He nods. “I can do that.”
There’s no holding back my grin.
Our attention moves to the driveway when the Uber car pulls up, and Cohen gives my thigh a light squeeze before he lowers his voice, and says, “Good night, Jamie.”
4
Cohen
Sleep is like a scorned ex.
It hates me.
Last night consisted of checking on Noah every few hours and thoughts of Jamie.
One of those I should’ve been doing.
The other I sure as fuck shouldn’t have been doing.
For hours, I battled with myself on calling her, but finally, I broke down. For Noah. It was always a struggle to decide when to make hospital visits, and if I could get Noah checked out without dragging him to a hospital, I would.
Even when I’d crumpled up her card, I hadn’t been sure if I’d actually toss it. It was more of a show for Georgia. An I couldn’t care less about Jamie attempt. I’d shoved it into my back pocket and then slid it into my wallet when I got home—just in case.
Just in case I changed my mind, which was doubtful.
Or I needed her.
Or because I saw the love on her face as she looked at Noah that night.
That’s Jamie’s character—affectionate, caring, showing every ounce of her emotions on her face.
So I called.
I called, and she came.
Seeing her with Noah last night fucked with my head.
My chest ached, hurt squeezing my throat as I watched them.
It was what I’d wanted from Heather—what I’ve desired for Noah to have. Someone who cares about him as much as I do, a nurturer who comes running in the middle of the night when he’s sick.
Even after I was a dick to Jamie, she was here.
Dressed in a sexy-as-fuck black dress and fuck-me heels.
When she walked in, I knew she’d been out, and jealousy consumed me. Whoever she’d been with, I hated the asshole. I gulped, holding back a shit-eating grin when she revealed she’d ditched the guy.
These feelings are wrong.
So damn wrong.
She’s the sister of my son’s mother, for fuck’s sake.
If anyone’s off-limits, it’s her.
The attraction is mutual, no question about it. Years ago, Jamie drunkenly confessed her feelings for me, and considering I was dating her sister, I shot her down. Sometimes, when I’m tipsy … or lonely … feeling sorry for myself, I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d chosen her—the other sister.
What if I had taken a chance with her?
Then I tell myself it doesn’t matter.
That it never could’ve happened.
It’d have been wrong on so many levels.
So why did I feel so drawn to her last night?
It has to be my dick.
That’s a lie.
It was more than me thinking with my cock.
My heart tightened as I thought about someone like Jamie in Noah’s life … in my life.
I shake my head, calling myself stupid for even considering it.
My love life is nothing to brag about. After Heather left, I trusted no one, except Georgia. She, Noah, and my job are my life. As Noah grew older, I dated around, but nothing worked out. My job isn’t the best place to meet women, but since I’m there so frequently, it’s typically where I do meet them. Georgia has attempted to set me up with her friends, but not fucking happening.
Her friends are as big of a pain in the ass as she is.
After checking Noah’s temperature again without waking him, I jump in the shower. My mind races as the water pours down my body.
Jamie asked me to tell her how Noah was doing today.
I can do one of two things: ignore her and act like last night never happened or be a man of my word and text her.
In the end, while drying off, I decide to be a man of my word.
One quick text.
A thank-you.
That’s it.
It’s the least I can do.
Grabbing my phone, I turn it in my hand as if it had the answer for everything.
I owe her this.
Me: Noah is doing better. Low-grade fever. Headache. No vomiting … thank God.
There.
I kept my word.
Not even a minute later, my phone beeps with her reply.
Jamie: Perfect! Just keep an eye on the fever, and I’m here if you need me.
“Here if you need me.”
Why does she have to say shit like that?
I hesitate for a moment.
Me: I was thinking …
Don’t do it. Don’t do it, dumbass.
My heart convinces me to do something my head would never do.
Jamie: That’s nice. You going to finish that sentence?
Fuck it.
Here goes.
Me: If you want to see Noah, you can come over when Georgia is babysitting. Spend some time together when he’s feeling better.
Holding my breath until she answers, I wonder when I lost my damn mind.
Jamie: I’d love that! When is Georgia watching him next?
Me: Wednesday.
Jamie: I’ll be there. Thank you.
I shove my phone into my pocket as Noah comes plodding into the kitchen.
Please don’t break my son’s heart.
Now, I need to figure out how I’ll explain who Jamie is to him.
Twisted Fox Bar is my dream come true.
I always wanted to be a business owner—be my own boss.
In high school, I’d been clueless on what I’d do, but I started bartending when I turned twenty-one. It was fast money and fast-paced. That job turned into several throughout the years, and eventually, I fell in love with it. I managed to snag promotions where I learned the business side of things and met friends along the way—some I kept, some I didn’t, and I’m thankful for the ones who’ve stayed by my side.
My friend Archer and I combined our funds two years ago and opened the bar. Archer, being Archer, demanded he be a silent partner. No one but our friends knows how much he’s involved. The only role he wanted outside of investing money was bartending and living a stress-free life away from the public eye. Our friends Finn and Silas came along for the ride.
