Chapter 25 Jordan
jordan
What do I want to know about her? The limit does not exist. Each beat of my heart aches to uncover every.
Single. Detail. Her innermost thoughts. Her goals in life.
Does she sing in the shower? Does she replace the toilet paper over or under?
Even mundane details like what brand of toothpaste she uses.
Apparently, all I want to know are things located in the bathroom…
God, why does she make me so nervous! I take a deep breath to calm myself.
Don’t scare the gorgeous woman away with weird questions. Just keep it simple, Jordan.
“How about we start with something basic—what’s your coffee order? In The Proposal, he got her coffee every day. I mean, that was his job, but still. This is very important boyfriend information.”
Also, I will get you a coffee every day for the rest of your life if you let me.
The corners of her lips tip up enough to form the slightest of smiles.
My heart soars. I’ll take it. “I’m a serious coffee addict.
I get a vanilla, almond milk latte every morning.
And I always get it hot, even if it’s one-hundred degrees outside.
I know everyone is into iced coffee right now, but if I want a cold drink, I don’t want it to be coffee, if that makes sense. ”
I nod, affirming her answer while trying to calm the panic in my chest. I’ve made a grave error getting her a cinnamon dolce latte every flight.
I just figured if I got her the drink that sounded the sweetest, maybe she would feel some sort of sweetness toward me.
That was stupid. Not to mention, she doesn’t even know they were from me.
Shit…what was I thinking with all this secret admirer stuff?
Also…double shit. My stomach twists as I realize I’ve been getting her 2%, not almond milk.
Oh my God! Have I been poisoning her? Stay calm, Jordan. Ask a follow-up.
“Almond milk, huh?”
“Oh yeah, I can’t drink real milk.”
Triple shit. “You’re lactose intolerant?”
“Sort of. It’s really weird. I can eat any other dairy. Cheese, ice cream, yogurt, I’m fine. But if I drink a glass of milk? Nope. My stomach won’t digest it.”
Quadruple shit on a hockey stick. “What do you mean it won’t digest it?”
She winces, and I think I’ve overstepped. Quintp- oh, who am I kidding? I fucked up. I open my mouth to apologize, but she continues, “I probably shouldn’t elaborate on that sitting in a fancy restaurant.”
I snort. “Do you know the kinds of things hockey players talk about in the locker room? On the bench? At dinner? I promise you can’t gross me out.”
“I guess I didn’t think about that; I figured it would be maybe un-ladylike to talk about throwing up an entire glass of milk in a fancy place like this.” Her lips twist into a half-smile.
“Oh shit.” I bite the side of my tongue. “That sucks.”
“It’s something to do with the pasteurization process, I guess. At least I can still have ice cream! I need something to drown my sorrows in outside of gin once in a while. So, what about you? What’s your coffee order? Can you drink milk?”
“Yes to milk, and my coffee order is easy—a double double.”
She leans further across the table as if getting closer to me will make this make sense. “I consider myself pretty fluent in coffee, yet somehow, I don’t know what that is.”
“It’s a coffee with two creams, two sugars. It’s a Canadian thing.”
“Oh damn. I just remembered you’re Canadian.” She glances around the room, her voice a whisper. “Are we committing international fraud?”
“You know, this is more like The Proposal than I thought. Except I’m not being deported…that I know of.” Would she marry me if I were? Blood starts rushing through my veins at the world of possibilities opening up at the very thought.
“Thank God we only have to date and not get married.”
I suck in a sharp breath as if she picked up the steak knife on the table and stabbed me in the heart.
Taking that as a quick no to the ‘would she marry me’ question.
I slowly nod, not even knowing how to respond.
I remind myself of what Hannah said, what my dad said.
Just keep showing her the real me. This is only a first date.
I run my hands through my hair. Plenty of time to work on the fake… or real marriage proposal if needed.
When our food finally arrives, it’s a nice break to focus on eating instead of how my heart keeps flipping between full-blown racing and the ache of feeling like it’s been crushed. Thank God for frites. Carbs always make everything better.
Once we’ve finished nearly everything, both of us nosh on the crisp little potatoes covered in the world’s most delicious truffle oil. Despite the mix of emotions I’m facing, I can’t help but smile. Seeing her enjoying all the food I ordered—especially the frites—steadies my shaking hands.
At least I got one thing right.
“Aren’t these to-die for?” I say as I pop one in my mouth, and she does the same.
