Like, go out to breakfast again or go out on a date or something else?
What the hell is happening?
“I don’t, I mean, no, I don’t have a boyfriend,” I say cautiously. “But I’m not sure what you’re asking.”
“I’m asking if you’d like to have breakfast or lunch again.” His eyes bore into mine.
God, he’s still gorgeous.
His eyes are a dark blue, deep set and framed by light lashes. He’s a natural blond, like me, something we used to laugh about. Something we probably would have passed on to our children. And as I search his face for answers to questions I haven’t even asked, I see nothing but sincerity.
“You don’t have a girlfriend?” I ask dubiously. “You can’t tell me there are no women in your life.”
“I didn’t say that, but there’s no one serious in my life. They’re not the same thing.”
So, he’s sleeping around, playing the field, doing what any single, red-blooded athlete would do.
“But why would we?” I ask softly, fear and insecurity guiding my response.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “It just feels like this isn’t the end. Like we still have unfinished business.”
“Jordan, this can only end badly.”
He sighs, abruptly pulling his hand from mine. “You’re right. Forget I asked.”
Dammit.
I don’t want things to end on a sour note. Not again.
And I would like to see him again.
I just don’t know how we could do it. My father would have a coronary. He’d make both of our lives miserable, and I’ve worked so hard to get past what happened four years ago.
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” I say sadly. “I’m just…unsure about the repercussions. We dodged a bullet four years ago, you know? It would be opening up a whole new can of worms, one that could be problematic.”
His lips tighten for a moment, and then he shrugs. “Whatever. I thought it might be fun, but you’re right. No biggie. Forget I said anything.”
Ouch.
That kind of hurts, but I’m sure my rejection hurt his ego so he’s lashing out. That’s what Jordan does.
“What time is your next class?” he asks abruptly. “I can get you back there in time if we hurry.”
Ugh.
This is exactly what I wanted to avoid, but Jordan and I have always run hot and cold. When we’re hot, it’s incredible. But when we fight, the mood between us can be frigid. We’re not doing that now, obviously, but the tension in the air is palpable.
Back in the day, we’d fight about my father. Constantly. Why I never stood up to him. Why I let him boss me around even after I turned eighteen. Why he controlled so much of my life.
I’m different now but my father is fundamentally the same. He couldn’t go after Jordan the way he did four years ago, because at twenty-two, I can’t be portrayed as a naïve high school girl, but he could still make trouble for him. And that’s the last thing I want.
I protected Jordan then, and it feels like I’m doing the same thing now. Even though we’re both adults who shouldn’t need protecting.
Or maybe it’s myself—more specifically, my heart—that I’m protecting.
“I have a little time,” I say, taking a bite of the pancakes I was so looking forward to. They’ve sort of lost their taste now, and I chew absently, watching Jordan as he seems to inhale his breakfast.
He loves to eat, always has. I remember teasing him about his appetite and him saying he was a growing boy.
