The Moment Everything Almost Happened

Some sparks are harmless—quick flashes that fizzle before they ever catch.

Others? They smolder. They wait. They gather heat until the smallest touch becomes an ignition point.

In Calling the Curveball, Kira and Jamie have been dancing around a desire that’s grown impossible to ignore. After weeks of slow-burn flirtation, they’re finally alone, the air thick with heat neither of them tries to hide. One brush of fingers turns into a wildfire of want, and for one breathless moment, it feels inevitable—this is the night everything changes.

But desire is never simple when grief still casts a long shadow.

When Jamie pulls back—wanting her, craving her, yet terrified of what wanting her actually means—Kira finds herself caught between fire and heartbreak. This scene is one of the most emotionally charged moments in the book, where passion collides with vulnerability… and where both characters discover that crossing a line sometimes requires more courage than giving in.

If you love slow-burn tension, complicated hearts, and a hero who’s trying desperately not to fall—but is doing it anyway—you’re going to feel this one in your chest.

Kira helped Jamie clear the table, every brush of their fingers sending tiny electric jolts up her arms and straight to her core. Her skin felt hypersensitive, her breath just a little too shallow. She couldn’t stop thinking about how his hands would feel sliding over her bare skin.

He looked at her like he was already imagining it. Like he wanted to spread her out and savor every inch. She wanted him so badly she could barely focus on whatever he was saying.

“How about I make us a fire?” he said.

Her brain instantly conjured a particular definition of fire—sheets tangled, limbs slick with sweat, her name gasped against her mouth—but he crouched at the hearth.

Oh. He meant an actual fire.

“I love real fireplaces,” he said. “Too bad people are replacing them with gas.”

She barely heard the words. His back was to her, and all she could focus on were the tight lines of his shoulders, the way his T-shirt stretched across his back when he moved, the ink of his tattoo peeking out beneath the sleeve.

She wanted to trace it with her tongue.

He leaned forward to coax the flame, and the way his jeans hugged his ass made her legs start moving before she consciously decided to.

By the time he stood up, she was only a step away. He caught her hands mid-reach and pulled them around his waist. She melted into him, her chest pressed to his.

Their mouths collided—open, greedy, desperate—all the restraint of the past two weeks blown apart. His hands tunneled into her hair, angling her face so he could kiss her deeper, harder. She moaned low in her throat, fingers skimming down to grip his hips.

He gasped and side-stepped, putting his back against the wall, and she took advantage. Her hips pressed into his, her stomach fluttering when she felt just how much he wanted her.

She kissed along his jaw, to the spot near his earlobe she’d learned drove him wild—and this time she didn’t hold back. She sucked, gently but firmly.

“Good God,” he groaned.

The sound alone nearly undid her.

All thoughts of not appearing needy flew out the window, and she tugged at his shirt, eager to feel skin. “I want you naked,” she said.

But instead of responding in kind, he went still.

And then he… pushed her away.

Her breath came in fast, shallow bursts as he held her at arm’s length. His eyes were wild with want… and something else. Something more fragile.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice ragged. “We need to stop. I need to stop.”

Confused and breathless, she blinked. “But…”

“I just… I’m not ready.”

She arched an eyebrow, still flushed and very aware of the evidence pressing against the front of his jeans. “I know what a man feels like when he’s ready, and you are most certainly—”

“Not like that.” He shifted, adjusting himself. “I want you so badly that way that it hurts.”

Her heart stumbled. “So… all that talk the last couple weeks… I thought we were on the same page. Did I get that wrong?”

“No.” His voice was quiet, tormented.

“Then what is it?” she said, heat fading into something colder. “Was it just flirting until it became real?”

He gestured vaguely. “I’m not ready.”

She crossed her arms, chest still heaving. “You said that already.”

“I’m not ready for…” He pushed out a breath. “For what it means.”

She stared at him, grasping for the meaning of his words.

“…With you,” he added, the two words falling like a cross between an apology and a confession.

The ache between her legs dimmed, replaced by something deeper and more complicated.

Before she could say anything, he stepped forward and pressed his forehead to hers.

“I just need a little time,” he said.

She swallowed hard. Her mind swirled with thoughts of his wife—of the accident, of the love he clearly hadn’t let go of. It had been six years for him. If Karl had died while she still thought their marriage was perfect…

Would she feel ready?

He dropped his hand and stepped back. “I think I’ll get more firewood,” he murmured.

And then he left—retreated, really—while she stood there, flushed and aching, somewhere between hurt and hope.

Still turned on.

Still uncertain.

And quite possibly in love with a man who hadn’t decided what to do with her.

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