Stirred (Twisted Fox Book 1) Page 5

  She stands up straight, and her words are chirpy. “Hi! I’m Sylvia. You must be Jamie.”

  I nod, and when I say hello, it’s not nearly as chirpy as hers.

  She retreats a step, allowing me space to come in. “It’s nice to finally meet you. You’re all Noah talks about.” She peeks back at me with a frown. “I feel bad I can’t stay later, but I’m going out of town.”

  “Totally understandable. I’m happy to help.”

  “Jamie!” Noah shouts when I come into view. He punches his hand through the air before dashing across the living room to give me a hug.

  Bending down, I hug him back, squeezing him tight and savoring the moment. The more we hang out, the closer we get. This little boy has sent a wave of happiness through my life, and moments like this, even though they’re joyous, still send a flash of fear through me.

  That motherly instinct has hit me.

  The love for him in my heart is there.

  Whether that’s good or bad, I’m not sure.

  I’m playing by Cohen’s rules, going at it minute by minute.

  Cohen could have a bad day and decide no more Noah visits for me.

  I could say the wrong thing, and he could pull away the happiness we’ve created.

  The thought is terrifying.

  Never did I think I’d get so attached in such a short amount of time, but Noah has won me over with his radiant and childish heart. He’s funny, a ball of energy, and the sweetest little guy. Cohen raised him right, and a sense of guilt twists my heart that we’d ever doubted him.

  Noah gives Sylvia a hug good-bye along with a kiss on the cheek, and we make ourselves comfortable in the living room when she leaves. Cartoons are playing on the crazy-large TV, and Noah has his action figures displayed on the floor, perched up as if they were watching the show with him.

  Cohen’s house is warm and comfortable, very homey. The walls are painted a light gray throughout the entire house with the exception of Noah’s blue bedroom. The couch is cushy, which I love. Nothing’s worse than a stiff couch. Two brown suede recliners sit on each side of the couch. Blankets are everywhere—thrown over those recliners, a Spider-Man one spilling over the arm of the couch—and brown suede pillows that match the recliners are scattered around. Just like in the hallway, pictures of Noah are everywhere. School pictures, pictures of him and his family, and ones of him with others.

  Twenty minutes later, Noah looks back at me. “I’m hungry.”

  “You haven’t eaten dinner?”

  “Sylvia made me chicken nuggets and gross broccoli, but I’m hungry again.” He pats his stomach.

  “What would you like to eat?”

  He provides a sly grin. “Pizza.”

  I snatch my phone from my bag. “Let me check with your dad.”

  “Dad won’t care. I’ll save him a slice and a half.”

  Yeah, not pushing my buttons with this one.

  I could see Cohen banning me for giving Noah a pepperoni instead of a broccoli sprout.

  Me: Is it cool if we order pizza?

  He texts me back a few minutes later.

  Cohen: Since I’m sure he won’t let you say no, that’s fine.

  Me: He agreed to save you a slice and a half.

  Cohen: Tell him I appreciate his generosity.

  “Good news,” I tell him, pulling up the pizza shop app to order. “Pizza it is!”

  This is my mom’s third call.

  Her seventh text comes through.

  Mom: Are you alive? I thought you had the night off at the hospital?

  Knowing my mom, she won’t stop calling until I answer.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell Noah before walking to the kitchen and returning her call.

  “Honey, why have you been ignoring my calls?” she answers. “I’ve been calling you all day.”

  “Sorry,” I grumble. “I’ve been busy.”

  “Doing what?” Her voice is stern and worried. “Are you working too many hours at the hospital again?”

  That is a regular question from her.

  “No, Mom. I’m working regular ER doctor hours,” I answer.

  “Which is too many hours! I don’t understand why you won’t work in a practice. Your father does.”

  “I don’t want to work in a practice.”

  “Hey, Jamie!”

  My hand tightens around my phone at the sound of Noah yelling my name, and I turn around at the same time he comes barreling into the kitchen.

  He jumps up and down, his voice rising. “Can I have a cookie?”

