We have a lot of lost time to start making up for and there’s no time like the present.
Chapter Seventeen
Jake
Fridays.
I love Fridays.
They are the very best.
Of course, it helps that on this particular Friday I wake with the sexiest woman I know curled against me under the covers, and show my appreciation for how much I enjoy her sleeping over at my place with my mouth between her legs. She wakes up halfway through and insists I take her from behind, but I make her wait until she’s come on my mouth. Twice.
Then I give her what she wants—hard and, admittedly, a little faster than I’d like to ensure I’m not late for work.
We grab a quick breakfast in a patch of sunshine on my back porch—making the most of the unusually warm weather before the winter storm predicted to sweep in tomorrow—and share a ride to town.
We kiss good-bye in the parking lot behind Icing and part with smiles and promises to meet up for lunch.
I jog across the street to the firehouse, so damned happy not even a clogged toilet in the last bathroom stall or my brother scowling at me like it’s his job can bring me down.
“Smile, Jamison,” I say as I fish my phone from my pocket and scroll, searching for the plumber who doesn’t charge a million dollars and your first-born child. “It’s Friday. Tonight, you have a date with a beautiful woman.”
He grunts, his scowl deepening as he empties three packets of sugar into his coffee and slumps lower in the booth by the coffee station. “So what? It’s basically a job at this point. And anyway…Brooke’s not my type.”
“She’s a gorgeous blonde,” I say, arching a dubious brow. “What about that isn’t your type?”
“She’s using me to make her ex jealous.” His scowl deepens. “And I’m not a fan of being used.”
I hesitate, my thumb hovering over the plumber’s number. “You okay?”
Jamison drops his gaze to his coffee and grumbles, “Fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
He releases a long-suffering sigh that isn’t like him.
At all.
Jamison is the opposite of angsty. He doesn’t dwell or stress or overthink things. If anything, I’d usually say he’s too laid back and eager to let problems work themselves out.
But apparently not today.
“Seriously, what’s up?” I slide my cell back in my pocket, deciding the plumber can wait. “There’s no one else here yet. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
“I just…” Jamison scrubs his hand across his whiskered chin before he continues with obvious reluctance, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing with…all that?”
“Doing with all what?”
“With Naomi,” he says, still studying his coffee intently, as if at any moment he expects the answers to all life’s questions to float to the top. “I’ve seen her car parked at your place a lot this week.”
I huff out a soft laugh “So you’ve been what? Spying on me?”
“I’ve been checking up on you,” he counters. “It’s what brothers do. You and Naomi ended badly the last time, remember? Really badly. Are you sure you’re up for more with her?”
“Naomi isn’t eighteen anymore,” I say, trying not to let his question get to me. “And neither am I. It’s different now.”
And it is, but it’s not Jamison’s fault that he doesn’t get that. He hasn’t spent much time with Naomi—or with me and Naomi together—since she moved back home.
And he’s never been in love.
He doesn’t understand how powerful it can be. Both when you lose it and when, against all odds, you come back together with the person you were certain you’d never call yours again.
“Naomi and I are on the same page,” I continue, “and I don’t expect that to change anytime soon. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m good. Better than good.”
He finally looks up from his coffee. “Even if she isn’t being completely honest with you?”
I sigh and drag a hand through my hair, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut yesterday. I should never have told him that Naomi still hasn’t confided in me about the baby she lost.
But I was trying to make sure Jamison didn’t put his foot in his mouth by offering condolences for something we aren’t really supposed to know about.
Now, however, I can see all I did was make him worry for no reason.
I’m about to tell him that Naomi has the right to keep private, grief-related things to herself—and that she’ll tell me when she’s ready—when Faith and Ben burst through the front door.
They’re arguing. Loudly.
“That’s bullshit,” Faith says, jabbing her jacket onto a hook with more force than necessary. “I can’t believe he said that!”
Ben lifts his hands in surrender. “Hey, don’t get mad at me. I’m just the messenger. And maybe I misheard him. I don’t know.”
She snorts. “I doubt it. Neil Simpson has the depth of a birdbath. A shallow birdbath. I’m sure you heard him just fine.” She stomps across the room to the coffee pot. “And I’m sure that I’m not going to be wearing makeup to the hayride in Happy Cat tonight. I might not even brush my hair. And I’ll definitely wear my shit-kicker boots, in case I need to kick his ass.”