“We make our lists. Right here, right now.”
Jordan stares at the blank page for another moment, then looks up at me with an expression I can’t quite read. “This is either the most romantic thing anyone’s ever suggested to me, or the most ridiculous.”
“Can’t it be both?”
She laughs, real and genuine, and there’s something about it that’s almost like we’re sharing a secret. The sound does something warm and dangerous to my chest. My pulse kicks up a notch, and I’m suddenly aware of everything about her—the way her fingers toy with her coffee cup, the slight tilt of her head when she’s thinking, the way the afternoon light catches the auburn highlights in her hair.
It feels like an eternity since I touched her, since I tasted that mouth, and my body remembers every detail with painful clarity. And damn if I don’t catch myself imagining what her mouth would feel like against mine right here in public.
“You know what? Fine. But I have conditions.”
“Name them.”
“No activities that involve heights. I’m talking rock climbing, skydiving, bungee jumping—none of it. I don’t care if it’s on your list or mine, that’s a hard no.”
“Noted. What else?”
“If we pull something that requires athletic ability beyond walking, you have to promise not to judge my coordination. Although I can argue a case in front of the Supreme Court, I once tripped over my own feet in a yoga class.”
“I once got my arm stuck in a vending machine trying to retrieve a bag of chips that didn’t drop properly. I think we’re even on the embarrassment front.”
Her laugh is easier this time, more natural. “Deal. One more thing—if either of us is genuinely miserable during an activity, we call it. No suffering through something terrible just to be polite.”
“Agreed.” I hold out my hand. “Partners in controlled chaos?”
She looks at my outstretched hand for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and I can see her deciding in real time. The moment she reaches out and takes my hand, something finally loosens in my chest.
“Partners in controlled chaos,” she agrees. The contact is electric—her palm warm and soft against mine, fingers slender but strong, her grip firm in a way that speaks of years spent negotiating deals and making promises she intends to keep.
My heart hammers against my ribs as memories flood back: these same hands gripping my shoulders, clutching my braids, mapping the planes of my chest with reverent touches. I force myself to let go before I do something stupid like lift her hand to my mouth and taste her knuckles.
When she pulls away and picks up the pen, there’s a new energy about her, like she’s stepped out of defensive mode and into problem-solving mode.
“Ten activities,” she murmurs, already writing. “This is either going to be the best idea you’ve ever had, or we’re both going to look back on this as the moment we completely lost our minds.”
I pull out my own pen and start my list, stealing glances at her bent head as she writes. She’s biting her lower lip in concentration, the same expression she probably wears when reviewing contracts or preparing for depositions. It’s unexpectedly endearing. And dangerous, because all I can think about is how those same lips looked flushed and parted beneath me.
“Question,” she says without looking up. “Are we talking L.A. area only, or is farther out fair game?”
“Anywhere within reasonable driving distance. We’re testing compatibility, not endurance.”
“Good. Because I’m putting down the Getty Center, and I want to make sure you’re prepared for several hours of art and culture.”
“I can handle art and culture.” I add ‘Vasquez Rocks hiking’ to my list. “Can you handle scrambling over fake alien planet landscapes?”
She glances up at me with raised eyebrows. “Are you testing my nerd credentials already?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll have you know I own the entire original Star Trek series on DVD. Your move, firefighter.”
This is going to be interesting.
Five minutes later, we both set down our pens, fold our papers carefully, and then tear them into strips. The ceramic bowl from the middle of our table, now liberated from its sugar packet duties, sits between us like a vessel of possibility.
“Last chance to back out,” I say, holding my folded papers over the bowl.
“Too late for that.” She drops her papers in first, then watches as I add mine. “Now what?”