“I have never eaten fries these good. Honestly, I’ve never eaten any form of carbohydrate this good. And this little aioli dipping sauce?” She groans, her eyes rolling into the back of her head, “I would like to dive into a barrel of this and eat my way out.”
I huff out a surprised laugh, something warm punching my ribs at the glimpse of humor I didn’t expect from her—and dammit if it doesn’t match mine. “I’m demolishing these like they owe me money.”
“Same,” she chuckles, the sound soothing something that’s been wounded inside for so long.
“I’m a total foodie. Traveling as much as I do, I love finding new restaurants and sampling dishes I’ve never tried before.
My favorites are the hidden dives only the locals know about. They always have the best food.”
“Bet. I follow a strict diet routine when we’re in season to help with rest and recovery—it’s a whole boring thing—but when it’s a cheat day,” I glance around the dining room, “I’d never pick a place like this.
Don’t get me wrong, the food here is great, but…
I’m more of a casual guy. There are some awesome diners in Milwaukee I love to sneak into.
That’s one of the things I miss the most from Montreal…
the diners. Tim Hortons. The poutines. Why those aren’t popular in Wisconsin with the clear abundance of cheese curds, I’ll never know. ”
Her smile looks nearly impressed. “Right? Why aren’t they a thing there?”
“Over the summers, I used to eat at this one diner in Montreal every day. Same order, same poutine. Fuck, it was good. They have over forty different types, but I just like the OG version best. Just potatoes, curds, and gravy,” I say as I pop a few more fries in my mouth.
“Then I started dating someone who only liked fancy places like these, even for just a quick lunch. She was kind of controlling and said it wasn’t a good look to eat there, so I never made it back.
They probably thought I died. I should have…
” I suck in a deep breath, looking down as I try to steady my shaking hand, pressing it into the table.
I may have just made a big mistake letting my guard down.
I have no idea why I’m even telling her any of this.
My stomach churns. I don’t like reliving that part of my life. I must have let my feelings slip through onto my sleeve somehow because a warm hand now rests on top of mine.
“Hey. I know we don’t know each other well, but whoever that girl was, she didn’t deserve you.
” Her gaze locks with mine for just a moment.
One fleeting, glorious moment. “You have to give me the name of that place for the next time I’m in Montreal.
But I have to be honest, I’m not sure they can beat these fries or frites or whatever the hell you want to call them.
Someone would need to pry these out of my cold, dead hands to make me stop eating them.
I’m making these frites my bitch,” she says, pulling her hand away from mine, the chill of its absence sinking in immediately.
But I see she’s only moving away to attack the plate of food once more as she takes several fries, dips them in the sauce, and devours them in a perfect mirror of my actions just a few minutes ago.
I grin at the accuracy of her frites monologue, dangerously on point and endearing.
And then my eyes lock in on the cutest little drop of aioli on her lip.
She must notice me staring, because she immediately asks me, “What?”
“You have, um…you have aioli on your face.” I gesture toward my own lip, showing her where it is.
“Oh my God,” she gasps, eyes wide as she grabs her napkin and wipes her mouth. “Did I get it?”
I try my best not to smile, but I can’t hold it back. “Not quite. May I?”
She nods, and I lean across the table. Cupping her chin, I delicately run my thumb across the bottom of her lip, my touch lingering a little longer than it should.
Her gaze locks with mine. For just a moment, time seems frozen.
My skin grazes the lips I’ve wanted to kiss for so long.
My pulse races, wondering what it would feel like to be touching her like this cradled together in my sheets.
My heart can’t reconcile that this isn’t real.
I blink, the spell broken. Time hasn’t stopped.
We are in a restaurant full of people on a very fake date.
But for a fleeting moment, it looked like she might have seen beyond the mask I wear day in and day out.
Past the one screaming rich, playboy, troublemaker, and getting a tiny view of the hopeless romantic buried deep inside me.
If only this moment could last forever. But just like every second on a clock, it ticks by, time marching mercilessly on, and I pull back to my side of the table.
“Got it.”
“Thanks,” she says with a shy smile, shifting to quickly take a sip of her drink.
I can’t help but notice the blush in her cheeks. The way her eyes dart to avoid my gaze.
That moment didn’t last forever. But something shifted. That door between us cracked open just a bit more. And I’m going to do whatever I can to never let it fully shut again.