Stirred (Twisted Fox Book 1)

by Charity Ferrell

  “Put two and two together. You’re smart.”

  She shoots me a cold look. “Asshole.”

  I shrug.

  “He’s so big, Cohen.” Her features, along with her tone, relax. “And he has your eyes. Fatherhood suits you.”

  If this is her trying some reverse psychology shit, it won’t work.

  “Fuck your compliments, Jamie,” I snarl. “Saying nice shit to me and being Noah’s doctor won’t change anything between your family and me… between you and me.”

  “Why?” she questions with disdain, taking a step closer. “What did I do to you to take away the chance of knowing my nephew? To take away my parents’ first and only grandchild? We never turned our backs on Noah when Heather said she was leaving. We opened our arms—”

  “And asked to fucking adopt him!” Anger fires through me. Anger that’s been embedded in me since Noah’s birth and can finally be released. “You wanted to take him from my arms!”

  “That isn’t fair to say it like that,” she states, repeatedly shaking her head while delivering a pained stare. “They were worried.”

  “They had nothing to worry about.”

  “With your job—”

  “My job makes me incompetent of being a father?” I snort and scowl at the same time. “If anything, it’s given me patience. I can easily clean up spills and vomit, and I have no issue dealing with a lack of sleep. My job has made me the perfect fucking parent.”

  She stays quiet as worry covers her face. She’s searching for her next words, wanting them to be perfect.

  “I can expect you won’t tell Noah who you are?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Jamie”—I seethe—“you’re his fucking doctor. That’s it.”

  Her face turns stern. “I won’t say anything.”

  I tip my head down and grab the coffees. “Thank you. Now, I need to get back to my son.”

  She jumps in front of me when I attempt to beeline around her. “If you change your mind—”

  I hold up my hand and talk over her because I’m a jackass like that., “Not fucking happening, so don’t bother finishing that sentence.”

  “Jesus, Cohen, will you stop interrupting me?”

  “You can’t see him, Jamie. It’ll only confuse him.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re seriously asking me that fucking question?”

  “Say I’m your friend.” She edges closer, and I retreat. “Say I’m his aunt Jamie. Say whatever you want.”

  I lower my gaze on her. “I appreciate your help today, but that’s all we need from you.”

  She glares at me, unblinking. “Oh, I get it. You’re selfish … just like her.”

  My face burns, and I reply through gritted teeth, “Excuse me?”

  “Withholding Noah from having grandparents,” she says, my temper not scaring her off. “Withholding an aunt—”

  “Georgia is a perfectly good aunt.”

  She digs in her pocket and pulls a card out between two fingers. “Noah has the flu. The nurse will go through the details for treatment with you. Here’s my card if you need anything. Call me, day or night. If Noah is sick. If he isn’t. If you change your mind.”

  I scoff., “Not happening.”

  She shoves the card in my shirt pocket, pats my chest, and turns to leave. I still, staring at her as she walks away.

  Cursing under my breath, I stroll back to Noah’s room. Jamie is gone, and the nurse delivers a hesitant smile before giving us the discharge information.

  “What’s that?” Georgia asks when the nurse leaves, referring to the card sticking out of my pocket.

  “Jamie’s card.” I snatch the card and glare at it like it’s ruined my night.

  Georgia stops me when I start crumpling it in my hand. “Don’t do that. She’s a doctor. If you ever need help, you can call her.”

  “Noah has a doctor. There’s no shortage of them around.”

  “Keep it.” She pats my chest the same way Jamie did. “Don’t be dumb.”

  3

  Jamie

  “You’re a doctor, huh? Does that mean you like blood and can stomach gory shit?”

  I’m a firm believer in not wasting wine, but the longer my date speaks, the higher the chance he’ll be wearing mine by the end of the night.

  It wouldn’t be completely wasted if it taught him a lesson, right?

  Reason four hundred and fifty-three of why I hate blind dates: I’m set up with idiots who ask if I get pleasure from blood and gory shit as if I were Rob Zombie.

