A few weeks ago, Paige decided she wanted more work experience to pad her résumé before applying to Z3, so she talked to her current boss about making her internship at Wonderman & Fleck a full-time copywriting position. Tomorrow, she’ll find out if she gets the job or not.
I can tell Paige is nervous—she’s gnawing at her bottom lip like it’s corn on the cob. I can’t imagine how tense she must feel. Her internship ends next month, so if she doesn't get the job tomorrow, it will be a hit to her career plans.
“Hey.” I tap my knuckle against her leg. “Tomorrow will be great. No one’s as good with words as you. They’d be crazy not to promote you.”
She rolls her eyes and gives me a wry look. “Uh, Andy-Randy?”
Okay, improv-wise, she’s got a point. But give Paige a pen and some paper, and she’ll transform the most two-dimensional product into a living, breathing thing.
“Andy-Randy was just another bit of your genius,” I insist. “It was catchy and rhymed. I’m pretty sure Famous Amos and StubHub would get behind me on this one.”
She laughs. “I’ll be sure to mention that next time I apply for a job.”
“Do that.” I loosen my tie completely and toss it into the back seat. “But seriously, Paige. You can market anything because you see the best in everything.”
“Aw, you softie.” Paige’s heart-shaped face brightens with a smile, then she leans forward and tugs at her shoelaces.
Chapter 2
PAIGE
Ugh. Why does he say things like that? I simultaneously want to throttle him and pull his lips to mine.
I finish fiddling with my already tied shoelace, letting the flush in my cheeks fade from what I know is an unbecoming shade of pink. Then I straighten in my seat, and Jordan hands his phone to me. I absentmindedly pull up his music app just as we enter Trello Park. It takes all I have not to blast Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly with His Song” for all the world to hear—that’s my mood right now. But I won’t do that because I’m a dignified lady who’s got my life together. Insert crying-uncontrollably GIF.
“Where to?” Jordan taps his fingers rhythmically on the steering wheel as we stop at a fork in the road just past the park’s entrance. He looks as eager as I am to start our little game.
Even at night, Trello Park is alive with people, lights, and parties. It’s the park that never sleeps, and my chest buzzes with excitement. Old-fashioned streetlamps line the road every twenty feet, giving the park a cozy feel despite its miles of acreage.
I look both ways then settle on the path where a flag football game is being played under bright stadium lighting. I point in the direction, and Jordan lifts a brow.
I shrug. I want a challenge tonight.
We park right in front of the field full of guys who look to be in their early twenties. Jordan parks so close that I feel like if the players wick away their sweat, it will land on our windshield.
Suddenly I want to chicken out.
“What’ll it be, Devons?” he asks as if he’s got me cornered.
Here’s the thing. Jordan believes that music can enhance any moment, and if you play your cards right, a well-timed song will inevitably elicit a reaction from people, giving them the courage to do something they wouldn’t normally do without said music. We’ve been putting that theory to the test ever since Jordan moved to Pine Lakes during my junior year of high school almost seven years ago—and since then, we’ve witnessed the sweetest moments, from a first kiss to a toddler rocking out on his third birthday.
It’s my turn to start the game. I look out at the football players in front of me and try to pin down a song that feels just right for one of the guys in this group.
After I scroll through Jordan’s Spotify for several minutes, he starts humming theJeopardysong.
“Stop,” I complain. “They keep moving around the field. It’s hard to figure out the mood of just one of them.” Just then, lightning strikes, and I know exactly what song I’m choosing.
Jordan rolls down the windows and turns the volume all the way up. Moments later, OneRepublic’s “I Ain’t Worried” blasts through the car speakers.
A couple of players stop to look at us, but a few seconds later, smiles break out across the team, and the men start pulling their T-shirts over their heads and tossing them to the sidelines.
“What is happening?” Jordan asks, staring at the sudden outbreak of shirtlessness on the field.
“I told you, you should have seenTop Gun: Maverick. If you did, you’d know this is the Miles Teller ab-shake song.”
I can tell by his disgusted face that the pieces are connecting for him.
“No man can resist showing off his muscles when this song is on.” I lean forward and cross my arms on the dash, making a show of admiring the scene before me.
