I hop out of the car and meet her at the curb with a grin. “Hey, babe.”
“Hiiiiii.” She drags it out, equal partsnice to see youandI’m sorry your life’s shit right now.
She wraps her arms around my neck and squeezes, pressing her body flush against mine. Something she’s done a thousand times before. SomethingI’vedone to hundreds of women. But right now? I’m hyper-aware of every inch of her touching me, and silentlybeggingmy cock to behave.
She’ll give me shit all weekend if she knows I’m getting hard from this.
She pulls back, one hand resting on my chest, eyes locked on mine. “How you doing?”
I shrug. “As good as I can be, I guess. Here—let me get this.” I reach for her luggage. “How wasyour flight?”
She walks with me to the trunk. “Fine. I worked most of the time. It went by fast.”
“That’s good.”
I lift her suitcase. It’s easily pushing the fifty-pound limit, and I laugh to myself. I bet she has five pairs of shoes in here. Minimum.
She cocks a brow as I load it into the trunk. “No comment about the size of my bag?”
I chuckle. “No need, babe. You clearly already know what I’m thinking.”
She holds my gaze for a beat, lips curving into a grin, then turns and opens the passenger door without another word.
I settle into the driver’s seat. Jordan’s already messing with all the settings in my car: air turned down, vents shifted away from her, volume lowered. The kicker? She grabsmyphone, entersmy passwordand opens Spotify, where she’ll proceed to play the most boring fucking music known to man, and it will take everything in me to not say something for the next forty minutes.
I really need to change my password.
She lets out a heavy sigh and crosses her legs. “So, what are we doing for dinner?”
“Dinner?” I lift a brow, stealing a quick glance. “I thought we didn’t do that. Thought it was against the”—I make air quotes—“rules.”
Damn. This is going to be fun.
She stares at me, unimpressed. “Cute.”
I grin. I live for this. Banter with Jordan is my favorite pastime.
“C’mon,” she says. “I know you made reservations. You’ve practically been begging to take me to dinner for months now. So instead of making me guess, why don’t you just tell me where we’re going?”
A low chuckle slips out. “Fine. We have reservations at a new steakhouse at seven. Don’t worry, they have fantastic rabbit food.”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “Great. What’s it called so I can pull up the menu?”
“Prime Steakhouse.”
I still remember the day she decided to become a vegetarian. Tragic. Like a death in the family.
Oh, fuck.Terrible timing for that thought.
My throat burns as the realization hits me all at once—why she’s really here.
The funeral.
Cole.
Jesus. What’s wrong with me?
She’s here to be my friend. To comfort me. To be there for me, and for Cole.
