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.”
“Thank you for letting me in his life,” I whisper. “I know it was hard for you.”
His gaze darts to the other side of the kitchen.
Whenever I bring up Noah, Cohen changes.
Vulnerability flashes in his eyes.
He’s unsure if me seeing Noah is the right thing to do.
Please don’t doubt me.
I’ll never hurt either of you.
I swear it.
I’m playing, and I will always play by your rules.
He knocks his knuckles against the table before sliding out of his chair. “Sorry for taking you away from whatever you were doing by asking you at the last minute. I’m sure you were busy.”
“Nope, just in bed.” I chew on the inside of my mouth.
He tilts his head back. “Now, I feel like shit for dragging you out of bed.” His head lowers as if something quickly hit him. “Wait, why were you in bed that early?”
A strangled laugh leaves me. “I was awake … just chilling.”
A low chuckle from him eases me a bit. “Just chilling, huh?”
“Yep.”
His lips twitch into a relaxed smile. “What does one do while just chilling in bed?”
“Eat ice cream.” I wrinkle my nose while rambling off my list, “Complain about insomnia.” I snap my fingers, and my voice hitches. “Oh! And eat Cheetos—the puffy kind, of course. Sometimes, if I’m feeling crazy, I throw Netflix into the mix. My shifts have been chaotic lately, and it’s been difficult to maintain a normal sleep schedule.”
Last week, we were short a doctor and two nurses in the ER, so I picked up the slack.
He scratches his chin. “What does Jamie watch in bed while chilling?”
“The Office reruns usually or a serial killer documentary.”
“You have no idea how much I’d pay to binge-watch a show that isn’t cartoons or even eat in bed. If Noah catches me snacking in bed, he’ll try to do the same. Kid’s a messy eater. In all seriousness, though, I’m proud of you for going for your dream.”
Rising from the chair, I clap him on the shoulder. “You sound like a proud dad at graduation.”
He clasps his hand over mine, squeezing it. “Hey now, I heard you babble on about wanting to be a doctor for years. I’m glad it worked out.”
As happy as his words hit me, my attention is pinned to his hand over mine.
To his touch.
The way his large hand perfectly blankets mine.
The warmth of his skin over mine.
I shut my eyes, telling myself to pull away but not having the strength to.
He blows out a long breath at the same time he releases my hand. “It’s late.”
I retreat a few steps, maintaining distance, and groan when he pulls out his wallet.
Not again.
“Nope,” I say, pushing the wallet away. “If you even think of taking anything out of that, I’m kicking your ass.”
He snags a bill and slides it between two fingers, holding it out to me. “For taking you away from your Cheetos and Netflix.”
I narrow my eyes on him. “Put it away.”
“Jamie—”
“You can pay me back by allowing me to see Noah more. How’s that?”
He stiffens at my response, and his face changes into a look I’ve only seen once—when we were in Noah’s bedroom. We lock eyes, and I feel my pulse in my throat.
“I’ll give you that.” His voice is gentle when he reaches forward, wraps a strand of my hair around his thick finger, and clips it behind my ear. “Good night, Jamie. Get back to your Cheetos and Netflix.”
I suck in a breath.
Cheetos?
From the way he’s looking at me, I’ll be getting back to my vibrator.
His eyes are half-lidded and tired when I tell him good night, and he walks me to the door, standing on the porch until I drive away.
When I get home, I pour a glass of wine to pair nicely with my Cheetos and go to bed.
10
Cohen
“I understand you want to wear your Spider-Man light-up sandals, buddy, but it’s cold outside. Your toes will freeze off.”
I’m crouched on one knee and having a standoff with my five-year-old son about fucking light-up sandals at the ass crack of dawn.
Noah scowls at me. “I don’t care. I don’t need all my toes.” He holds up his tiny hand and separates his fingers, wiggling them. “I got ten of ’em.”
I scrub a hand over my cheek. I’m functioning on three hours of sleep, and I still need to make breakfast and drop Noah off at school on time. “How about this? I’ll buy you Spider-Man boots if you put those boots on. Neither one of us is getting our way here, bud.”
He tilts his head to the side, thinking. “If I listen, you are getting your way.”
Schooled by a kindergartener.
I stare at him, searching for my next move, but he sighs as if annoyed with me.
“Fine,” he groans. “I’ll wear the boots if you put an extra pudding cup in my lunchbox.”
“Sold!” I high-five him and stand. “Put on your boots, and let’s get moving.”
Noah pulls the bright red boots up each foot and stomps into the bathroom. I spike his hair with gel and spritz cologne on his wrist, and we head into the kitchen, the smell of his cologne filling the hallway when he sprints down it. I bought him the cheap shit last month in hopes that he’d stop stealing mine.
He dances in his seat at the kitchen table while I heat his oatmeal—the kind where the dinosaurs hatch from their eggs after it’s warm—and I make his lunch while he eats. Normally, I have everything ready the night before, but the fiasco with Polly and Mohawk fucked up my schedule. I was exhausted and crashed into bed as soon as Jamie left.
After Noah scarfs down his oatmeal, he jumps from his chair, and we load into my Jeep. The drive to school isn’t a quiet one while he talks about how pretty his babysitter is and then complains that I’m not bumping Kidz Bop.
After I drop him off, I head to the bar for another day of work.
“Hey, big brother.”
I glance up, drying off a glass, and set it to the side as Georgia skips over to me.
She plops down on a stool, sets her salad container on the bar, and opens it. “How’d last night go?”
I grab another glass. “You were with me last night. Remember?”