Page 14 of Big Dill

If the idea of spending the day with Jami kept you awake half the night, then why did you volunteer to show her around, dumbass?

Dumbass, indeed.

Especially after I nearly kissed her outside the bathroom at my aunt’s diner—my mouth a heartbeat away from hers, my hands braced against the wall, caging her in like she was prey I was about to devour—when we could’ve easily been caught by her brother.

Her very protective, punch-first, ask-questions-later brother.

Maybe dumbass isn’t a strong enough word. Maybe I need something with more syllables. And legal ramifications. But I don’t have time to workshop my poor life choices, not when I hear soft footsteps padding down the hall.

As the coffee drips, I turn, and there she is. Jami, paused in the doorway like she doesn’t know where she belongs, and I suspect she doesn’t. Something flickers across her face. Awareness. Caution. The kind of look you get the morning after a one night—a most excellent night, I might say—hook-up.

Ah. So, this is why she slipped out under the cover of darkness, leaving me alone in a hotel bed.

Morning afters are awkward.

Even when you didn’t really have a night before.

“Morning,” I say, and immediately regret having eyes. Or a pulse.

Her flannel pants ride low on her hips, just enough to show a strip of soft skin at her midriff—the same skin I once pressed my lips to when neither of us knew better. Her T-shirt hangs loose, the collar stretched like she tugged it on half asleep.

Eyes on the coffee, bro.

“Morning,” she replies, her voice a little husky, like she’s still climbing out of sleep.

She glances around the kitchen, then rubs at her eyes. “Is Jaxon here?”

“Gone.”

“Already?”

“Work.”

Jesus, what happened to my ability to use more than one word at a time?

She takes a careful step closer, like she’s approaching a skittish animal. Or maybe she’s remembering last night, when I closed in on her like a predator. She has nothing to worry about, considering my current mental state is run away with a side of arousal.

“I thought I’d see him before he left.” She lifts her phone, squinting at the screen. “Guess I slept later than I meant to.”

“He waited around,” I say, finding my voice. “But he had to go.”

Look at you. Forming whole sentences. Growth.

The coffee machine lets out a gurgle, and I’m happy for the distraction. I grab the mug and set it on the table, then gesture with my chin toward the chair as I pull the milk from the fridge and the sugar from the cupboard.

“For me?”

I nod. “Unless you’re one of those people who wakes up cheerful and hydrated and emotionally stable.”

She huffs out a quiet laugh, tension easing just a notch as she moves toward the table. “Far from it. I hope it’s as strong as legally possible.”

She sits. I set the milk and sugar on the table. There’s space between us.

Not nearly enough.

Especially when she reaches for the milk and her fingers graze mine, sending heat through me.

I pull my hand back quickly, and she adds a splash of milk and cradles the cup with both hands, shoulders curling in slightly, like she’s trying to warm herself from the inside out. The sight of it—of her making herself small—does something uncomfortable in my chest.