Page 1 of Spiral
Chapter One
Jamie
I carefully placedthe last mini sandwiches onto the colorful platter, stepping back to admire the spread of finger food that Scarlett, Daisy, and I had managed to whip up. The table was an artful mess of snacks created by me. I’d channeled my British father and my mom, former Miss Maine, who’d taken to living near London and being a Brit with extreme enthusiasm. They’d given me a mathematical brain, dual passports, an English accent, and a love of afternoon tea. I’d made tiny sandwiches, crudités, dips, small cakes, and, of course, scones and all the extras—ready for the afternoon crowd of ravenous hockey players and their families.
“Looks like we could feed an army, huh?” I chuckled, glancing down at Scarlett, who meticulously rearranged the carrot sticks.
She beamed up at me, her blue eyes sparkling with pride. “Dad’s going to eat at least half of these,” she declared confidently, her gaze sliding over to the sandwiches.
With her light blonde hair bouncing as she nodded vigorously, Daisy added, “And Jackson likes the sandwiches best. He told me last time!” Her tiny finger pointed toward the pile of sandwiches adorned with various toppings.
I smiled at their excitement. “Well, then, I think we’ve done a stellar job. High five, team!” I raised my hand, and they both smacked it with giggles.
Loud clattering on the stairs announced Oliver and Jackson’s arrival from upstairs. I turned to see them descending the staircase, ready with a joke about a herd of elephants, Oliver’s hand briefly clasping Jackson’s. The two men, hopelessly in love, shared a quick, tender kiss at the bottom—a simple moment of affection that sent an unexpected twinge of envy through my chest.
I turned back to the table, arranging the LA Storm napkins to distract myself—I’d spent two hours sourcing the perfect purple for the table and the balloons. It’s not that I expected people to notice this, but as my dad said, if something is worth doing, then it’s worth doing right. I’d chosen an afternoon tea motif. I’d even hung bunting over the counters, and there were sandwiches, proper crisps I’d found in a trendy shop in Santa Monica, plus scones with pots of jam and cream. Or jelly, as Oli liked to call it, which is weird given that jelly is what I used to have as a kid. Back in the UK, our jelly was wobbly and sweet, unlike what Americans called jam. There was also a barbecue, but that was for later. First, the heathens making up the LA Storm would be introduced to the more sophisticated side of British cuisine—the perfect scone.
“Looks good, guys,” Oliver said and clapped my shoulder.
I sent him my trademark smile, the one that said I wasn’t jealous at all. It wasn’t as if Iwanted Oliver. He was my best friend, and I was genuinely happy for him, but we were always going to be just that—friends. Only witnessing that moment between him and Jackson highlighted the space beside me—a space I hadn’t realized I was yearning to fill until Jackson had moved in and the four of us, Oliver, Scarlett, Daisy, and me, had become five. I couldn’t even hate Jackson. He was a hot mess,all intense and scowling at times, but Oli loved him, and his love was smoothing all of Jackson’s rough edges. I liked Jackson. I like Jackson for Oli.
But I missed holding hands, kissing, or sharing a coffee and crossword with someone.
I thought I’d had that with Sean.
Arsehole-wanker-Sean, fellow mathematics genius and my former boyfriend, who proved everyone right by not only ruining my entire bloody life but, more importantly, stealing my research and undermining my credibility.
Jackson caught my eye and smiled as they approached. “London! This spread looks fantastic!”
That was a new thing Jackson had started doing, calling me London. He gave everyone nicknames, and he’d chosen mine because of being a Brit, of drinking tea, and calling everyone a wanker.
He’sthe wanker.
Still, part of me liked the moniker, even if I sent him my best haughty Lord-of-the-manor snarl every time he used it—not that my reaction had any effect.
He wrinkled his nose at me but carried on talking. “The girls have been bragging about their chef skills all morning,” he said.
Oliver ruffled Scarlett’s hair, surveying the table. “Looks like you’ve outdone yourselves again. Thanks, Jamie.”
I shrugged, a half-smile playing on my lips. “It’s nothing. It keeps me busy, and I enjoy it.” Glancing over at Jackson, who was already reaching for a sandwich, I teased, “Make sure you save some for the others, Columbo.”
Jackson blinked at me, “Columbo? Really?”
I tilted my chin. “It was the most derogatory nickname I could think of,” I announced.
Jackson bit his lip, probably trying to hold back a laugh. “I love it,” he said and knuckled my arm, which, ouch, he didn’tknow his strength. Then he laughed and popped the sandwich into his mouth. “And no promises on the food, London,” he mumbled through a mouthful, earning him an eye roll from Oliver and giggles from the girls.
The doorbell chimed, signaling the arrival of the first guests. Daisy sprinted to the door, Scarlett on her heels, their laughter trailing behind them as they raced to open it.
I gave the snack arrangement one last tweak as Oli and Jackson headed to the door. Would people hate my idea? They were here for a barbecue, and me making all of this was probably going to end up being the butt of jokes. For a moment, I panicked and thought about swiping the whole lot into the trash. The colorful food seemed small, overshadowed by the buzzing energy filling the house as big hockey players arrived, partners in tow, kids shouting, laughing. I felt a familiar pang of nerves. I liked people in general, but I wasn’t good with chaos. People streamed in, shedding jackets and greeting each other with enthusiastic handshakes and warm hugs. The room was loud, with a mixture of laughter and conversations, plus the faint sounds of a hockey game on the TV in the background.It didn’t take long for hockey to be front and center.
Oliver was already amid it all, clasping hands and giving hearty handshakes. “Hey, Ash!” he called out, drawing my attention to his defensive partner, who entered with a grin. They did the whole bro-hug thing, and then Ash hurried over to me, and we exchanged the customary fist bump, his grin contagious.
“I need one of those biscuit things,” he announced. “Oli said you have them with jelly and heavy cream, right?”
I laughed, both at his eagerness and his description. “You mean scones, Ash. They’re scones, not biscuits. And yes, we’ve got them—complete with jam and clotted cream, not jelly and heavy cream. It’s a British delicacy, not a rodeo snack.” I was lying—it wasn’t a delicacy, but itwasbloody delicious.
Ash raised his eyebrows, clearly amused. “Man, you Brits have a weird way of naming your food. But if it tastes as good as it looks, you can call it whatever you want.”
