Stirred (Twisted Fox Book 1) Page 7

  “Did you bump your head when you were doing that eat, pray, love shit? Not only is he my sister’s ex but he’s also the father of her child.”

  “Heather lost any right to him and Noah when she left him for that scumbag.” She leans back and shrugs.

  I play with my straw, and it squeaks as I move it in and out of the cup. “Still doesn’t make it right. Heather didn’t do anything to me.”

  She snorts. “She cut off all your Barbies’ hair after claiming you were too old to play with them. She made fun of you like it was her job. Remember when she broke your grandmother’s antique clock and blamed it on you?”

  Struggling to sound defensive, I say, “Payback isn’t sleeping with her ex, and that was childish stuff she did to me.”

  She sighs. “It sucks when your bestie is in love with someone but won’t make her move.”

  “I don’t love him,” I say harshly, looking away from her.

  “Don’t bullshit me. You told me yourself you loved him.”

  When I glance back at her, my narrowed eyes meet her entertained ones. “I told you that my freshman year of high school when I didn’t date, no guy paid attention to me, and he was always around. It was a stupid crush.”

  She tips her head to the side. “Look on the plus side, bestie. You won’t have to endure any more of my blind dates.”

  “Cohen or no Cohen, I’m still not enduring any more of your blind dates. I’d rather have my period for a year straight.”

  “Make sure you make an appointment if that ever happens, okay?”

  “I’m still not hiring you as my gyno.”

  “Lame.” She checks her watch, frowns, and slides out of the booth. “Find out when I can meet the little guy, and if anything happens between you and Cohen, don’t wait a damn month to tell me, okay? I don’t care where I am. I want all the deets.”

  My throat tightens as my nerves go into overdrive.

  I considered driving to Cohen’s house to ask him this, but I don’t have panties big enough to do that. So like the scaredy-cat I am, I call him.

  “Hey,” he answers.

  Playing with my hand in front of me, I inspect my nails in an attempt to control my anxiety. “Do you have a minute to talk?”

  “Sure,” he drawls, curiosity in his tone. “What’s up?”

  “My parents want to meet Noah,” I rush out before I lose my nerve.

  My hold tightens around the phone, and I glance around the hospital cafeteria, wondering if I’ll need Xanax by the time this call ends. This request can piss him off enough that he won’t talk to me again.

  “You told them?” he hisses, and my eyes slam shut at his tone.

  It’s a mixture of shock and anger.

  As if I betrayed him.

  My wish of him taking this lightly is not coming true.

  “It was an accident.” Tears prick at my eyes, regret sliding through me as my hands start to shake.

  “An accident?” he slowly repeats, calling my bullshit.

  “My mom called when I was babysitting Noah. I ignored her calls, but she kept calling. I was worried it was an emergency.”

  “Jamie,” he warns.

  “I didn’t plan for her to find out. She heard Noah in the background and asked who he was.”

  “You couldn’t tell her he was someone else?” The bullshit-calling is still evident in his voice.

  “I suck at being put on the spot, and I suck even more at lying, which some would find a very honorable trait.”

  “You know what another honorable trait is?”

  “Forgiveness?” I squeak out.

  “Keeping your word that no one would find out.”

  “Cohen,” I say his name like a statement.

  “Jamie,” he mocks in the same tone.

  “I give you my word that they won’t tell Noah who they are. Please give my parents this. Even if just for one day. My mom’s birthday is this week, and it’d make her day.”

  “I don’t care what’d make her day.”

  The call goes silent, and the anxiety feels so similar to when my mom called, asking who was in the background.

  “I’ll think about it,” he finally states.

  “That’s all I’m asking for.”

  “No, you’re asking for a lot more.”

  12

  Cohen

  Jamie: Bad news. I’m sick, and I can’t pick up Noah. I’m so sorry.

  I drop my pen on my desk and grab my phone to answer her text.

  Jamie was supposed to pick up Noah from school today. She’s done it a few times this month, and he loves his time with her. They go to the park or the movies, and she takes him to get cupcakes.

