted landscape, the caribou gliding with surprising grace despite their awkward limbs, the quiet hush of the morning is way better than any phone screen could show.
I watch, laughing as one of the caribou picks up the pace, its legs swaying from side to side in a rhythm that’s somehow both clumsy and mesmerizing, antlers tipping with every step.
“They run so funny,” I admit.
“We call it the caribou dance,” Brody says with a smirk. “I can show you the moves later.”
“Oh Brody,” I laugh, shaking my head. “You are definitely showing me those moves.”
“You’re on,” he replies, mischief dancing in his eyes.
“Wait…what will you use for the antlers?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got game, Little Birdie,” he says, his grin widening.
Laughing, he reaches across the seat and takes my hand.
He just holds it there, warm and steady, as the herd moves gracefully across the snowy expanse.
For some reason, it feels profound, like we’re sharing a quiet, fleeting moment that only belongs to the two of us.
I steal a quick glance at him, taking in his strong jawline, the way the morning light catches the edge of his profile, and my stomach tightens with something deeper than mere desire.
Just then, a helicopter hums overhead, swooping low enough to give its passengers a perfect view of the caribou. I squeeze Brody’s hand instinctively. “That doesn’t look safe,” I mutter, eyes wide.
“That’s Frank,” Brody says as if that explains everything. “We could take one of his tours if you like.”
“I’m not sure,” I admit, my pulse quickening at the noise and the sudden flutter of rotor blades. “I’m not a fan of flying, and definitely not a fan of flying that close to a road.”
“It’s Frank,” he says again, his tone almost amused, and after the helicopter roars past and the herd scatters into the forest, we start moving again.
I settle back into my seat, taking in the beauty of the snow-laden evergreens. Sunlight glints off the ice crystals, making the world sparkle. A flash of white catches my eye.
“What are those?” I ask, pointing.
“Ptarmigan,” he answers, impressed. “Good eye. They’re tricky to spot in the snow. Dark meat, similar to duck.”
“Dark meat?” I blurt out, blinking. “You eat them?”
He nods. “I’ve got some rifles at the cottage if you want to try your hand at dinner.”
“No,” I blurt out. “I’ll stick to the steaks in the cooler, thank you very much.”
“Ptarmigan are an important source of food for the Indigenous people. They’re abundant around here and they’re not exactly fearful of humans. Easy to catch.”
“I’ll take your word on that,” I say.
Brody doesn’t let go of my hand as we drive, and I sink back into the seat, letting myself enjoy the quiet warmth of him beside me.
The snow outside sparkles in the early sunlight, turning the world into a glittering wonderland.
About thirty minutes later, he turns off the main road onto a snowy driveway, and I sit up a little straighter, taking in the quaint cottage tucked into the trees.
The frost-laced windows give it a kind of charm.
“This has been in the family for as long as I can remember,” Brody says. His eyes soften, and a small smile tugs at his lips. “Some of my earliest childhood memories were here.”
“Really?” I ask, intrigued.
He nods, glancing at the cottage like it holds a thousand untold stories.
“In the summer, there were always big barbecues, games, friends, family… Winter was different. We hunted…” His gaze flicks to me, as if apologizing for mentioning it, clearly aware of my unease.
“…we ice fished, snowmobiled, snowshoed, cross-country skied.” His eyes drift toward the horizon, a distant warmth in his expression, like he’s reliving each memory.
“No wonder you’re in such good shape,” I tease.
He chuckles, opening his door. “Come on, let’s head inside. I’ll get a fire going and then unload the groceries.”
I grab my overnight bag and open my door.
The snow is thick, sinking around my boots.
Thank goodness I listened to Brody and splurged at the department store.
These boots were worth every penny. Sunlight glints off the snow, blindingly bright and beautiful, as we step up to the door.
Brody curls his gloved hand around the doorknob.
“You don’t lock this place either?” I ask.
“Nothing to steal.” He pushes the door open. “And if anyone breaks down out here, they might need shelter. One time a bunch of kids broke in, though.”
“Really?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Yeah. They cooked up some hot dogs and even did the dishes,” he says with a shrug.
I laugh. “That’s…actually kind of crazy.”
“We keep the booze in a hidden cupboard, so they didn’t get into that,” he says with a playful nudge. “We can, though.”
“Hot toddy, please.” I glance at my phone with mock seriousness. “I mean, it’s five o’clock somewhere, right?”
“Yeah, but it’s still early morning here. And if we’re going snowmobiling, we can’t be drinking yet.”
“We’re going snowmobiling?”
“Don’t say it like you just chewed on an old bologna sandwich,” he teases.
I laugh, shaking my head. “Oh my God. I don’t think I’ve ever had a bologna sandwich, let alone an old one.”
“That’s changing this weekend. You’re getting the full Churchill Falls experience, Little Birdie,” he says, the nickname lingering warmly between us.
“Does that sandwich come with a side of lumber-snack or a big dill?” I fire back, grinning.
“It sure as hell does.” He drops a soft kiss onto my forehead and squeezes my arms. “Now, let me get this fire going.”
“So I can warm up before I go back out there and freeze?” I grin, already imagining the frosty adventure, and I’m kind of…excited about it.
What is happening to me?
“Exactly,” he says, his voice low and satisfied.
