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.