  Man, my kid is easily won over with sugar.

  Me: It’s cool. You need anything?

  Do you need anything?

  What the hell am I doing?

  Nothing. This is normal. Not out of bounds.

  Right?

  I’d reply the same to my sister or one of my friends if they were sick.

  Jamie: I’m okay. Thank you for the offer, though.

  Me: Get some rest. I’ll get Noah from school.

  Jamie. Thank you, Cohen.

  I slide my phone into my pocket and glance over at Archer. “I have to go. I’ll have Georgia come in and cover my shift for a few hours when she gets out of class.” I rub my temples, already anticipating the backlash of hearing him bitch.

  “Why?” Anger radiates off him, and he throws the paperwork we were discussing on my desk.

  “Jamie is sick and can’t pick up Noah from school.”

  “Find someone else to cover,” he snarls, scratching the scruff on his cheek. “I’m not working with her.”

  “Look, whatever beef you two have, it doesn’t need to be brought up here. You work here. She works here. Get the hell over it.”

  He glares at me. “As part owner, shouldn’t I have a say in our employees?”

  “Not when she’s my sister.”

  “I’ll call Silas.”

  “He’s out of town.”

  “Whatever, man,” he grumbles.

  I take that as his acquiescence, and thirty minutes later, I’m in the school pick-up lane. The back door flies open, and Noah jumps into the back seat.

  A frown takes over his face as he looks around. “Where’s Jamie? I thought she was picking me up today.”

  I stare back at him in excitement. “She’s not feeling well, so you get to hang out with good ol’ Dad today.”

  “Ah, man,” he mutters with a frown.

  “What am I, chopped liver?”

  “She was going to take me to the cupcake place.”

  I frown back at the disappointment on his face. “How about I take you to the cupcake place?”

  He thrusts his arm into the air. “I’d love that! Can we get Jamie one too? She loves cupcakes, like me. It’ll make her feel better.”

  Just as I’m about to say no, I take in the elation on his face.

  No way can I say no to that face.

  It’s probably why I’ve been a sucker for most of Noah’s requests throughout his life.

  “Sure.”

  He dances in the back seat. “Can I pick it out? I know her favorite.”

  “Of course.”

  I text Georgia, asking for Jamie’s address, before putting the car in drive. She’s brought Noah there a few times to hang out at Jamie’s place. She called it a change of scenery, but I call it Georgia being nosy and wanting to know where Jamie lives.

  Sally’s Sprinkles is a cupcake shop that sits on the corner of Main Street and Maple in our small town square.

  I’ve been here a few times, but Noah and I tend to visit the frozen yogurt shop when we go out for dessert. When we walk in, my mouth waters at the sweet smell of baked goods wafting through the air. Noah wastes no time in skipping to the glass counter.

  “Hi, Noah!” greets the woman wearing a frosting-stained apron.

  “Hi, Sally!” He wiggles in place while debating his options.

  My gaze pings back and forth between them. Other than giving her our cupcake choices, we’ve never talked to this woman before, let alone know her name.

  I’m assuming she’s the owner, hence Sally’s Sprinkles.

  It hits me that Noah has been here with Georgia and Jamie. That must be how they know each other.

  “No Jamie or Aunt Georgia?” Sally asks.

  Noah shakes his head. “Aunt Georgia is at school, and Jamie is sick. We’re going to bring her cupcakes to make her feel better!”

  Sally’s hand flies to her chest, a grin taking over her wrinkled face. “You’re so sweet. She’ll love that.”

  I kneel to Noah’s level. “What’ll it be, buddy?”

  “Hmm …” He puts his finger to the side of his mouth, deep in thought, before pointing at a dark chocolate one. “She’ll love that one!”

  “She most definitely will,” the woman squeals. “Those are her favorite.”

  Noah tips his thumb toward me. “This is my dad.”

  “Oh, it’s nice to meet you! I’m Sally.” She wipes her hands on her apron and waves to me as I stand.

