Chapter 1 #2
Jess cackles. “I’m kidding!” She reaches across the table to touch the back of his hand. “Tonight’s great. So far.”
Jordan smiles, relieved.
He hasn’t completely fucked this up. They’re back on track.
From the window, streams of artificial light wash over them. Outside, Atlanta’s waking up. Neon eyes glowing. Early summer warmth fading. Endless people walk into the mouth of the city to taste its intoxicating vibe.
It’s the perfect backdrop. The perfect atmosphere. And, for exactly five more seconds, the perfect mood.
Until Jordan’s gaze strays to his right.
The long, sleek bar is jammed with friends and regulars and single diners poring over their phones while drinking. Two bartenders move around each other in a well-rehearsed dance. Jordan focuses on a third man.
His back is to everyone as he dries fresh glasses.
The bar’s wall is a frosted mirror with rows of top-shelf alcohol.
His face is hidden in the reflection. But Jordan knows those broad, muscled shoulders.
The relaxed posture. A hint of tan skin peeking out of the collar of his white button-up. Deep brown hair falling in messy waves.
Reflexively, Jordan imagines the dark scruff lining a square jaw. He pictures white teeth biting a pink, plump lower lip. The wrinkles in his forehead as he overthinks everything and—
No, no, no.
There’s absolutely no fucking way that he works here.
Jordan would know. He’s met the Last Pour’s staff. Even when the restaurant outsources for the bigger events 24 Carter Gold hosts, Jordan’s made a conscious effort to memorize all the new helpers.
Fine. Maybe Jordan also maintains a running list of the places he bartends at. All the brunch spots, dive bars, and loud, noisy, generic restaurants to avoid around the city.
So they don’t run into each other.
So Jordan doesn’t experience a moment like this:
Where his face is blistering hot. Throat constricted so painfully he can’t swallow. His chest tight with a suffocating memory. It’s like being thrown into the deep end of a pool when you can’t swim.
Jordan is drowning.
And on the way down, he remembers this:
The cool snap of December air. Twilight settling purple in the sky. Notes of oak and amber body wash mixing with the heady sweetness from the cup of hot chocolate cradled between his hands. Their bodies so close. Breaths almost synced.
Jordan had spent far too long trying to name all the colors flecked in the other man’s light brown eyes. Too much time thinking about standing on his toes. Finally doing the thing that had run through his head for months and months—
Kissing him.
Jordan also remembers this:
The second he did lean up. The other man suddenly jolting backward. That sad, regretful look in his eyes.
His words like a sharp blade slipped right beneath Jordan’s ribs.
Maybe we shouldn’t. I don’t want to ruin our friendship. You’re still figuring yourself out and I—I don’t think I’m the right person for that. For you, while you’re on this journey.
Jordan remembers nodding. Laughing it off. Pretending he was okay.
Which he was. Is. Jordan’s fine.
He’s—
Jess clears her throat. “Jordan.”
He’s been staring at the bartender’s back so long he forgot about her.
Startled, Jordan twists to face her. But he’s too distracted to be coordinated. Too focused on the ghost behind the bar of the restaurant where he’s on a fucking date that he doesn’t pay attention to the little things.
Like the proximity of his flailing arm to Jess’s wineglass. How delicate and full it is. How easily it topples over when his hand makes contact.
“Shit!”
Jordan jumps up before anything splashes on him.
But he’s still so rattled, he doesn’t see Asa walking by with a tray of drinks for a table of six nearby.
Luckily, Asa’s reflexes are quick. They just barely find their balance.
Though not before one of the shots spills onto the sleeve of Jordan’s blazer.
Fucking amazing.
Jordan’s pasta is swimming in a river of red wine. He stinks of Don Julio tequila. Jess’s eyebrows are high on her forehead as she stares up at him.
She’s not the only one.
Everyone at the bar is watching him too.
Including the shaggy-haired bartender. Who has very … green eyes, not brown. And one of those hipster beards. The kind you see on a white guy competing on a cutthroat Food Network cooking show. The kind no one likes but pretends to.
