She offers a wry smile. “Sorry. I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.”
My cock twitches. Pure reflex—a reminder there are two naked women ten feet away.
But my mind is already elsewhere.
“You’re fine,” I grunt, eyes darting to my phone again. I reach around her and pick it up, my heart punching my ribs when I see Jordan’s name light up the screen.
My fingers move way too fast for someone this hungover.
Jordan
Shit.
Sorry. I didn’t mean to text you.
How are you?
The fuck?
Bullshit.
I talked to Jensen. You alright?
Jordan
Of course you talked to Jensen. Great. I guess everyone knows by now. I’m fine. I didn’t mean to text you.
Bullshit.
You did. And you said you wanted to talk.
So talk.
Yeah—dick move, I know. But Jesus Christ, she pops back into my phone on her supposed-to-be wedding night after practically six months of radio silence, and then pretends it didn’t happen?
Fuck that.
The blonde steps out of the bathroom, and I’m torn. Normally I’d go finish what we started, fuck both of them senseless. But now?
Now all I care about is this text thread.
Jordan
Fine.
I couldn’t go through with it. My mamá hasn’t stopped crying. My yiayiá won’t speak to me. It’s a fucking mess, and I’m embarrassed. I’ve been better. But it’s not your problem. I’m sorry I texted you in the middle of the night.
This is so Jordan. Prideful. Stubborn. Defensive. Determined like hell to stand on her own two feet, even when she so obviously needs someone.
I blow out a heavy breath.
When can you meet?
I spotJordan on the patio of a coffee shop halfway between her place in SoHo and mine in the West Village. It’s a crisp morning, but the sun’s out, warming the cool air, perfect weather for the inevitable argument we’re about to have. It’s been two days since we texted. I hit the gym early and moved my morning meeting so I could be here.
She sees me as I approach, and the faintest smile curves her lips, just enough to make my pulse kick up a notch.
Same shit, different day. Thirty fucking years ofit.
