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 him, 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.