  “Who’s that?” my mom asks.

  I gulp, unable to speak. Instead, I nod as I give Noah a thumbs-up, and he dashes to the pantry. A package of cookies is in his hand when he turns and scurries to the table.

  “Jamie!” my mom yelps.

  I hear the wrapper opening when I speed-walk to the bathroom and shut the door behind me. “I’m babysitting.”

  “Babysitting? Babysitting who?”

  “A kid.” My stomach sinks.

  My mother won’t stop at that answer.

  “I’d assume so. Whose kid?”

  She’s also always been a nosy one.

  To lie or not to lie.

  My pizza threatens to come up while I fight with myself on how to answer.

  “It’s Noah, Mom,” I reply, resting my back against the door. “I’m babysitting Noah.”

  The line goes silent, and I double-check that she didn’t hang up on me.

  “I’m sorry.” She clears her throat. “Did you say you’re babysitting Noah?”

  I nod even though she can’t see me. “Yes.”

  Another silence.

  “Heather’s Noah?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?” Her voice lowers. “How?”

  I hold the phone closer to my face and lower my voice. “I can’t exactly go into the details at the moment.”

  Her shocked tone morphs into an angry one. “How long has this been happening behind our backs?”

  I shut my eyes, hating the betrayal in her voice. “It’s not behind your backs.” When she doesn’t reply, I release a heavy breath. “It hasn’t been long. I wanted to make sure it stuck before I got anyone involved. I plan to ask Cohen if you can see Noah, but you can’t tell Heather about this, okay?”

  “Jamie, you know I don’t like secrets.”

  “If you want Cohen to even consider letting you meet Noah, you should start liking them with this one.”

  Noah yells my name again.

  “Look, I have to go,” I rush out.

  “Call me when you leave. I want to know what he’s like.” She sighs. “Snap a picture if you can.”

  8

  Cohen

  It’s after three in the morning when I pull into my garage.

  After Noah was born, I saved every penny I could and bought the three-bedroom brick ranch. For years, Noah, Georgia, and I lived here together. She only moved out a few years ago.

  Now, it’s just me and my mini-me.

  I texted Jamie a few times throughout the night to check on Noah and make sure she was okay with staying so late. Around nine thirty, she told me Noah passed out on the couch, and she was putting him to bed.

  Never in a million years would I have thought Jamie would be in my house, watching Noah while I worked.

  I hear the TV when I walk into the house, but there’s no sign of life in the living room. I circle the couch to find Jamie sleeping with a Spider-Man blanket wrapped around her.

  Staring down at her in curiosity, not creepiness, I absorb her beauty. We haven’t seen each other since the night she came over when Noah was sick.

  It’s better that way.

  I kept my distance to avoid what I’m doing now—drinking her in as if she were the best drink I’d ever poured. Her golden-brown hair spills over the edge of the pillow and covers half of her tan face. Even in Jamie’s dorky days, she was cute. Her lips are pouty, and I know she has two dimples that pop through he
r cheeks when she bursts into laughter. Her green eyes light up any room.

  There’s more to Jamie than her looks.

  She has the warmest heart of anyone I’ve ever known.

  I dip down and whisper her name, and her eyes slowly open, one at a time.

  “Sorry.” A deep yawn leaves her. “I dozed off.”

  I shove my hands into my pants pockets and chuckle. “He can be a handful.”

  She snorts, rubbing her sleepy eyes. “Oh, he’s nothing.”

  I retreat a step when she rises and stretches out her arms. My eyes are on her when she stands, grabs the blanket, folds it into a neat square, and settles it on the end of the couch. Without a word and with another yawn, she snags a mug with the bar’s logo from the table, and her fuzzy-socked feet pad through the living room to the kitchen.

  My gaze is on her, my eyes taking in every inch of her ass, which makes me a rude bastard. Her black yoga pants hug her body, accentuating her plump ass, and I love how casual she looks tonight and how comfortable she seems in my home. Sure, seeing her in that black dress was nice, but this is so much more.

