Nothing Feels Better (Better Love 3)

“Of all the assisted living facilities, in all the towns, in all the world...” he says, trailing off with a raised brow and a smirk. I snort a laugh and finish the sentence.

“And you walk into mine.”

Our eyes connect and stick. I can feel my face heating, feel it creeping from my chest to my neck and ears, but I can’t look away. He’s got beautiful eyes. He’s got beautiful everything. My breaths quicken, and I worry my lower lip with my teeth. His eyes drop to the movement.

“How do you two know each other?” Roxanne breaks in, and when I look at her, her smile is no teeth and all trouble.

“We go way back, don’t we, Joss?” Jesse answers, and when I whip my eyes back to him, he’s still smiling at me in a way that’s charming and playful. He called me Joss. My lips quirk up.

“We do?” I question and watch transfixed as he leans his big body against the wall and shoves a hand in the pocket of his jeans.

Casual. Cool. Confident. Yet still vibrating with restrained energy. He’s like neon. I bet if I stand close enough, I’ll be able to hear the buzz.

Jesse is tall, well over six feet, and while his defined biceps strain against the long sleeves of his black Henley, he’s not bulky. He’s lean, and I’m willing to wager his arms aren’t the only place on his body sporting defined muscles. He’s got a jaw covered in dark, perfectly trimmed scruff, and on his head is black hair cropped close on the sides, leading to a shiny mop of unruly curls on the top. I have the urge to lift my hand and coil a strand around my fingertip. To tug on a curl to see if it springs back.

I’m stuck in the tractor beam of his attention until he turns that disarming smile on Roxanne.

“A while back, Joss’s son attacked me with a sword,” he deadpans, and I gasp at the same time Roxanne barks a laugh. “A cardboard sword,” he clarifies before I can protest, “and it’s cool because we’re buds now. I think it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

“Is this the little one?” Roxanne asks me.

“Jude. He’s four,” I answer, then look back at Jesse. “And I’m so sorry. I didn’t know he got you with the sword.”

“Nah, it’s nothin’,” he reassures. “How’s the Captain doin, anyway? Rocking the cast?”

“He’s well. Pretty proud of his cast, actually.” I smile, thinking of how Jude wants everyone to see his lime green plaster accessory. For the last week, I think he’s felt a bit like a celebrity. When people ask about it, he preens. Unlike June, Jude doesn’t shy away from attention. He seeks it out and eats it up.

“I need to come by and sign it,” Jesse states with just a hint of question in his voice. He’s seeking permission, without asking for it. I nod.

“Do you live next door?”

“Nah. My friend does, so I spend a good amount of time there.” His eyes haven’t strayed from mine, locking our gazes together. Shades of brown and green swirl in his irises between thick black eyelashes—eyelashes that people pay good money to have—and they seem to almost sparkle with mirth. I never understood the phrase “his eyes danced” until this moment. Until Jesse Hernandez. This man has dancing eyes.

“Well, next time you’re visiting, then,” I say, then swallow. “Jude would love if you signed his cast. He actually hasn’t stopped talking about you. I’ve had to stop him from marching over and knocking on the door a few times since the whole sword incident.”

Jesse’s responding smile does weird things to my stomach. He’s so attractive. College, I remind myself. He’s still in college.

“I don’t know if Riggs and Zay can handle ol’ Cap’n Meatball,” he jokes, and I assume he’s talking about his friends who live in the townhouse. “Dylan definitely can’t.”

Realization dawns on me.

“Those boys helped me unload the moving truck.”

Jesse’s brow quirks up, his head cocks to the side, and somehow his smile grows more mischievous. He laughs lightly before saying, “Boys again, huh?”

I blink, and before I can ask what he means, he continues, “Yeah, they helped you move in. Riggs and Zay, anyway. Dyl probably watched from the kitchen window.”

“How wonderful,” Roxanne croons, “two of my favorite people in the same room.”

Jesse slings his arm around her, dwarfing her entirely, and I take a minute to search their faces, looking for any sort of resemblance. I come up short. Roxanne is petite, as fair-skinned as a person can get, with pale blue eyes and fiery red dyed hair. Jesse is her opposite in almost every way. He towers over us both, with golden skin, jet black hair, and magnetic brownish green eyes. Like a mud puddle filled with pine needles.

“And how do you guys know each other?” I ask.

“I met Roxanne through Knots of Love,” Jesse answers. His voice is teasing, as if we’re all three in on a secret joke, and I wonder if this is Jesse Hernandez’s superpower—giving everyone a sense of belonging. Making you feel welcome. Wanted. I’ve been in his presence for a collective total of maybe one hour, but he treats me like we’ve been friends all our lives. I find myself matching his smile, sharing in this amusement I don’t quite understand, and I’m not even sure why. It just feels...right.

“The non-profit that donates knitted caps and blankets to people going through chemo?”

“That’s the one,” Roxanne chimes in. “I collect the donations for this area.” She pauses and furrows her brow. “Oh hell, I guess I need to contact the main office and let them know I’m out of commission.”

“I can take over for you,” Jesse says. “I don’t mind. My classes are easy this semester. Basically just coastin’ through to graduation at this point.”

I file that little piece of information away. A senior. That would make him...

Twenty-two. Maybe twenty-three.

And I’m twenty-eight.

Is five years really that much?

By Hollywood standards, it’s not. Five years is nothing to people who can afford to erase the effects of time. I think about June and Jude. About what my body went through to create them. What it’s still going through to raise them. I think about my full-time job as a CNA and my second job as a nursing student. Third, if you count being a mom. I think about my lack of free weekends, my overflowing laundry basket, and my inability to recall a single popular song other than BTS, and that’s only because my daughter is obsessed with them. I think of Patrick. Of the baggage.

Good lord.

Five years might not be a lot to some people, but with me and Jesse Hernandez, five years might as well be a century.

From beneath lowered lashes, I study him again. He’s so stylish. Pristine Jordans on his feet. Grey, tight-fitted jeans that are cuffed at the ankle. Even his haircut is magazine worthy. Meanwhile, I consider it a win every time I take my hair down from the messy bun and Froot Loops don’t fall out of it.

I resist the urge to tug at my scrubs, then stifle an exasperated laugh. Because what am I even doing worrying about my appearance? Why does it even matter?

It doesn’t.