  Hell, I’d rather be on a date with Mr. Zombie than this expensive-suit-wearing prick.

  A suit that’d pair nicely with a soft red, if I do say so myself.

  Normally, I’d roll my eyes and ignore his remark, but today is not my day. Thanks to a bolt of lightning striking my townhome’s power line, I got ready for this joke of a date with no electricity—my iPhone flashlight and a sugar cookie-scented candle my only light sources.

  All that trouble for this smug dick to smirk and ask me ridiculous questions.

  On paper, he’s perfect—wealthy, successful, handsome.

  Realistically, he’s a major tool bag.

  “You’re a criminal defense attorney, huh?” I relax in my chair and deliver a smirk more asshole-like than his. “Does that mean you like convicts and can stomach illegal shit?”

  He lifts his chin with pride and waggles his manicured finger my way. “I see what you did there, beautiful.”

  Gag me.

  He grabs his scotch from the table and casually leans back in his chair, and the glass dangles from his fingers. “Baby, there’s no denying I love when the law is broken. The criminals, they flock to me. I’m damn good at my job, which means I make damn good money.” His eyes brighten as if he’s gearing to reveal a secret. “You know Freddy Louda?”

  Who doesn’t?

  “The millionaire who trafficked drugs and murdered two women?”

  “Allegedly trafficked drugs and murdered those women. I got him off with not one charge.” He swipes invisible dirt from his shoulder. “I love it when the bigwigs with fat bank accounts need legal counsel. Hell, I bought a new Mercedes S550 from his case alone.”

  I grimace.

  Lord, if I have to continue listening to his bullshit, I’ll be joining the criminals he neglected to keep out of jail.

  We can form a We Hate This Asshole gang, play poker, and share ramen noodles. Fun stuff.

  I jerk my napkin off my lap, slap it onto the table, and snatch my purse. “Excuse me for a sec.”

  Forever actually.

  “Sure.” He licks his lips. “I’ll cover the check. We can have dessert at my place.”

  Gag me again.

  And not in the exciting, sexual sense.

  Not that that’s my thing, but still.

  Gag me in a way that this is the worst date I’ve had—and there have been some terrible ones.

  I roll my eyes, stand, and walk away without another word. A crowd surrounds the hostess stand, and I duck my head while passing them before rushing out of the restaurant.

  I’m not dining and dashing.

  I’ll pay Asshole-at-Law back for my meal, but if I’d spent another second with him, my knee would have had a date with his balls.

  I curse Ashley with every step while dragging my phone from my clutch.

  “Listen, Ash,” I screech when my best friend answers, “you’re officially cut off from setting me up on dates. I should’ve ended it after the last disaster.”

  “Hey, he wasn’t that awful,” she argues around a laugh.

  “He drew out a deck of cards at dinner and spent our meal showing the entire restaurant offensive magic tricks.” I snort. “Oh, and after that lovely dinner, he was generous enough to suggest we go to his place to show me his best trick of them all. It wasn’t pulling a rabbit out of a hat—”

  “Which is unfortunate,” she cuts in. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to
do that.”

  “It was pulling his magic snake from his pants.” I shudder, the memory of forcing back vomit hitting me, and my hatred toward the Houdini wannabe resurfaces. Asshole ruined chicken Bellagio for me, and damn it, pasta is my favorite carb.

  “You are a Harry Potter fan.”

  “And you’re clearly a fan of me being single for the rest of my life.”

  She sighs. “Look, Gregory works with Jared, and everybody says he’s a nice guy. He’s the best attorney at their firm. I even made Jared search his office for magic wands.”

  “A nice guy?” I scoff. “Have you had the pleasure of meeting my lovely dinner date, Gregory?”

  “Well”—she pauses—“no.”

  “He’s scum, and Jared should fire him.”

  “He’s a partner. Jared can’t fire him.”

  “Then tell Jared his partner sucks when he asks why I dipped out on our date.”

  “What?” she shrieks. “You can’t dip out without saying good-bye.”

  “The dipping is done. My current situation is me standing outside, missing the glass of wine I deserted.”