  The kitchen is quiet as she rinses out her mug and places it in the dishwasher as if she owned the place.

  My mouth turns dry as I rest my back against the cabinets and search for the right words. “How’s life going?”

  How’s life?

  Lamest fucking question.

  When did I lose my game?

  “Life is living at the hospital while playing Let’s See How Many Coffees Jamie Can Drink Before She Has an Anxiety Attack.”

  My eyes return to her ass when she crouches down to shut the dishwasher.

  “I get you on the coffee.” I chuckle as I take the few steps to the kitchen table and collapse into a chair. I grab the pizza box, sliding it to me, and cringe when I open it. “What’s this trash?”

  She arches a brow. “Pizza.”

  “Did you torture my son with this pizza?”

  “Uh … yeah.”

  “Listen, there’s a lot of shit I’ll take, but feeding my son this pineapple demon of a pizza is where I draw the line.”

  “He loved it, thank you very much.” She smirks and surprisingly sits across from me. “Have you ever tried Hawaiian pizza?”

  “Nope, nor do I care to.”

  “What is it Noah said you tell him?” She taps the side of her cheek, thinking. “You have to try foods before you decide you don’t like them. Practice what you preach, Fox.”

  Nausea turns in my stomach when she slides the pizza box closer to me.

  I push it back. “Nasty-ass pizza. Hard pass.”

  “Cohen, try the damn pizza.”

  “Look, I don’t want to be a dick and make you clean up my vomit after I eat this garbage. Plus, I don’t want my house to smell.”

  “For a guy, you’re dramatic as fuck.”

  I chuckle. “Oh, really?”

  “Really.”

  “It’s weird, hearing you cuss.”

  The Jamie I knew was shy, timid, definitely not this outspoken.

  This Jamie is confident, funny, and a fucking smart-ass.

  She scrunches up that cute nose of hers. “Why?”

  “You hardly muttered a curse word in high school.”

  “Well, I didn’t think you were dramatic as fuck then.” A smirk plays at her lips, her dimples slightly making an appearance. “Had I, I would’ve told you the same.”

  I can’t help but chuckle. “There’s always been a little rebel inside you.”

  She rolls a hairband off her wrist, smooths her hair into a ponytail, and ties it back, stray strands framing her face. “Puh-lease. The most rebellious thing I did in high school was go to that stupid party.” Her cheeks redden before she buries her face in her hands, speaking through them, “Oh my God. I can’t believe I brought that up.”

  Our conversation is about to grow more interesting than a damn pineapple pizza debate.

  I straighten my shoulders, a cocky smile crossing my face. “I was your first kiss, wasn’t I?”

  When she uncovers her face, she’s glaring at me. “You don’t know that.”

  “I was,” I state, matter-of-factly.

  “Oh, piss off.” Her hand waves through the air. “It sucked, by the way.”

  Leaning back in the chair, I’m already enjoying every word of this, knowing it’ll just get better. “I don’t doubt that. You cornered me in a bathroom and drunkenly stuck your tongue down my throat.”

  My breathing slows at the memory. Heather lost her shit when she spotted Jamie at that party, but I made her chill out. Jamie didn’t have much of a social life, and I was happy that she was finally enjoying her teenage years. I plowed through the crowd and made it clear that she could only take drinks from me. Later, when I went to take a piss, Jamie shoved herself into the bathroom behind me and locked the door. Before I could stop her and ask when she’d lost her mind, she pushed me against the door and attempted to suck my face off.

  It was bad.

  She was so inexperienced.

  I turned her down, she cried, and then I drove her home.

  We never brought up that night … until now.

  “That’s why I don’t drink cheap vodka anymore,” she says.

  “Oh, really?” I lean back in my chair. “What’s your drink of choice now? Pineapple juice to match your pineapple pizza?”

  “Wine, thank you very much. It’s never convinced me to stick my tongue down someone’s throat where it doesn’t belong.” The blush on her cheeks hasn’t disappeared.

  “Does it make you stick your tongue down throats you should?”

  She bites into the edge of her lip. “Can we stop talking about me, and you eat the damn pizza?”

