22. Brody
Brody
With Jami’s arms wrapped tightly around my waist, I give the snowmobile a confident shot of gas and weave through the narrow trails, snow spraying up in soft white arcs behind us.
Her laughter cuts through the engine’s growl, and I can’t help but smile.
Then—a soft thump—a clump of snow drops from an overhanging branch and explodes across my helmet.
She squeals, half laugh, half shriek, and buries her face between my shoulder blades.
“Nature is attacking us,” she yells.
“I warned you.” I shout back. “These trees are ruthless.”
Up ahead, the clearing opens, the light thinning as the afternoon slips toward evening. We’ve been out for over an hour, and as much as I’d keep going just to hear that laugh again, I figure she’s probably cold, maybe tired.
I slow the machine and turn us back toward the cottage. She tightens her grip as we retrace our tracks, her helmet knocking lightly against my back, the pressure of her right there, settling something in my chest I didn’t know was restless.
I pull up in front of the cottage and kill the engine. Silence rushes in, broken only by the whisper of falling snow. Jami hops off, cheeks flushed pink, eyes bright as she tugs off her mittens and lifts her helmet free, shaking out her hair.
“That was so much fun, Brody,” she says, breathless, and I swear to God if I could, I’d bottle the moment.
“Next time, you drive.”
She scrunches her nose and glances toward the trees, beyond the clearing. “Absolutely not. I’d wrap us around a tree in under five minutes.”
“Nah.” I grin. “I have faith in you.” She snorts, and I nod toward the door. “Go on, head in,” I say, and I glance up. Heavy clouds are rolling in now, swallowing what’s left of the late afternoon sun. “I’ll put this away in case we get weather and be right in.”
Once she’s inside, I fire the machine back up and swing it around back, securing it in the shed. As I head toward the front door, the distant thwap-thwap-thwap of blades fills the air. I look up just in time to see a helicopter slicing through the clouds.
Not Frank’s.
A medical chopper.
My stomach tightens. The clinic here is small—good for stitches, fevers, every day ailments. Anything worse gets flown out to Labrador City. I stand a moment longer than necessary, watching until it disappears.
I hurry inside, and heat wraps around me, the scent of wood smoke thick and comforting. Jami stands in front of the fire, rubbing her hands together, her back to me.
“Frank find another herd of caribou?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder.
I shake my head. “No. Medical chopper.”
Her smile fades, concern pulling her lips down. “Oh.” She hesitates. “I guess I never really thought about medical care here.” She turns fully toward me. “I hope whoever it is, they’re okay. Should we call my brother? Or your ma?”
I grab my phone off the counter and check, already knowing. “No signal,” I say. “I’m sure they’ve got it handled.”
“If you’re sure,” she says, though the worry lingers in her eyes.
I get out of my winter wear as she sinks onto the couch, stretching out with a soft sigh, firelight dancing across her face. I grab another armful of wood and feed the fire, watching the flames catch.
“I could use another nap,” she murmurs, her lids heavy.
“Relaxing,” I say. “That’s what the cottage is all about.”
She points to the sign above the fire. “That’s true. Life is better at the cottage.”
I glance over at her, cozy and content, snow still clinging to the cuffs of her pants. “Go ahead,” I say. “I can get started on dinner.”
“No,” she whines, dragging the word out in a way that makes it impossible not to smile. “Nap with me. Then we’ll cook together.” I hold out my hand. When she takes it, I tug her up off the couch. “Think we could sleep in the double bed?” she asks.
“No.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “No?”
“My childhood bed,” I murmur. “You and me. There’s just… something really nice about that.”
She considers it for half a second. “Fine. But don’t hog it.”
I give her backside a quick slap and she yelps, darting toward the room. The old bed springs squeak in protest as she jumps in and burrows under the covers. She lifts them for me, and I slide in beside her, tugging her close until she fits perfectly against me, like this is where she belongs.
“This is nice,” she murmurs, settling her head on my chest.
I brush a few strands of hair off her cheek, my thumb lingering there. A yawn sneaks up on me. “Yeah,” I say.
The room goes quiet, filled only with the steady sound of our breathing, the faint pop of the fire in the other room. Sleep comes easy, the kind that sinks deep and warm.
When I wake, the room is dark, lit only by the soft glow spilling in from the living room. I don’t know how long we’ve been out—my phone’s still out there somewhere. I shift carefully, trying not to wake her.
“How long did we sleep?” she whispers, already awake.
“Not sure,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
She makes a small sound and stretches, slow and lazy. “We’re never going to sleep tonight.”
I smile as I sit up. “I wasn’t planning on it,” I joke. “I should check the fire.”
“I’m coming.” She kicks the blankets aside, and I take her hand, still warm from sleep.
In the living room, I kneel and tend to the fire, coaxing it back to life.
“It’s seven,” she says, her phone casting a soft glow over her face. “Want me to start dinner?”
“Yeah,” I say, sliding a thick piece of hardwood onto the grate. “But let’s do the steaks in a pan. Too dark to barbecue now.”
“Perfect.” She heads for the fridge. “I’ll make a salad. You know your mom wants you eating your vegetables.”
I groan, and she laughs, already pulling things out. She hums as she works, the sound filling the cottage in a way that feels…right. Once the fire’s crackling again, I join her in the small kitchen.
She looks up at me, smiles, and reaches out to touch my face. “I like napping with you.”