  I should’ve chugged that shit before leaving.

  Thou shall not waste wine unless it’s throwing it at a bad date.

  “He’ll be insulted.”

  “Good. He deserves it for how many times he insulted me tonight. Consider us even. I’m ordering an Uber. Fingers crossed my driver has a better personality than my drug lord-loving date.”

  “Maybe you can ask him to show you his magic snake.”

  I groan and shiver, running a hand over my arm. “Tell Jared I’ll Venmo the money back to Douchebag-at-Law for dinner. Love ya.”

  I hang up, and before I tap the Uber app, my phone rings with an unknown number calling.

  “Hello?” I answer.

  “Jamie, it’s Cohen.” His voice is low-toned, as smooth as my abandoned wine, and hasn’t changed since high school. “Are you busy?”

  I sway slightly, not from being drunk, but from the shock of this call. “No … not at all.”

  “Noah was starting to feel better, and his fever went down. He returned to school, but earlier, they called, saying he had a fever again. I picked him up, but I’m unsure if we should make another hospital visit or ride it out as the flu again.”

  “Any vomiting?”

  “A few times on my couch, yes.”

  “I can …” My heart pounds, and I can hear my pulse in my ears. “I can come over and check on him if you want?”

  A chilly silence consumes our call.

  His answer could change everything.

  Noah’s life.

  His life.

  My life.

  If Cohen opens this door, there’s no going back.

  “I’ll text you my address.”

  Cohen lives fifteen minutes away from the restaurant.

  Twenty away from my house.

  I thank my Uber driver when we pull into the driveway of the brick home with a bright yellow door, black shutters, and a beautifully manicured landscape. A light shines over the front door, making it easy for me to follow the path up to the porch, and I climb the concrete steps.

  I know where he lives.

  His number.

  I’m about to become a major pain in the ass for Cohen Fox.

  A knot ties in my belly when I knock, and my stomach clenches hard when he answers the door. Our eyes meet, a brief pause passing before either of us says anything.

  Exhaustion lines his perfect face. His eyes are heavy, his cheeks and strong jaw unshaven, and his hair is messy. Even run-down, the man is handsome—exactly my type. Although I’m not sure if Cohen is exactly my type because I’ve crushed on him since I was sporting braces and wearing training bras.

  “Hey, Jamie,” he greets around a stressed breath. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Of course,” I blurt out, the words coming out as one.

  He retreats a step, straightening his back against the door as he opens it wider, allowing me room to walk in. I follow him through entry, a living room, and down a short hallway, the walls lined with framed photos of Noah. Cohen’s house is nothing like I expected—nothing you’d see from a man who’s spent years working in bars.

  He stops in a bedroom where Noah is snuggled in his bed, sleeping and facing us. A lamp—surrounded by a thermometer, bottle of water, and a box of tissues—on the nightstand gives me decent light as I glance around the room. It’s clean. The walls and ceiling are covered with glow-in-the-dark stars, and a chest overfilled with toys is in the corner. A long shelf hanging on the wall is lined with action figures.

  A light laugh leaves me when I hear Noah snoring, and he slightly stirs when I settle on the edge of his bed, pressing the back of my hand to his forehead. When I brush away strands of his hair, his eyes slowly open.

  “Hey there,” I whisper with a smile, placing my clutch on the nightstand.

  “Hi,” he rasps out around a yawn. “You’re the doctor from the hospital.”

  I nod. “I sure am.”

  I peek over to see Cohen standing in the doorway.

  Please tell him.

  Tell him who I am.

  That I’m not just the doctor from the hospital.

  He stays quiet.

  Just as fast as Noah’s eyes opened, he’s back to sleep. I check his temperature, return the thermometer to the nightstand, and grab my clutch, and as I’m about to stand, I spot Cohen at the foot of the bed. His hands are in the pockets of his sweats, and his gaze is leveled on me, his face indescribable. When our eyes meet, all the tension that filled his face when he opened the door softens.

  Melts away.

  I do a once-over of the room, stupidly making sure it’s me he’s looking at like this and not some random-ass ghost in the corner.