  I’d much rather talk about her sticking her tongue down throats.

  And other places.

  Well, not anyone’s throat.

  Maybe talk about her sticking her tongue down my throat.

  Or vice versa.

  I shake my head, mentally slapping my forehead. “If it’s gross, you owe me fifteen mushroom pizzas.”

  “Ew.” A fake gagging sound falls from her mouth. “I don’t trust people who eat fungus on their pizza.”

  “Fruit on it is better?”

  “Quit delaying and eat the damn pizza.”

  My stomach growls, but not because I’m hungry. It’s tightening, gearing itself up to ingest something disgusting. Jamie’s eyes are pinned to me, and she’s nearly bouncing in her chair. My upper lip snarls when I pick up a slice, bite off the corner, and chew it as slow as Noah does his broccoli.

  I’m making the same disgusted face.

  “So?” she asks eagerly when I swallow it.

  “Just as I suspected.” I clasp my fingers together in a fist, hold it over my mouth, and make a choking noise. “Nasty as hell.”

  She rips off an edge of crust from a slice and tosses it at me. “You suck.”

  We’re in need of a subject change. I can’t have her asking me to try any more nasty shit.

  “You know,” I say, “I never told Heather about that night.”

  9

  Jamie

  I pull in a breath.

  Whoa.

  He said her name.

  Not once in the six years they’ve been broken up has Heather said his name.

  If it wasn’t for Noah, you’d think their relationship never existed.

  A few years ago, when Heather was in town, I asked if she regretted leaving them.

  She answered with a friendly, “Fuck off,” and stormed out of the room.

  Her pig of a husband, the man she’d stupidly ditched Cohen for, grunted and muttered something along the lines of, “Fuck kids.”

  A real winner there, sis.

  I told him to, “Fuck off,” next, and the day was filled with everyone wanting the other to fuck themselves.

  My eyes meet Cohen’s, and a tingle sweeps up my spine. Even though this is an embarrassing moment, I have no
compulsion to flee.

  We’re having a good time.

  “I figured you hadn’t tattled, given I wasn’t strangled in my sleep,” I say, cracking a smile. “Thank you for that. It’s nice to be alive and breathing.”

  He shrugs. “We all do stupid shit the first time we’re drunk.”

  “Fun fact: not everyone attempts to make out with their sister’s boyfriend. Total slut move on my part, which I take full accountability for.” I pause, holding up a finger. “To you, I take responsibility. With Heather, I’m taking that shit to the grave.”

  He’s right about it being the first time I got drunk. For someone with a 4.0 GPA, I was clueless about how potent vodka was and how stupid it could make you. I chugged that shit down like it was Kool-Aid, trying to fit in, and then threw myself at a man who wasn’t mine.

  After our incident, I didn’t drink for three years.

  In college was when I realized that not all alcohol was cheap vodka that would have you puking up your guts and kissing guys.

  “You were what”—Cohen scrunches his brows together—“sixteen?”

  “Sixteen, stupid, and slutty.”

  I couldn’t look at him for weeks. Anytime he came over, I left the room. I was ashamed and terrified he’d tell Heather. She would’ve tattled to my parents, and all hell would’ve broken loose. But Cohen pretended it never happened, and at times, I wondered if he even remembered.

  Maybe I wasn’t that memorable.

  “What if I told you it was the best kiss of my life?” Cohen asks, grinning playfully before licking his lips.

  I flip him off. “Shut your mouth before I shove that pizza in it.”

  “I know it was the best kiss of yours.” His smile turns cocky.

  “Please. It lasted five seconds before you shot me down.”

  “Yes, because you tasted like pineapple pizza.”

  “And you tasted like cheap beer and tacos. Not hot.”

  “I won’t argue with that. I had some shitty taste in liquor back then.”

  And shitty taste in girlfriends.

  He clasps his hands together, resting them on the table, and it reminds me of a dad about to give their child the birds and the bees talk. “Seriously, though, pineapple breath and all, thank you for coming tonight.”