We’re the sole sports pub in the county, and our only competition is a run-down business that doesn’t hold one TV. We purchased the large building for pennies on the dollar, gutted it, renovated it, and filled it with state-of-the-art shit. We created an environment for people to have good times with their friends. Dozens of TVs hang along the walls. Wood stools line the bar, and pub tables are scattered throughout the room—two-, four-, and six-tops. Sports memorabilia from the town and pieces I snagged at flea markets fill the empty spaces on the walls. There’s a separate room with two pool tables and an area to play darts.
With the bar and Noah, I don’t have time for much else—not that I’m complaining.
Being busy prevents me from overthinking shit.
It helps me forget my problems.
“How’s the little guy feeling?” Archer asks when I stroll into the bar.
“You mean, after he went all Exorcist on the couch?” I joke, shaking my head at the gross-ass memory. “He’s feeling better, but I’m still keeping him out of school.”
He nods. “I’m sure he loves that.”
Out of everyone, Archer is my right-hand man. This bar is our life, and without him, Twisted Fox would’ve never opened. Even though he put up most of the cash, he insisted we own the bar fifty-fifty. I argued that it wasn’t fair, but he wouldn’t budge.
Noah’s babysitter, Sylvia, is hanging out with him today while I work. Paperwork isn’t going to do itself. Archer manages the books, but I’m heavily involved in every aspect of the bar. It’s my main source of income, my bread and butter, and I track every penny that comes in and goes out. Noah deserves the life I wanted growing up, and if I have to work my ass off to give it to hi
m, then so be it. Maybe it’s just me making up for his lack of a mother, but my world revolves around him and his happiness.
Plopping down on the chair behind my desk, I release a stressed breath. As funny as it sounds, work relaxes me. It derails my mind from the bullshit and makes me money. Win-win.
Single parenthood is a struggle. It was even harder when I didn’t own the bar I worked in. Controlling my schedule wasn’t an option then, and for the first three years of Noah’s life, I was a bitter asshole. My tips lacked because I hated almost everyone.
And that was all thanks to Heather.
Never in my mind had I imagined her turning her back on us like she did.
Heather and I’d started dating in high school. Throughout the years, we’d broken up and gotten back together a few times, but we grew up. Three months after we moved in together, she became pregnant with Noah.
Everything was good.
Sure, the pregnancy was a shock, but we were excited about being parents.
Then, out of nowhere, she changed.
I should’ve known something was wrong when all baby-related interests stopped.
Hearing his heartbeat? No, thank you.
Making sure the car seat was properly installed in case she went into early labor? Not happening.
Like everyone else, I blamed it on the hormones. The baby books warned us about mood changes, bouts of depression, and lashing out. In my dumbass mind, those books knew everything. Too bad there were no chapters on the mother bailing.
Two months before Noah was due, while watching one of her stupid-ass reality shows, she turned to me and asked if we could put Noah up for adoption. I nearly fell off the couch when she said she’d discussed the idea with her parents. She explained, frustration slashing through her, that they’d offered to adopt him. She didn’t want that because she’d have to see him, and she was scared they’d push her to have a relationship with him later. To stop that from happening, she asked me to sign over my rights. That way, another family, no one related to us, could adopt him.
As I absorbed what she’d said, my pulse sped while I waited for her to tell me she was kidding. Instead, she jumped up from the couch. With a smile on her face, she returned with papers—the papers—her name already signed on the line.
She already had the shit drawn up.
I told her she’d lost her fucking mind. We argued, and with anger firing through me, I stormed out and walked to the bar down the street—my attempt to drink away the bullshit.
Maybe walking out on her wasn’t the smartest reaction, but she had been fucking smiling. Skipping out of the kitchen as if she wasn’t asking me to sign my life over—a person I’d fallen in love with before he was even here.
I’d give up Heather before I’d ever give him up.
Every day for the next week, she begged me to sign. We’d argue, and I’d head to the bar. I became the bastard in the corner, drinking away his problems. Eventually, I ripped up the papers while Heather sobbed, begging for an out.
And I’d given it to her when I promised we’d stay out of her selfish life.
Noah didn’t need to be around anyone who didn’t want him.
Heather signed over her rights, and three days after his birth, she moved to Vegas. That was when I learned the reason she’d wanted out. She had fallen in love with a man she’d met online. A man who didn’t like children—what a fucking winner—so fuck our child.
I cut off all communication, and we moved on with our lives as if she never existed. As much as I didn’t want my son growing up without a mother, I knew we’d survive. I’d give Noah a happy life without her, and my family and friends have made up for that void pretty damn well.
Better to be without someone than to be with someone who doesn’t love you.
I don’t hate Heather for finding someone else.
I hate her for not standing up to that someone else for our son.
I haven’t spoken to the mother of my child since the day we left the hospital, and I plan to keep it that way.
5
Jamie
My shirt is cute.
The sweat rings underneath my armpits? Not so much.
Those sweat rings didn’t exist twenty minutes ago when I left my house.
Hanging out with Noah and Georgia today has me more nervous than any blind date I’ve gone on.
I park next to a red VW Beetle in Cohen’s driveway. The car has black polka dots on it, like a ladybug, and is hideous.