He looks nothing like the man Jordan was thinking of.
Nothing like Jamie Peters.
Eventually, the chatter starts up again. The music slips into something classical. The Not-Jamie bartender turns away to polish more glasses.
In a panic, Mallory, the ginger-haired waitress Jordan remembers from a black-tie party months ago, rushes over. She hands him a new linen napkin with a mortified expression.
“Thanks,” Jordan says coolly, hiding his embarrassment.
“I’ll get you a fresh bowl!” Mallory proposes.
He waves her off. “No worries. It was my fault. I was—It’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” he says, straightening his shoulders. “Thanks again, Mallory.”
She swipes up his soupy pasta, then disappears.
Jordan winces guiltily at Jess. “I’m so sorry.”
“It happens.” Jess’s expression warms. “Remind me to tell you about how I almost stabbed my ex while at a steakhouse.”
“Was it a freak accident?”
“Allegedly.” She smirks again.
His eyes trail to the tipped-over glass Mallory forgot. “I can get you a new one.”
As he’s about to signal for Asa to come back, Jess grabs his hand. “Don’t worry,” she insists. Her fingers play along the inside of his wrist. “I have an unopened bottle. Back at my place. We could share.”
There’s a clear suggestion in her tone. In the way her head tilts as she bites her lip. An invitation made bold by her stare.
Jordan swallows.
He knows this part. Knows the expected outcome. Knows what almost any other man would do in his position.
Which is why Jordan grins, then says, “I have an early morning tomorrow. First meeting with a new VIP client.”
Jess’s eyes grow smaller.
“I shouldn’t stay out too late,” he adds.
It’s not an excuse. He does have a big meeting in the morning. That doesn’t change the way Jess’s mouth pinches, her eyebrows draw inward.
“How … responsible,” she exhales.
“We should do this again though,” Jordan quickly offers. “You know, without the wine spilling.”
A quiet beat passes.
The change is almost instant. Jess hums an mm-hmm. She doesn’t make eye contact with him while scooting her chair back. She stands, tucking her phone into her purse.
Jordan tries to look hopeful, but he’s already mentally composing a brand-new version of this story for his family:
He’ll leave out the way Jess steps closer to him. How her hand rests on his dry shoulder. Her smooth lean in to press a peck to the corner of his mouth. Or how, at the very last second, Jordan tips his head away. Offers her his cheek instead, like some visiting European dignitary.
Jordan will skip over his stammered “I’ll t-text you.”
And Jess’s whispered “Well, this was tragic” as she walks past him.
Conveniently, Jordan will forget the part where he sulks at the table until the bill arrives.
He’ll redact pausing at the bar on his way out.
Getting an up-close view of the man who threw his entire game off.
He’ll neglect to mention how, when said bartender with his broad shoulders and messy brown hair gives him a wolfish smile—just like the one Jess wore ten minutes ago—Jordan felt nothing.
He always feels nothing in moments like this.
Outside, Jordan checks his phone. No texts from his mom asking for updates. At least not yet. He considers calling Denz. Lamenting over another failed date as he walks to grab two scoops of brownie batter on a waffle cone from his favorite artisanal ice cream shop down the block.
But he can’t.
Call Denz, that is. It has nothing to do with the time zone difference. It’s only 6 PM in California.
Truth is, Denz has no clue what happened between Jordan and Jamie last December. Jordan doesn’t want to tell him. Embarrassment aside, he knows how uncomfortable that conversation will be.
Because Jamie Peters is his cousin’s best friend.
Overhead, thunder growls. Fat, cool drops of rain come shortly afterward. Now, tonight truly is perfect.
A perfect fucking mess.
When he talks to his family, Jordan plans to leave this part out too:
Running to his car in a summer storm. Tripping on someone’s discarded Starbucks cup. Ending his evening by almost twisting his ankle and falling into a bush.
He won’t tell anyone how, after exactly fifty-eight minutes, his impeccable love story crashed and burned. Because of a bartender. Because Jordan couldn’t stop thinking about the night he almost kissed another guy.
And it wouldn’t have been the first time.