  My cheeks turn as warm as Noah’s forehead while the room falls quiet—an agonizing silence I’m unsure of how to break. Blame it on the lack of light, the slight darkness encompassing us, but in the still of this bedroom, in the faint light of glow-in-the-dark stars, we share a moment.

  A moment that stalls my breathing.

  One I’ll never forget as I search his eyes for something.

  Questions?

  Answers?

  What-ifs?

  What if Heather had never left him?

  How could someone leave this man … this family?

  The cord of this—whatever it is—snaps when Noah coughs. I tense, common sense smacking into me with a reminder to pull my shit together. Cohen steps forward, and our attention diverts to Noah. We wait as if his next move will be life-changing.

  He doesn’t wake up.

  I cast a nervous glance at Cohen, and just as I do, he shakes his head and curses as he stalks out of the room. I place a gentle kiss on Noah’s forehead before tiptoeing out.

  Cohen is slumped on the couch when I walk into the living room, his hands clasped between his open thighs, his head bowed.

  “No more fever,” I say, proud of my voice for not wavering. “I think he’ll be okay. Just keep him home for a few more days.”

  He lifts his head, the tension from earlier reappearing, now stronger than when he answered the door.

  He rubs his eyes with the base of his palms as if trying to scrub away the connection we shared. “I’m sorry, Jamie.”

  “For … for what?” My pride of not stumbling over my words has left the building, ladies and gentlemen.

  “For taking you away from whatever you were doing.” His gaze flicks down my body, and he signals to my short black dress and heels. “You obviously weren’t home.”

  “What?” My next words come out in nearly a yelp as I force a casual smile and pull at the bottom of my dress. “This old thing? I hang out at home in it all the time. It’s pretty much my pajamas.”

  He snorts while standing. “I took you away from a date, didn’t I?”

  I hold up a finger. “Technically, you took me away while I was bailing on a date.”
<
br />   “That bad, huh?” His lips flicker into a slight grin.

  “Dating blows,” I mutter, moving from one foot to the other. “They need an app that screens for douchebags.”

  He pulls out his wallet, plucks a fifty from it, and holds it out to me. “For your troubles.”

  I swat the money away. “I’m not taking that.”

  “It’s cheaper than a hospital visit.”

  “Whether or not you want to acknowledge it, I’m Noah’s aunt. Even if I just met him, if he needs anything, I come here as that. Not as a doctor you need to pay.”

  He hesitates before shoving the fifty back into his wallet. “Thank you.”

  Silence fills the room until I clear my throat.

  “Let me, uh … schedule my Uber, and then I’ll be on my way.” I open my clutch for my phone and unlock the screen.

  “Whoa, you had to take an Uber here?” he asks as I focus on requesting a ride.

  “It was no biggie,” I answer with a dismissive wave.

  I take Ubers all the time—to my waxing appointments, yoga, or when I’ve had too many glasses of wine after one of Ashley’s terrible matchmaking dates.

  I’m an Uber out of desperation kinda gal.

  Thank goodness I snuck out of my date before I showed up as Jamie, Medicine of White Girl Wasted.

  “Shit,” Cohen hisses, scrubbing a hand over his strong jaw. “I’d give you a ride, but—”

  "No way in hell am I letting you wake him up,” I interrupt.

  When I’m finished booking my ride, I smile. “Good night.” I zip my finger toward the door. “I’ll just wait outside.”

  He nods, and I feel him behind me as I walk to the door. I glance back, a quick glimpse, and nearly trip over my feet when he doesn’t shut the door behind me.

  No, he walks outside, a jacket in his hand, and plops down on the porch step. When I join him, he drags the jacket over my shoulders, and neither of us mutters a word as we wait for my ride.

  It’s strange.

  It’s uncomfortable but comfortable at the same time.

  There’s newness to this, but the familiarity still lingers at the edges.

  We know each other but not the new parts, the hidden parts, the hurt parts.

  I peek over at him, biting into my lower lip. “Will you tell me how Noah is doing in the morning?”