Page 77 of Big Dill

He nods toward a closed door across the room. “I have a private shower in here. You can use it.”

“Oh…thanks.”

We stand there for a moment, neither moving, and the weight of the unspoken settles over us. I finally address it, needing to get the thought out of my head.

“So…that was Elise.”

He perches on the edge of his desk, arms loose at his sides. “That was Elise.”

“You were surprised to see her.”

“Very. Although it shouldn’t have been that much of a surprise. She has family here and visits.”

“Seeing her in your social…your space…” I trail off, words catching in my throat.

“Yeah. That threw me off,” he admits, and there’s a brief pause, his fingers brushing his chin as he glances down, lost in thought.

I nod, letting the silence stretch. “Yeah…if I saw Tristan walk through those doors, it’d throw me off too.”

“Right.”

“She’s just visiting, then?” I ask. No, I am not fishing for information. Much.

He nods. “Just visiting.”

I shake my head slightly, almost scolding myself. “Not that it’s my business, but…she said she wanted to talk. Is everything okay?” (read: Is she hankering for a lumber-snack?)

I stop breathing for a second, waiting for his response, aware of how invested I’ve gotten in a corner of his life that probably shouldn’t concern me.

He pushes off the desk. His movement is deliberate, steady, and suddenly he’s closing the space between us. He pulls me against him, and the heat of his body presses into mine. The office fades into background noise.

“Everything okay between us?”

“Sure, why wouldn’t it be?” My voice squeaks as I say those words without breath.

“Breathe, Jami,” he murmurs.

I tilt my head toward him sucking in a shuddering breath. “Right.”

“This is hard, isn’t it?” he whispers.

“You mean…you and me. Wanting each other and not being able to do anything about it.”

“Yes. Exactly.” His brow furrows. “But we…kind of, sort of did something about it.”

I give an easy shrug. “I guess I must have forgotten.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” he asks. “It was so underwhelming.”

“Unremarkable,” I murmur, and a ghost of a smile tugs at his lips.

“Insignificant at best,” he teases, leaning closer. “Which is why you completely forgot about what we did…in your room.”

The room.

“Brody,” I whisper, lifting my face to his. His gaze roams over me, slow, deliberate, and then his lips drop to mine—a soft, lingering brush. His breath warms my cheek, stirs something in my chest.

“She had a bad breakup with her boyfriend,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at me, but not too far. “Apparently he was cheating.”