“Make yourself at home,” Jordan says, disappearing toward the back.
The living area is clean and lived in, filled with soft white light and warm blankets. Books and notebooks fill the shelves. Charging cords are draped over one armrest, and a pair of gray slippers lies haphazardly in the middle of the floor, along with two crocheted mice. The right side of the smaller couch is sagging from overuse, and a leather notebook lies beside it.
My breath catches. Is that his writing notebook? I long to look inside, but I won’t. Not without permission. Jordan’s writing is sacred. I know that just from the few lines he’d shared with me. They’re a gift.
The kitchen is surprisingly spotless. No clutter or crumbs. No dirty dishes. I run my hand along the faux white marble, admiring the dark smoky cabinets and stainless-steelappliances. It’s moody, but elegant. Exactly what I would expect Jordan to have.
But when I peek in the fridge, my jaw drops. It’s bare, except for two La Croixs, a jar of pickles, a half-eaten pizza, a crumpled bag of spring mix that looks more like soup than salad, and a drawer full of cat food and gravy pouches. Jordan has more cat food than he does human.
“That’s… alarming,” I whisper.
The contrast from his messy car to this spotless kitchen is weird. Does he not ever eat at home?
I eventually drift toward the back. Through the narrow hallway, I pass a closet, a second small bedroom, which looks like it had been the beginnings of an office and is now stuffed full of random boxes, and at the end, a spacious bathroom. My cheeks heat when I see the shower. It’s easy to guess where Jordan propped his phone up to give me a view.
The bathroom has a second door, leading into the master suite at the end, which is where Jordan is.
I pause in the doorway.
His bedroom is in shambles. Clothes on the floor, a towel draped over an open dresser drawer, a pair of boots half-tucked under the bed like he lost the will to store them halfway through. The dark gray sheets are twisted and rumbled, his pillows at all angles. And there are books and plants everywhere. I even spy a ukulele sitting in an open case on the dresser.
It’s not dirty. Not really. Just… messy.
Jordan is by the closet, pulling on a soft, worn black tee. He ducks his face when he sees me. “I know it’s a mess. Sorry.”
I smile. “Hey, if you think this is bad? You should see my room when I don’t have housekeeping.”
He gives a shy laugh.
Gaining courage, I cross the room, being careful not to step on anything, then stop in front of him. I want to reach for him, but don’t.
“It’s nice,” I say, looking around. “It feels… I don’t know. Like you.”
Jordan shrugs, but his ears flush a little pink. “Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know.”
There’s no maybe about it. This has his personality everywhere, from the plants to the colors and even the half-worn clothes across the floor. All of it suits him. I can easily see him traveling in it, if he decided to.
We stand there for a beat, quiet and uncertain. I hate the awkwardness.
Jordan points at my shirt. “We got, um, jizz on your shirt.”
I look down and blush. Yikes. “How? I wasn’t even wearing it.”
He snorts. “Guess we got carried away. Anyway, go ahead and change, if you want. I’ll wait out there.”
He steps around me to leave, sliding the door closed.
My heart sinks. Yeah, it’sdefinitelyawkward now. Fuck. This isn’t what I wanted! It had felt so real and vibrant when we ate tacos. Was it the sex? Did we just rush it?
I change into a clean shirt and flannel pajamas, then shuffle back to the living room. Jordan is tending to plants on the table, his back to me. When he hears me, he looks over his shoulder.
I search for something to break the silence. “So, is there any chance you’ll share your lemon La Croix? Or are we gonna have to thumb wrestle over it?”
That gets another honest laugh out of Jordan, and his shoulders relax.
“You can have it.”
“You sure?” I raise a brow. It’s not the drink I’m after, it’s an explanation to why his fridge is so empty. But he doesn’t give one.
