I was on my feet before I even knew I’d moved, Jeremiah staring up in wide-eyed concern. The call lasted a dozen heartbeats before the line went dead.
“Jeremiah, I’m so sorry. Debbie’s throwing up. I need to go.”
Jeremiah stood and raked his hand through his hair, looking like a man struggling—and failing—to hide his disappointment.
“Of course. Can I do anything?” he asked.
“No. Shit . . .” I grabbed my wallet and began to dig.
“Don’t worry about this. I’ve got it. Go take care of your little Button.”
His use of her nickname—my nickname for her—was almost as jarring as the phone call.
“Thanks,” I said, turning. I made it two strides before glancing back at the beautiful man watching me walk away. Without thinking, I said, “I’ll get next time, okay?”
His smile was instant.
He raised a hand.
And he said, “Next time. You got it.”
Chapter 9
Theo
The drive home felt both too long and not nearly long enough. My hands clenched the wheel as my mind raced between two completely different tracks—parental worry and romantic disappointment, each thought interrupting the other like competing radio stations bleeding through static.
Debbie threw up. Julia said she threw up. Throwing up is bad, really bad. We might have to go to the hospital. Oh, God. She has to be all right.
I knew I was being silly. People got sick, especially kids. She could have eaten a LEGO for all I knew—or have a stomach bug—or a million other non-life-threatening things. Why did my pulse race like Danica Patrick’s engine? Why did the thought of one little girl having an upset stomach send me into such a tailspin?
Jesus, no one told me parenting would be like this.
But then my brain drifted back to the way Jeremiah looked across the table, how his eyes had practically glowed when he laughed at my terrible joke about the difference betweenfiction and non-fiction (it was accurate, thank you, just not very funny). That laugh had been something else entirely—warm and genuine and completely unguarded. It had somehow crawled right into my chest and rolled around like a contented cat, leaving me all fuzzy and tickly and impossibly warm.
Focus, Theo. Your daughter is sick.
Right. Debbie.
She seemed perfectly fine when I left, bouncing around the living room with Julia like she had springs in her shoes.
God, the way he smiled every time he looked at me, like I was the only person in the restaurant, like I was worth looking at.
What was happening to me? I couldn’t focus on one burning issue before the other burst into flames in my mind. I was losing it at sixty miles per hour.
Shit, I missed my exit.
I shook my head, trying to dislodge the memory of Jeremiah’s face in the warm light of the restaurant. This wasnotthe time to be replaying our dinner like some lovesick teenager. Debbie needed me to be a responsible parent, not a man whose brain had apparently been hijacked by rock-hard nipples and sparkling eyes.
The evening had been going so well, too.
We talked about books and work and Debbie’s latest artistic creations. Jeremiah listened with genuine interest when I explained my ongoing battle with the school board over library funding, and he made me laugh until my sides ached with stories about his more colorful delivery customers—and the lack of clothing with which a few greeted him at the door.
The spell had been broken instantly when my phone chimed.
I apologized profusely, explained about the babysitter’s message, and watched Jeremiah’s face shift from disappointment to understanding.
“Go take care of your little Button,” he’d said, already signaling for the check.
