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After emptying my lungs of every scrap of air only to refill them…twice, I said, “I guess…my future all hinged on Eric’s for so long. His father’s business. When he’d be old enough to campaign, what office he’d hold. I had the shop—but, even the Cracked Corset is more Brexley’s baby than mine.”
“What do you mean? Rhy makes it sound like that place is your kingdom.”
“I mean…it is,” I agreed, but my voice gave away the hesitation. Clarifying, I added, “Wemade itour oasis. Working with people is…my forte. I love it. Love getting them what they need. Love giving them a safe space to relax and explore. But that was Brexley’s dream. I just ran with it because I love books, and bookish women, and the idea of a store niched to that demographic was fun. But, honestly, I just didn’t have a plan of how in the hell to use my business degree until she asked me to get coffee and showed me the vacant space.”
“Pretty epic that you just backed her play like that.”
“That’s what best friends do.”
“Maybe.”
“You’d back Broderick up, wouldn’t you?” The sand shifted under my boots, and Jameson’s hand slid towards my hip as he steadied me. Every iota of consciousness seemed to zero in on his touch, my brain scrambling to hear what he said.
“With the right proposition.”
I choked on a laugh, earning a hiked brow. “Oh please. Brin and Paul. Mrs. Anderson. Rosalie and Tara. They all speak about you like their hero.” They did. If he wasn’t investing in single moms, or looking after corporate widows, he was fixing the neighbor’s plumbing or replacing shingles on their roof. There wasn’t anyone in town who didn’t talk about Jameson with respect when he wasn’t around to flip shit at. “Play it cool all you want, but your secret is out.”
“My secret?” he asked skeptically.
“You’ve got a big ol’ heart under all that muscle.”
“Whatever you want to tell yourself.So…?”
“So?” I asked, smiling as he let the word linger.
“You know my zoo of a family. You haven’t said much about yours.”
“That’s because we’re a sixth of the size and much less entertaining.”
“You said Alex is protective. He older?”
“Younger,” I admitted, a pang of homesickness twisting in my gut. “But he hated Eric from the beginning. He acts tough—construction kid—but he's really just a sweetie.”
“Just the two of you?”
Guilt shot through me, brow furrowing in frustration. How hadn’t I ever talked about home? I guess home was precariously close to Eric, and that brought with it an entire mountain of painful baggage I wasn’t ready to conquer just yet. “We have an older sister, Maddie. She’s married with a kiddo.”
“You’re not close?”
“I…struggle to stay in touch. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess.” I chewed on my bottom lip. “I love them, I’m just…we were never as close as you guys.”
“Nobody is as close as my siblings. They drive me crazy. Can’t take a shit in peace.”
Bursting out laughing, I smiled over at him. The statement was crude—and no doubt true—but it was the way he looked at me that said he’d cracked a joke for my benefit. To lighten the conversation. I owed him for it.
“Not going to carry on that family tradition with a litter of your own?” My tone stayed mercifully light, but it was probably one of the more personal questions I’d dared to ask. His scoff was answer enough, but to my surprise, he slid his palm back to my lower back as he answered.
“I’m no Rhyett. I barely survived growing up in that chaos, so I’m not about to create my own. Maybe—maybe—I could do one boy, if I found a partner I could tolerate for more than a millisecond.” Well, that was an interesting insight, my brows furrowing as I absorbed it. I shouldn’t be curious about the depth of the statement, but Jameson must’ve heard the wheels churning against my skull, because he asked, “What about you? Want kids someday?”
“Well, I’m no Juniper,” I parroted back in the same tone. “Although I always thought two or three would be nice.” Blowing out a weighted breath, I amended, “If I ever found the right person.”
“You will,” he said, tone uncharacteristically soft. My head snapped up, turning to focus on him instead of the ground ahead. He smiled softly. “Only an idiot wouldn’t see what you have to offer, Skittles. Even if it takes six shots of espresso to keep up with you.”
A cataclysmic collision detonated in my belly, throat tightening, mouth going dry. I wanted to believe him. Really wanted to, but every insult slung my way tried to claw to the surface of my mind. Fighting to shove them away, I said, “You’re not so bad yourself, Wolverine. An exemplary student, in my not-so-humble opinion. You’ll make some woman very happy one day.” But God, the idea of anyone else touching him made my skin crawl with disproportionate irritation.
“Maybe,” he allowed simply, but the tone created little confidence.
Eager for a subject change, I asked, “Really gonna stick to that Skittles thing, are you?”