  Noah peeks over to me. “Her son and Jamie used to be boyfriend and girlfriend,” Noah explains as though he were the head of the gossip committee around here.

  Raising a brow, I feel a surge of jealousy tightening around my throat. “Oh, really?”

  What the …?

  I shouldn’t care that Jamie had a boyfriend.

  Sally nods repeatedly. “My Seth was heartbroken when they broke up, but med school was demanding.” An exasperated breath leaves her. “If only they’d get back together now that she’s out of school.”

  Fuck Seth.

  He had something I want—something I can’t have.

  I’ll never have.

  I clap my hands and rub them together. “All right, Noah, have you decided which one you want?”

  No more talk of Jamie’s former boyfriend.

  Noah nods, and we leave Sally’s Sprinkles with a box of cupcakes.

  13

  Jamie

  Fuck bees.

  No longer will I share any Save the Bees Facebook posts.

  Sorry, Cheerios.

  My bottom lip is the size of a toddler’s fist.

  All because one got into my can of LaCroix and stung me when I took a drink. The swelling has shrunk some, but it still appears I had a lip injection gone wrong.

  I hated canceling on Noah, but there was no way I was going to go out in public looking like this. I’ll buy him extra cupcakes and maybe an action figure the next time I see him.

  Shuffling from my kitchen to the living room, I hold a bag of frozen strawberries to my mouth and plop down on the couch before snatching my phone. The bag drops on my lap when I see a text sent fifteen minutes ago.

  Cohen: Mind if we stop by? Noah has something for you.

  I’m struggling to come up with an excuse when the doorbell rings. I snatch the strawberry bag, set it on the table, and tiptoe to the door. When I peek through the peephole, Noah and Cohen are standing on my porch, and there’s a familiar pink box in Noah’s hands.

  “I hope she’s home,” Noah says. “Everyone knows you have to stay home when you’re sick unless you have to go to the doctor. Isn’t that what you tell me, Dad?”

  “It sure is.” Cohen knocks again before peering down at Noah, who now appears heartbroken. “Maybe she’s napping. We’ll leave the cupcakes here, and I’ll text her to grab them when she can.”

  “But what if someone steals them?” Noah whines.

  My stomach burns with shame. I pull in a jagged breath, open the door, and cover my mouth.

  “Hi, guys,” I say, my voice muffled under my hand.

  Noah holds up the box, a proud smile on his face. “We brought you cupcakes to make you feel better.”

  I return the smile at the heartwarming gesture and am unclear if they can make out my words. “That’s so sweet. Thank you.” Not wanting to be rude, I wave them in with my free hand.

  They don’t move.

  Cohen scratches his head and nods toward my mouth. “Is everything okay, Jamie?”

  He has the hot dad vibe going on with his sweatshirt layered under a jean jacket, holey jeans, and Chuck Taylors.

  I nod. “Mm-hmm.”

  “Why don’t you uncover your mouth then?”

  I don’t.

  “Jamie,” he says my name like a warning.

  I slowly remove my hand, waiting for the gasps and questions.

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, oh.” I gulp.

  “What happened to your mouth?” Noah blurts.

  Cohen shoots him a don’t be rude look before his attention returns to me. “Are you allergic to something? I can run and grab you some Benadryl.”

  “I took some already.” My words are still muttered, my lips not making it easy to speak.

  Turning, I do a once-over of my house when they walk in. It’s clean, but since I’ve been lying around, whining about my lip, I haven’t exactly picked up today. An empty yogurt container is on the living room table next to the bag of strawberries and a bottle of water. A shag blanket is nestled in the corner of my couch, and a lavender candle is burning, the relaxing scent wafting through the air in an attempt to calm me.

  My townhome has an open floor plan, allowing you to see the living room and the kitchen past the peninsula island separating the two rooms. Cohen carefully takes the cupcake box from Noah and sets it on the kitchen table. Noah doesn’t waste a moment before opening the box and snagging one.

