Page 33 of Mr. Brightside

Jake: I’ll be here or next door. See you soon, baby.

I should roll my eyes. I should scoff. I should be offended that he’s recycling a nickname I’ve heard him use on Tori for as long as I’ve known them, even though I told him yesterday it was okay.

But I don’t.

Instead, I swoon.

A million questions try to swarm my conscience, but for once in my life, my mind isn’t in overdrive. Instead, I just feel happy.

I stroll in through the side door of Clinton’s, even though I’m not scheduled to work. It doesn’t even occur to me to use the front door. The restaurant is bustling—this is one of the few sit-down places in town open for lunch. I’m surprised when Jake isn’t behind the bar like usual. Maybe he already went over to The Oak…

A wolf whistle has me snapping my head to the main dining room, my gaze locking in on him like he sent out a damn sonar signal. When our eyes meet, my abs clench. It’s stupid how good-looking he is. Perfect head of wavy, light brown hair. Hazel eyes with that ever-present glint of flirtation behind them. Soft, symmetrical, kissable lips that I’m aching to feel against mine.

We flirted last night. On the drive home, we held hands. When he dropped me at my car, he hugged me. But that was it. There was literally none of the physical contact I expected or craved from a date night with Jake Whitely. That’s something I hope to rectify soon.

I grin and walk toward the table as he watches me. It isn’t until I’m around the half-wall partition that I see he’s not alone.

I almost trip over my own feet when two blond-haired little girls sprawled out in the booth across from him come into view. They’re both focused on the kids’ menu coloring sheets in front of them. The little one even has her tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth in concentration.

I stand there, perplexed. What did he tell me earlier? To meet him for lunch? I glance around the restaurant, looking for a parent or another human who might be responsible for the small children at our table. It’s not until I look back at Jake that he cracks a grin and waves me over.

“It’s okay; they don’t bite.”

“Yes, she does! Mimi bit me last week, Uncle Jakey,” the older girl maintains without even looking up from her paper.

She called him Uncle. Are these kids related to him?

I slide into the booth beside them.

“Hey.” He knocks his shoulder into mine, then squeezes my thigh under the table. That touch grounds me, reminds me to focus on the present and just ask him what’s going on rather than let my mind spiral.

“Hi,” I falter. “I didn’t realize this is what you meant by ‘hang out.’” I cock one eyebrow in question, urging him to explain.

His hand lingers on my thigh, his fingers stroking back and forth right above my knee.

“Girls,” he commands, finally looking away from me to address the small humans across from us. “I want you to meet someone special.”

The older child looks up and squints at me quizzically. The little one can’t seem to be bothered.

“Earth to Mimi,” Jake teases, reaching across the table to boop her on the forehead. She cracks a grin, but doesn’t put down the crayon or lift her gaze. Even if they didn’t look like him, it would be unquestionable that these children are related to Jake Whitely based on their demeanor alone.

“Okay, fine. I bet Cory doesn’t want to talk to you anyway.”

Thatgets her attention.

“Hey!” Mimi declares, mock outrage—or maybe real outrage? I don’t know much about kids—painting her expression. “I want to meet da special someone!”

Jake smirks, then turns to me. “Girls, this is Cory. Cory, these are my nieces, Fiona and Amelia.”

“Nice to meet you, Cory,” the older one says as the little one talks over her.

“My name is Mimi!”

“Hi,” I greet, awkwardly lifting my hand even though they’re sitting right across the table. Kids don’t shake hands, do they? “It’s nice to meet you girls.”

The older one is unfazed and resumes her coloring. It’s the little one, Mimi, who’s staring at me with beady eyes and pursed lips. I swallow—hard. Now what do I do? She can’t be more than four or five years old. And yet, she makes me inexplicably nervous. “Is he your bestest friend, Uncle Jakey?”

Jake grips my thigh as he smiles in amusement. I glance down and am instantly distracted by the sight of his large, tan hand gripping my quad.