Jameson filled the glass again before he turned to her. She wouldn’t meet his gaze at first and when she did, he saw a trace of guilt in her expressive brown eyes. “I shouldn’t have done that,” she said.
“We both—”
“No, it was me. I took advantage.”
He laughed out loud at that, some of the tension in his body dissipating. “Believe me, sweetheart, the advantage was mine.”
She blushed, the faint pink an appealing lure. Then he saw the tears in her eyes. “I didn’t want to tell you.”
He set aside the water glass, risking a few steps closer to her. “Tell me what, Nina?”
She searched his face. “I don’t want him hurt.”
Confused, he shook his head. “Who—”
He heard the shuffle of feet from the cook area and a small querulous voice. “Mommy? Where are you?”
“Right here, sweetie.” Nina turned to go to her son, casting one last glance over her shoulder at Jameson. He followed her, an elusive sense of precognition dancing just out of reach.
As Nina knelt beside her son, Jameson hung back. It was only because he’d promised to keep his distance, not because his intuition screamed at him. Still, as he leaned one hip against the prep counter, his flesh tingled with anticipation.
Nate rubbed at his eyes, then his face split in a wide yawn. Jameson felt his heart squeeze. The lines of Nate’s face, the slender body, even the way his head tilted to rest on his mother’s shoulder—it all spoke to him, tried to communicate a hidden message. Jameson tried to tell himself it was just that Nina’s son resembled Sean as a boy. But tapping at the back of his brain, another voice reminded him he’d only seen his brother that one time when Sean was young.
It wasn’t his brother Nate took after. And although Nina’s stamp was clear on the boy, the father had added something, too. The father…
A roar started up in his ears and his vision seemed to narrow to just those two people across the kitchen from him. Nate’s head resting in the crook of Nina’s neck, her gaze meeting his own unflinchingly. The challenge in Nina’s face giving way to acceptance as her arm curved protectively around her son.
Her nod was nearly imperceptible, but her words might as well have been a cannon shot. “He’s yours, Jameson.”
He didn’t realize he’d moved until he stumbled into the stove and felt the heat of the still warm griddle on his hand. He snatched his hand back, grateful in a distant part of his brain that the griddle had cooled enough he hadn’t burned himself. With an effort, he directed his mind back to the realization that now blared at him.
He’s yours, Jameson. Nate was his son. He’d fathered a child on that tempestuous night. He’d done so little in his life that was worthwhile, that had value. Yet somehow, without even meaning to, he’d done something right, helped to create something precious.
The roar in his ears grew louder and he couldn’t seem to stand still. Without volition, his feet moved, backing him away from Nina and Nate, sending him from the kitchen, through the café and out the door into the brisk autumn night. He kept moving until he’d reached the Camry, then pulled the keys from his pocket and climbed into the car. He started the engine, backed the car into Main Street, then headed off into the darkness.
He didn’t know why. He didn’t know where. But he had to get away, he had to run, to think, to find a way to get his mind around the enormity of what he’d just discovered. He didn’t know what would happen next, he only knew that for the first time in four years he could escape and that was exactly what he intended to do.
Nina knelt beside Nate, stunned. In all her imaginings of the trauma that might ensue if Jameson discovered Nate’s existence, she’d never guessed that he would have simply abandoned her, abandoned the son he’d help create.
Sitting back on her heels, she waited until Nate fell asleep slumped against her, until her legs cramped in the awkward position. Jameson couldn’t have left them entirely, disappeared without a word, without declaring he would or wouldn’t accept the responsibility and the reality of his son. She’d seen him drive up Main Street, but surely he’d cool off and return.
With Nate in her arms, Nina rose awkwardly. She’d have to take him upstairs to his bed, then come back to finish closing up. Nate would be fine for the half hour or so it would take to lock up, tidy the last table and ring out the register. He was a sound sleeper and once he went down, he was out for the night.
The cool autumn air seeped through her lightweight shirt, sending a chill up her spine as she carried Nate up the back stairs. Nate might be small for his age, but he was still an armful. Nina had to catch her breath on the landing outside the door to their tiny apartment before she pushed open the unlocked door.
She didn’t bother with the lights as she crossed the living room toward the minuscule space she’d made over into Nate’s bedroom. The apartment had been used as storage when her parents first bought the café. Ten years ago it had been converted into an apartment for Nina. She’d lived here ever since.
And Nate had been conceived up here.
Easing him onto his bed, she tugged off Nate’s shoes and jeans then pulled the San Francisco Giants comforter out from under him. After pulling up the covers and switching on the night-light by the bed, Nina brushed a quick kiss on Nate’s cheek and slipped out of his room.
As she hurried back down the stairs, she tried to keep her mind on closing up the café. But the turmoil of the last several hours intruded, images of Jameson battering at her mind’s eye. Every thought of him spiraled back to the most vivid memory—standing in his arms, his mouth hot against hers, the clear evidence of his arousal pressed against her leg.
She fumbled with the back door latch as echoes of sensation rippled through her. Mixed with her own sensual awareness of those moments, shame burned. She’d intentionally touched him, had invited his caresses, his kisses. It was the only thing she could think of to divert him.
She stepped into the quiet of the kitchen, quickly assessing the bus cart with its trays of dirty dishes, the dessert prep counter covered with cake crumbs, the open spice containers that needed to be put away. This at least would keep her busy, maybe keep her mind from straying back to the feel of Jameson’s fingers stroking her neck, his tongue sliding against hers.
Knock it off! She grabbed an empty dish rack and began filling it with rinsed plates and glasses. Blanking her mind as she worked, she kept all her focus on loading the dishwasher.
But she couldn’t let go of the tantalizing images. They’d insinuated themselves inside her, linking the more distant memories of that night five years ago with today’s brief encounter.
She worked faster, scraping off food, squirting the plates with the sprayer at the sink, jamming them into the rack. But thoughts of Jameson still nipped at her heels, chased deep into her mind. He seemed imprinted on her senses.
The crash of a shattering dinner plate shocked her back into awareness. She stared numbly down at the fragments of crockery, then sagged back against the work counter. With all her heart and soul, she wished Jameson O’Connell had never existed.
At the jangle of the front door Nina realized she’d never locked up, or flipped the sign over to Closed. Picking her way through the pieces of the broken dish, she made her way out to the floor so she could inform the would-be customers she was no longer serving dinner.
The sight of Jameson, lingering just inside the door, hit her hard. He’d taken off the apron and had it wadded in his hands. His face looked wild, as if in the hour since he’d left he’d crawled out of his own personal hell.
He edged away from the door and held the apron out to her. “I forgot to take it off.”
Nina moved just close enough