  He jumps up and down and comes dashing toward me. “Here! I picked it out just for you.”

  The blue frosting lining his mouth tells me he’s already devoured one cupcake.

  I rest my hand over my heart and set the cupcake on the counter. “I’ll eat this in a bit, okay?”

  Noah nods.

  Cohen shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and leans back on his heels. “Sorry if we’re intruding, but Noah insisted on seeing you and bringing you the cupcakes since he thought you were sick.”

  I signal to my jumbo lip. “This qualifies as sick. No way am I going out looking like this.”

  “Why?” He smirks. “They look cute.”

  I smack his shoulder as I pass him. “Shut up.”

  He chuckles.

  Noah is at the table, shoving another cupcake into his mouth, and I start straightening up my mess.

  “How’d you know where I lived?” I ask Cohen.

  “Georgia.”

  Noah hops up from his chair and barrels toward the living room. “Let’s watch cartoons!”

  “We can get out of your hair,” Cohen says when Noah flies past him into the living room.

  “You’ve already seen my face, so there’s no hiding it. I could actually use the company.”

  “I figured you’d be eating Cheetos and watching Netflix.” He winks at me.

  “I save those for my wild nights, remember?”

  “Ah, yes. I see it’s frozen fruit and yogurt day instead.”

  Noah makes himself comfortable in the yellow paisley print chair with the remote in his hand and starts flipping through channels.

  “Noah,” Cohen says in his dad voice, “you can’t turn people’s channels without asking them.”

  Noah frowns. “You let me turn channels all the time.”

  “At home. We’re at Jamie’s home.”

  “It’s totally fine,” I say. “Flip away.”

  Noah shrugs and stops at a cartoon.

  I fall on one end of the couch, and Cohen takes the other.

  He looks around the room. “I like your place. It suits you.”

  I drive a hand through my hair, realizing it’s a hot mess, but all I can do now is roll with it. “I mean, I do live here.”

  “You know what I mean. It matches your personality.”

  I shift to face him. “What exactly is my personality?”

  ��Sophisticated but fun. Stylish but not too overboard or tacky.”

  “Hmm …” I tap my chin. “Has someone been reading Martha Stewart magazines?”

  “Smart-ass,” he grumbles, cracking a smile.

  My townhouse does scream me. The two-bedroom home isn’t large, which was number one on my wish list because less cleaning. My father had all my appliances updated, and I changed the deep brown cabinets to a clean white, making the place brighter. An electric fireplace—another item on my wish list—is under the TV.

  All my furniture is white, and I’ve scattered color throughout the room with my décor—bright pillows, large candles on my coffee table, and two bookshelves lining a wall, filled with medical textbooks, paranormal romances, and thrillers.

  “Speaking of homes, your crib definitely doesn’t suit you. I was expecting a man cave,” I say.

  “It’s the Martha Stewart magazines. She knows her shit.”

  I cock my head to the side. “Family man design is all the rage.”

  He points at himself. “Funny, because that’s what I am, minus the whole cheesy dad T-shirts and tacky jokes.”

  “Uh, that cheesy dad joke was plenty tacky.”

  “Dad! It’s my favorite!” Noah shouts, turning back to look at us while pointing at the TV where Toy Story is playing.

  Cohen scoots in closer to me, bows his head, and whispers, “To be honest, the sequel is nowhere near as good as the first one.”

  I raise a brow. “Look at you, Mr. Cartoon Critic.”

  “What can I say?” He shrugs. “I know my shit.”

  “Dad!” Noah yells. Briefly peeking back at us, he furrows his brows. “We’re not allowed to say that word.”

  “Shit—shoot, sorry,” Cohen replies with a chuckle.

  I elbow him. “You’re in trouble now.”

  “Who would’ve known the hardest part of raising a kid was not cursing around them?” He shakes his head. “It’s not like I work in a school where I regularly have a PG-rated vocabulary.”

  “Speaking of work, do you have to go in tonight?”

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