Nothing Feels Better (Better Love 3)

“Crying is for girls and babies,” Jude says, pulling me back to our conversation, and I shake my head.

“Nah, Captain. Everyone is allowed to cry. It’s not a bad thing.”

The kid gets quiet, and when we approach his room, arguing voices filter through the hallway.

“—you can’t just leave before he gets back,” a familiar voice clips. Her words are hushed, but the anger is still obvious.

“He’s fine. You can text me what the doctor says.” That’s the dad. Patrick. He’s impatient. Dismissive. He sounds like a dick. “You left work early so there’s no sense in me staying.”

“I left work early to be here for our son, not so you can—” Her voice dips lower, cutting off, and I hear him scoff. I knock hard on the wall beside the door before slowly pushing it open.

“Jude’s all finished with his x-rays,” I say to the dad, then flick my eyes over to the mom. Her posture is rigid, her arms are clasped across her chest, and there are deep creases between her eyebrows. When she sees Jude, though, she transforms immediately, all smiles and warmth and positive energy. She crouches in front of the wheelchair as soon as I stop pushing.

“Thanks,” Patrick says, and we both watch as the mom embraces Jude lightly. “This is my wife, Lyn. She’s taking it from here.”

“Okay.” I nod slowly and watch as the mom pointedly ignores the dad, choosing to fuss over Jude and June instead. “It shouldn’t take the radiologist long to review the x-rays, if you want to stay.”

“Lyn will pass it on.” Patrick walks up to Jude and ruffles his hair. “I’ll see you in a few days, bud. No purple.”

“Kay, Daddy,” Jude says, his voice low, and he watches his dad walk out of the room. He says nothing to his wife, and the prick never even looked at June. When I glance at the girl, I know she noticed.

The door shuts, and I turn to the mom and stick out my hand.

“Mrs. Thompson, I’m Jesse Hernandez,” I introduce myself, and when she takes my hand, I note how small hers feels in mine. Her handshake is firm, though, and her palms are slightly calloused.

“It’s Calligaris,” she corrects. “Jocelyn Calligaris.”

“Of course,” I rush out. “Excuse me.” I mentally kick myself. I should know better. Ivy and Bailey would have my balls if they knew I’d blindly assumed antiquated patriarchal standards. I can practically hear them spouting off about it now and I have to stifle a laugh. “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Calligaris.”

“Just Jocelyn is fine,” she says, and her eyes sweep over my face, studying me. I straighten up under her gaze, putting every bit of my 6’4” frame on display. Does she recognize me? I ignore the way my heart kicks up under her attention. She’s married, dumbass.

“Jocelyn,” I say, rolling the name off my tongue, then smile. “That’s a J.”

She arches a dark eyebrow, a confused sort of interest coloring her green eyes. “Yes, it is,” she says slowly.

“And Jude and June,” I continue, and Jocelyn tilts her head to the side, surveying me.

“Yes...”

“They’re J’s too.” I resist the urge to bounce on my feet and work to keep my grin from reaching manic levels of creepy. “I’m a J.”

“I’m sorry?” She shakes her head slightly, so I point to myself, then to her, then to each of the kids as I state our names.

“Jesse, Jocelyn, June, and Jude. We’re all J’s.” My lips twitch with the need to grin bigger. I point toward the door her husband just left through. “He’s a P.”

She studies me again, plump lips tipped up in a polite smile. Curiosity and probably a little concern mix on her features because I might be acting like a crazy person. A smidge. She probably thinks I’m just learning the alphabet.

Great job, dork.

“Have we met before?” she questions. “You seem...familiar.”

So, she does remember me.

“Not officially. A few weeks ago, I was at a party next door to your townhouse.”

Her eyes flash with recognition, and her full lips curl into a surprised grin. “The boy with no s’mores,” she says, and I cock my head.

“Am I?”

“Are you what?”

“A boy.”

I don’t say any more than that. I just let the implication float in the air between our locked gazes. A grown man, I say with my smile. I watch as her cheeks flush slightly, and she blinks. I wonder if she’s as flustered as I feel. Her eyes, the same big ones I’ve been picturing for days, are a clear, piercing green, and they pop brightly from under thick-arched eyebrows. Her black eyelashes are so long that they feather against her eyelids when she blinks. Her sloped nose, her Cupid’s bow lips. Tendrils of dark hair that have fallen from her ponytail frame her heart-shaped face, and my eyes drag over her jaw. It’s gracile, elegant.

An Elizabeth Taylor jaw.

I want to trace it with my fingers.

A few months ago, Ivy was appalled to learn that I hadn’t seen the movie Grease, so she planned several viewing parties where she and Bailey made me watch a bunch of movies they’d deemed “iconic” and “necessary.” Grease, The Breakfast Club, Ferris Bueller, Blue Hawaii, Rebel Without a Cause. We watched almost twenty movies, but when the viewing parties were over, I couldn’t stop my fascination. I started working my way backwards—90s, 80s, 70s, 60s—and then fell into a sort of obsession with Old Hollywood. I streamed every movie I could find from the 1930s through the 1950s. I couldn’t stop.

Maybe that’s why I’m getting Lauren Bacall vibes from the way Jocelyn is looking at me—chin dipped slightly, expressive eyes peering up through her lashes. Why I can’t stop seeing Marilyn Monroe. Why I can’t stop finding comparisons to Elizabeth Taylor. The eyebrows. The lips. The jaw.

There’s just something about her. Something classic, captivating, like the movies, that grabs my attention and doesn’t let go. I know why Dylan dubbed her The Hot Mom.

“I didn’t know you were a doctor,” Jocelyn says, pulling me from my thoughts.

Shit. Have I been quiet for too long? Was I staring?

Of course, I was fucking staring.

My fingers itch, and I fight the impulse to reach for her.

“I’m not,” I answer quickly, saying the first thing that comes to mind to fill the dead air. “If someone gets hit by a car, you should still call 911.”

June laughs quietly from her chair in the corner, but the shocked widening of Jocelyn’s eyes and the tiny gasp that escapes her tells me I said the wrong thing.

Fucking Bailey.