As he moves to stack logs and light the fire, I watch the golden flames spring to life, crackling and sending little sparks up the chimney. The cozy warmth fills the room, and I realize that this—snow outside, Brody and me inside, a fire roaring—is exactly where I want to be.
I take off my coat and drape it over a chair before I begin my exploration of the cottage.
The space is warm and welcoming, small but perfectly lived-in.
The kitchen has a fridge, stove, and the kind of rustic charm that makes cooking feel like an adventure.
The living area is huge, with a stone fireplace and a hand-painted sign above it that reads: Life is better at the cottage.
I peek into one of the two bedrooms. A single bed, neatly made, sits against the wall.
“Was this your room?” I ask, wanting to know more—everything—about this man.
He casts me a quick glance over his shoulder as he feeds wood into the fireplace. “Still is.”
“Kind of a tight fit for a lumber-snack, don’t you think?” I tease.
He chuckles, the sound low and warm. “Fits one just fine.”
Is he saying he’s never shared it? My heart squeezes a little in my chest.
“I can’t be the first woman you’ve brought here, Brody,” I say carefully, glancing into the next room with the double bed. “What about Elise?”
“She wasn’t much into cottage life. She belongs in the city. That’s where she thrives.” He shrugs, closing the door on that discussion as he points to the doorway where I’m standing. “Jaxon takes that room. He loves it here.”
“Resistance is futile,” I mutter in my best robotic computer voice.
His lips twitch into a smirk, and he arches a brow. “You doing okay, Jami? Need a nap? A little rest before we go out?”
“Arse,” I shoot back, and he laughs, deep, easy, amused, at my use of Newfoundland vernacular. He crooks a finger toward me.
I walk back toward him, and he pulls a big recliner closer to the fire. “Get warm. I’ll empty the car.”
“So bossy,” I murmur as he heads outside.
I think about offering to help, but remember how he loves doing things for me, and that’s enough for me to sink deeper into the chair, tucking my legs underneath me.
The fire crackles, the warmth seeping through me, lulling me into drowsiness. Maybe a nap is a good idea.
A cold breeze drifts in as Brody comes and goes from the truck, bringing in groceries, a cooler, and his overnight bag.
He really packed for a feast. Either he’s planning to keep me here, captive, or he just really likes cooking.
I grin at the thought of him kidnapping me, letting the idea linger in my mind as my eyelids droop.
The smell of something sizzling wakes me. “Brody,” I blurt, suddenly sitting up straighter. “I fell asleep. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. I had you up early to see the sunrise. I’m glad you got a fast nap in.”
“How long was I asleep?”
“Just an hour.”
I rub my eyes, glancing at the fire, which he must have fed while I napped. The flames dance warmly across the walls, casting a golden glow that makes everything—and him—look softer, more inviting.
“Hungry?” he asks, turning slightly, back to me now, flipping something in a pan.
“Not really, but whatever you’re making smells amazing.” My stomach gives a loud, undeniable grumble. I push from the chair and step closer. Without thinking, I wrap my hands around him, sliding against his back.
“Careful, babe. Don’t burn yourself,” he says, though his tone is teasing rather than stern.
“I won’t,” I murmur, leaning into him. My face presses against his flannel shirt, inhaling the warmth, the faint scent of wood smoke and him. This cottage, being here with him, it feels so…domesticated. Comforting. And a little dangerously intimate. I chuckle softly against his shoulder.
“Something funny?” he asks, voice low.
“Just thinking how much I like being here with you,” I admit.
“Resistance is futile, Little Birdie,” he murmurs, placing a hand over mine and giving it a squeeze.
“What are you making?” I ask, letting go to step beside him.
He grins over his shoulder. “Bologna.”
I crinkle my nose. “You’re frying bologna?”
“Yup. Grab some bread. Two slices per plate, for now,” he instructs.
“For now?”
“Yeah, they’re like potato chips, you can’t stop at just one. Jaxon once ate five of them in one sitting.”
“I hardly think I’ll eat five.” I open the loaf of white bread, slapping slices onto the plates. “What do I use for spread? Butter, mustard, ketchup…or mayonnaise?” I mock shiver, remembering that guy at the café who dipped his fries into mayonnaise. “You Newfoundlanders are a strange bunch.”
“If you didn’t think so before, you sure will now.” He slides a couple of sizzling bologna slices onto one slice of bread and squishes the other on top. The smell makes my stomach grumble again. He hands the plate to me, and I stare at him.
“That’s it? No spread?”
“Not even jam,” he says, winking. “And you know how much I like jam.”
I laugh as he picks his sandwich up, biting into it with exaggerated satisfaction.
“We don’t slice it?”
“Nope.”
“Do you turn into barbarians at the cottage?”
“You eat it just like this, babe.” He takes another bite.
“When in Rome…” I pick up my sandwich. The bread is warm, the bologna perfectly crisp at the edges. I take a bite, and my eyes go wide. “No freaking way,” I whisper, shocked at how good it is.
“Freaking way,” he responds with a laugh.
“Brody, why is this so good?”
“It just is,” he says simply, with that easy confidence that somehow makes my heart stutter.
We grab our plates and move into the living room, sinking onto the couch with a groan of contentment. Feet up on the coffee table, the warmth of the fire curling around us, a quiet, comfortable silence settles. I glance at him, and my stomach twists when I find him watching me in return.
What was that he said about love?