I’m also pretty sure it belongs to Georgia.
I make a mental note not to tell her it’s hideous.
I can’t mess this up.
No one in my family knows about my visit with them. I kept my mouth shut, scared that Cohen would back out. Hell, who even knows if today is a one-time thing he’s giving me because I came over when Noah was sick?
I fan out my armpits before performing a quick smell check.
Don’t judge me.
A girl doesn’t want to be known as the smelly … doctor … friend … aunt?
Note to self: figure out who the hell Noah thinks I am.
I shake out my hands, as if I were preparing to run a 5K—tried it once and gave it a zero out of ten for fun—and hope Georgia has a better response to me than Cohen did.
My pace is slow as I walk up the steps, and when the front door swings open, Georgia appears in the doorway.
My shoulders relax at the sight of her bright pink lips tilting into a smile.
A smile is good.
“Hey, Jamie,” she says.
“Hi.” I give her a shy wave like the awkward person I am before gesturing to her. “Wow, you look so different … grown up.”
Georgia is a few years younger than I am, and while she’s always been pretty, she’s drop-dead gorgeous now. Her eccentric style hasn’t changed much. Even when she was younger, she was always doing something different—pink stripes in her hair, intense makeup, pigtails with tinsel in them. Today, her hair—what had once been a similar color to Cohen’s—is dyed blond and pulled into two buns at the top of her head, and she’s wearing a crop top with a kimono wrap over it and jeans with holes down the legs.
“Same to you.” She whistles. “You’re hot as fuck.”
My eyes downcast as I blush.
“Come on.” She waves me inside, and I find Noah in the living room, surrounded by a pile of Legos.
He eagerly jumps to his feet, a handful of Legos dropping from his hand. “Hi!” His attention snaps to Georgia, and he points at me. “This is your friend? She was my doctor when I was sick! She even came to our house too!”
His excitement settles my nerves and melts my heart. His T-shirt is black and says, Snack so hard, his pants are ripped in the knees—somewhat like Georgia’s—and he’s wearing checkered Vans. Noah is for sure a mini Cohen, definitely a future heartbreaker.
Georgia snags her black fringed purse from a leather recliner and swoops it over her body. “We’re going on a sugar run. You game?”
I nod. “I’m game.”
Who turns down a sugar run?
Especially in a stressful situation.
Georgia’s car is as uncomfortable as it looks.
I considered suggesting we ride in my car since it’s not the size of a stroller, and the idea of being cramped in it with sweaty pits was nerve-racking. I kept my mouth shut so I wouldn’t look like a pain in the ass already and loaded into her car, sweat pits and all.
Noah is in the back seat, rambling off his favorite snacks while counting them off on his fingers, “Cookies, cupcakes, cake, brownies, sprinkles.”
I take in his every word. If Cohen allows me to see Noah again, I want to be the aunt who takes him out for sugar runs like Georgia.
When Georgia pulls into the parking lot of Sally’s Sprinkles, my stomach twists, the urge to jump out of the car and run hitting me.
Out of all the places for a sugar run.
Georgia parks, kills the engine, and peeks back at Noah. “
Remember our rule?”
Noah eagerly nods. “I get two cupcakes, but tell Dad I only had one.”
He laughs, and Georgia high-fives him.
A wave of jealousy swims inside me.
If only Heather hadn’t been so damn selfish, I could’ve had that with him.
Noah unbuckles his seat belt, and he holds Georgia’s hand as we walk into the small cupcake shop. The bell above the door rings at our arrival, and small crowds are circled around tables, shoving their sugary goodness into their mouths.
The owner’s eyes light up when she notices me.
I want to shrink and hide.
I was hoping it was Sally’s day off.
“Jamie!” She beams, sporting the same blue eye shadow and pink lips she’s had for years.
Noah darts to the counter, his feet stomping, and eyes the cupcakes lined up inside the glass counter. My stomach growls, and my mouth waters at the memory of how delicious Sally’s cupcakes are when I stand next to him. The shop was once a weekly stop for me, but two years have passed since I’ve been here.
“Hi, Sally,” I say.
Sally tells them hello, and her attention turns back to me. “I’m glad you came in. Just because you and my Seth broke up doesn’t mean you can’t stop in and enjoy your favorite dark chocolate, peanut butter cupcakes.”
The mention of his name has my gaze darting from one side of the shop to the other.
So far, Seth-free.
The shop hasn’t changed with its bubblegum-pink walls and bright red tables and chairs, and Sally is wearing her Sprinkle Me Up, Baby apron Seth bought her for Christmas a few years back.
Sally rubs her hands together. “What can I get for you guys?”
I peek over at Noah and tilt my head toward the counter. “Do you know what you want?”
“Hmm …” He taps his finger against his chin. “So many yummy choices.” His attention flicks to Georgia. “How many am I allowed to have again?”
“Two,” she answers.
He holds up four fingers. “Please. I won’t eat them all today.”
Georgia shakes her head while fighting back a smile. “Three, and that’s final. We’ll have to stash the third one somewhere in the house.”
Stirred (Twisted Fox Book 1) Page 3