Page 15 of Every Beat of My Heart

I couldn’t afford a cleaner, but I didn’t mention that to him. “It’s good for you to put your things away. It teaches you to be responsible and self-sufficient.”

I got a job when I was fifteen and saved money for school. I’d always prided myself on being independent. I wanted the same for Owen.

Owen grumbled, but he went upstairs without protesting further.

I rushed into my room to change into jeans and a nice shirt. This wasn’t a date, but I didn’t want to be caught in my work clothes or sweats. I wanted to look good without looking like I put any effort into it. It took a bit more time than I was anticipating. When I went downstairs, Owen was outside in the front yard throwing a ball in the air.

Again, I tried to ignore the fluttering of my stomach and the buzzing in my ears. Jameson was just a nice guy who enjoyed helping others. He wasn’t interested in me. He wanted to throw a ball with my son. It was no big deal. The fact that Owen’s father wouldn’t do the same wasn’t part of the reason why I felt so jittery and out of sorts.

I tried to focus on the options for dinner, finally pulling out noodles, marinara sauce, and meat. It was a hardy meal that Owen enjoyed, and I suspected Jameson would too. It was nothing fancy, but then again, tonight was about football.

I was straining the noodles when I heard talking in the front yard. When I peeked out the window of my office, Jameson looked good in a department-issued, navy-blue hoodie, worn jeans, and boots. He cradled the ball in his hands while he talked to Owen, probably giving him pointers.

It was a sweet moment, one I never thought I’d see. The only thing was, Jameson wasn’t Owen’s father.

I forced myself to focus on dinner so I wouldn’t end up burning the meatballs. I might not always have time to make the fanciest recipes, but I tried to make things special when I could.

While the meatballs cooked, I got the fixings out for a salad and tossed everything into a large bowl. Our kitchen table was underwhelming, but we’d never needed room for more than me and Owen. At least you could fit four around the table if you squeezed, and we only had three tonight. I didn’t need to worry about what Jameson thought of me. He was here for my son, not me.

The front door opened when I pulled the meatballs out of the oven.

“Spaghetti and meatballs?” Owen asked when he reached the kitchen.

I smiled at him. “That’s right.”

“Yum.”

Pleasure flowed through me that my son was happy. It had nothing to do with the man standing behind him, the one that had red cheeks from the cold, and his amused eyes fixated on me. “I can’t believe you cooked for me.”

“I cook every night. It’s nice to have more than two people to cook for.” Then I looked away, because it felt like I was admitting something that was personal.

“I’m always happy to help,” Jameson said with a wink as if he hadn’t noticed my slip.

Owen and Jameson set the table, and I quickly dished up the noodles and meat. At the last second, I remembered to grab bowls for the salad, but the boys were already digging into the spaghetti.

“This is delicious,” Jameson said between bites. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

“I bet you worked up an appetite playing outside,” I said.

Jameson nodded as he chewed, then swallowed. “Owen kept me running out there. He’s quick.”

“He has tryouts coming up, and he’s worried about his odds,” I admitted.

Owen shook his head. “Mom. Don’t.”

My forehead wrinkled. “That’s why Jameson is here. To help you.”

“I told Owen that he should start a workout regimen. It’s perfectly safe for him to lift weights as long as he uses good form and doesn’t overdo it.”

“Do you really think it’s necessary?” I hadn’t thought of anything beyond working on his football skills: passing and catching.

“He’s at that age where it will make a difference. Besides, it never hurts to take care of your body.”

That made me wonder how well Jameson took care of his body. He’d taken his sweatshirt off outside, and I could see the outline of muscles in his arms, and the hint of a flat stomach through his T-shirt. I wondered if his abs were well defined. I had the sudden urge to push up his shirt and trace the muscles with my fingers, then my tongue.

My face heated. I couldn’t remember the last time I had such a visceral reaction to someone. It must be because the divorce had been final for a while, and my body was ready to start dating again. I told myself I’d have the same reaction to anyone. Jameson wasn’t special.

Besides, I was suspicious that he was younger than me. It was either that, or I felt older than my age since I had a middle-school-aged child. I’d met Eric in college, he was a senior and I was a freshman. We’d gotten pregnant before the end of my freshman year. We’d married and moved in together. It was hard, but I managed to finish school.

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