“Bed wasn’t too small?”
“I didn’t say that,” she laughs. Then, softer, “But it was… nice.”
I reach under the counter and pull out a pan. The clatter of dishes and the hum of the stove fill the small kitchen.
“Are you looking forward to the tournament in Alberta?” she asks, glancing up from the cutting board, her knife pausing mid-chop.
I unwrap the steaks, and reach for the seasoning. “Yeah, I think it’ll be fun. The games, the crowd… seeing everyone’s energy again.”
She smiles, chopping a cucumber with precision. “You and Jaxon have a good chance of winning?”
“I think we do.” I slide the steaks into the pan. “Winning would be great, but more than that, I’m looking forward to promoting our social.”
“Are you getting promotional material made?” she asks, curiosity in her tone.
“That’s Jaxon’s department,” I answer with a shrug. “He handles the design and branding side.”
She watches me for a moment, then smiles. “I love how well you two work together. Each of you has your own strengths, your own role, and somehow it all comes together to make the social a really special place.”
The second the words leave her mouth, something twists in my stomach—a flicker of guilt. We both go still for a heartbeat, the air thick with unspoken thoughts.
“Well,” I say, trying to shake it off. “Your clothing will be branded too.”
She glances up from the cucumber again, and I step closer, slipping my hand around her waist. I pull her gently against me.
“Maybe you could come with us, help show it off,” I say, my voice low.
Honestly, I might be asking for selfish reasons too.
“Once the other clubs see our new line of clothing and branding, they’re all going to want their own. ”
“You think?” Her knife hovers over the board, forgotten. Her eyes find mine, searching, daring. “You think it could be big?”
“I don’t know much about the industry, but yeah… I think it could be.”
She bites her lip, a half-smile tugging at her lips. “I’ve always wanted my own design line. New York fashion shows…” She throws a hand into the air. “Paris, France… That’s what I’ve always wanted.”
As I look at her, really look at her, I can’t help but wonder if that’s her dream, or if it’s what she feels she should want to finally win her parents’ approval.
“That’s what you consider success?” I ask gently, curious, careful not to push too hard.
She shrugs, slicing through the cucumber with a crisp thunk. “Yes. But this… sportswear… it’s not high fashion. So that’ll never happen.”
I tilt my head, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “That doesn’t mean you can’t redefine what success looks like… for you.”
She goes quiet, the knife tapping against the cutting board in a slow, thoughtful rhythm, the sound filling the brief hush between us. I reach for her hand, letting my fingers brush hers, grounding us again.
“The tournament’s in September,” she says. “I’ll likely be back on the mainland by then.”
I inch back at the reminder, a tightness in my chest. “Right,” I say casually, blowing it off. “Yeah. It was just a thought.”
She opens her mouth like she’s about to say something else, but whatever it is never makes it out. Instead, she turns to the fridge, and opens it. “I know I saw a tomato. But I don’t see it now.”
“Right here,” I say, reaching into the fruit bowl where I dropped it earlier. I set it beside the cutting board as she turns back to me.
She stares at it. Then at me. “You keep your tomatoes in the fruit bowl?”
“It is a fruit.”
“Oh my God,” she groans. “No, it’s not.”
I chuckle, the tension in the room lifting. “Ah yes. The age-old debate. Tomato, fruit or vegetable? Come at me.” I roll my shoulders and push my sleeves up, like I’m ready to duel. “I’m ready for you.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Let me guess, you’re a flat earth guy too.” Before I can answer she blurts out, “Wait, ohmigod, you probably also think Die Hard is a Christmas movie.”
I freeze, staring at her in mock horror. “Are you saying you don’t?”
“Good God,” she sighs. “What did I ever see in you?”
I grin and tug her against me. “A nice, fat snack.”
She snorts. “Okay. That’s true.”
I turn back to the stove, flipping the steaks, then grab an onion and start slicing. “Now,” I say casually, “I’d like you to formally admit that a tomato is a fruit.”
She lifts her knife and points it at me, eyes sparkling. “Absolutely not. You admit it’s a vegetable.”
I step closer, gently nudging the blade aside. “If you don’t admit it,” I warn, “I won’t let you snack tonight.”
Her laugh bursts out. “No, you admit it’s a vegetable, or you don’t get to snack tonight.”
I don’t even hesitate. “It’s a vegetable,” I concede. “A full-blown, card-carrying vegetable. I will duel anyone to the death who says otherwise.”
She laughs so hard she has to brace herself on the counter, and I wrap my arms around her, and drop a soft kiss onto her lips.
“That was a lot easier than I thought,” she teases, her lips tugging into a mischievous smile.
“What can I say, my Little Birdie,” I murmur, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “When it comes to you…I’m easy.”
She bumps her body against my groin, and I feel that familiar heat coil in my chest. Not to mention one other place.
“I’m not so sure about that…” she murmurs, eyes sparkling as my cock thickens.
I grin, leaning down just enough to nuzzle her temple. “Oh, I think you’re going to find out how easy I am.”
She shivers and swats me lightly on the shoulder. “Big talk for someone who just lost a debate over a tomato.”
I laugh, tugging her closer by the waist. “Tomatoes are serious business.”
Her laugh fills the room, echoing off the walls, and for a moment, nothing else exists. Just Jami and me alone in the cottage. I never want this moment to end.
But it has to.
Because she’s leaving before September.