Chapter 3
? Choose a Theme
Keep it together, Jordan repeats obsessively in his head.
This mantra is the only reason he’s still on his feet. Why he hasn’t vomited all over Amy’s beautiful coral sundress. Those three words are preventing him from turning his resignation in to Kami, effective immediately, and flinging himself into morning traffic.
Or, like, any day. Since he’s been, you know, actively avoiding him.
“Jamie,” he says hoarsely. “W-what are you doing here?”
Jamie’s lips open. Amy answers first: “He’s my best man.”
Something lodges in the back of Jordan’s throat. It’s most likely his soul trying to evacuate the premises.
“Your … best man?”
“Yes!” Amy squeals.
It’s not as loud as the screaming in Jordan’s head.
“We’ve known each other since we were kids,” Amy explains. “I couldn’t imagine my big day happening without him.”
Jamie grins sheepishly. Adorably.
God, Jordan’s already fucked and it’s barely been two minutes.
“We tried to convince sweet Amy to have a maid of honor,” Lydia comments with an almost patronizing laugh. She reminds Jordan of a blond Emily Gilmore. Pearls, elegant cardigan and skirt, a pinched face even while smiling.
“Kids these days,” Tom says offhandedly. “They’re all about breaking tradition.”
“Dad,” Sam whispers, easing an arm around Amy’s sinking shoulders.
“I’m only kidding, son.”
“Traditions are overrated, Mr. McClintock,” Jamie says in that playful, deep voice Jordan remembers all too well. “Don’t you think?”
He’s not looking at Tom.
Those brown eyes are on Jordan, searching. Asking for his help.
For a moment, Jordan forgets what they were even talking about. He hasn’t had Jamie’s attention like this since December. Over hot chocolates and conversations that start with Maybe we shouldn’t.
He shakes off that memory.
His gaze falls on Amy’s hopeful expression.
“It’s the happiest day of your lives,” Jordan says, smiling effortlessly. “Creating new traditions is part of the fun. Anything you want to make it memorable, I say let’s do it.”
Amy’s eyes brighten.
Jamie leans into her ear to say, “See? I told you he was amazing.”
It’s just loud enough for Jordan to hear. Heat blisters up his neck and cheeks. He’s not blushing.
He’s also not not blushing.
Kami edges forward. “Sam and Amy, meet Jordan. One of our best event coordinators. He’ll be planning your wedding.” She squeezes Jordan’s elbow. “Should you fall in love with his ideas, that is.”
“I already am,” Amy gushes.
“Wonderful to meet you,” Jordan says congenially. “All of you.”
He purposefully avoids Jamie’s eyes.
“We’re excited to hear more,” Lydia says.
“And that you’re able to work with our short timeline,” Tom adds.
Kami sweeps her arm like a game show host showing off a new car. “Shall we head to the conference room and discuss?”
“Sounds good to me!” Sam grabs Amy’s hand again. They fall in step with Kami, the McClintocks close behind.
Jordan hesitates. He makes a big, foolish mistake by half turning to his left. By inhaling too deeply. He’s hit with notes of oak and amber, that familiar scent perpetually clinging to Jamie.
His stomach twists.
“Actually,” he squeaks.
The others stop abruptly.
“I just need to,” Jordan begins, his voice back at its normal volume, even as his insides yell, This is what a heart attack feels like. “I need to get a … thing. From my office. For the presentation. I’ll be, uh, right there.”
Kami eyes the iPad still tucked under Jordan’s arm, knowing that’s all he ever needs for a meeting with clients.
“Okay,” she says slowly, skeptically. “We’ll just get settled in.”
“Sounds perfect!”
Jordan spins away. He marches right past Jamie, holding his breath. If anyone notices him walking in the opposite direction of his office to hide in the restroom, he doesn’t stick around long enough to hear about it.
Jordan is a professional. He works hard at his job. Late nights, early mornings. Every client walks away from one of his events feeling like he gave it his all. That his extra efforts were solely for them.
To ensure this happens, Jordan does extensive research. How can he customize a client’s party—make it unforgettable—without truly knowing them? And not just surface-level information.
Jordan needs to know the real them.
The problem is, Amy doesn’t have a social media presence. She doesn’t even have a Facebook account. No LinkedIn either. All Jordan has on her are photos she’s been tagged in, mostly by Sam or his friends. Everything else is google-able facts.
None of his bullet points on Amy Welch connect her to Jamie Peters.
Jordan sighs from his seat on the toilet in the company restroom. He’s not using it. The lid is closed. This is a temporary thinking spot. Since he clearly can’t go back to his office.
Because all adults hide in public restrooms while figuring out how to escape truly horrific situations.
He runs through his fact sheet one more time.
Jordan knows Amy’s birthday. Her parents’ occupations. The various freelance articles she wrote for sports blogs. The schools she attended …
“Fucking hell,” he whispers, facepalming.
It was right there. High school: Brighton Academy. The same pretentious private institution Denz attended.
Where he met Jamie.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jordan groans into his hand.
How did he miss that?
Now, Jamie’s here. At 24 Carter Gold. Waiting in the company conference room with the future bride and groom Jordan’s supposed to be wooing.
He can’t let Kami down.
He can’t let himself down. Winning over Amy and Sam brings him closer to the next step in his career.
With a deep exhale, Jordan stands. No use in delaying the inevitable. He grips the cool porcelain edges of the sink until his hands stop shaking.
“You’re Jordan Carter,” he says to his reflection. “Nothing can stop you from being great.”
Silly as it is, that one sentence skyrockets his confidence. He’s faced the odds before. Jordan always wins.
One man won’t derail his goals.
But the restroom door swinging open just as he reaches for the handle can.
The heavy wooden door smacks into his forehead. He stumbles backward. Right onto the—thankfully closed—toilet seat.
Tears fill Jordan’s eyes. He blinks them away. Of course it’s Jamie who’s kneeling in front of him when his vision clears.
The cherry on top of this wonderfully shitty morning.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Warm hands grab Jordan’s face. Long, cautious fingers tilt his chin. “Are you okay?”
“Sure,” Jordan hisses, head throbbing. “Getting hit by a door and falling on my ass is my favorite thing to do. That and playing pickleball.”
“You’re being funny.”
“Am I?” Jordan says flatly.
“Actually, you’re trying to be funny. It’s pretty bad.” The left side of Jamie’s mouth creeps higher. “Has anyone ever told you you’re like Ellen DeGeneres funny?”
“Damn,” Jordan manages as Jamie angles his chin the other way. “I was going for Pete Davidson funny.”
He forces himself not to react when Jamie’s fingertips graze his temple. A memory—a quiet diner, fingers skimming his skin—starts to unfold in his head.
Jordan quickly shuts it down.
“Pete Davidson?” Jamie snorts. “That’s a pretty high bar. Start with Dakota Johnson funny. Work your way up.”
“Thanks for the suggestion.”
It’s unfortunate Jordan’s vision cleared so quickly. Now, he has a crisp view of Jamie’s smirk. His bare jaw. Jordan’s not used to that, Jamie with anything other than a stubbly face.
He’s also not used to the disappointment at that fact.
Obviously, he must have a concussion.
“Your nose isn’t bleeding,” Jamie observes. “That’s good. Means no brain hemorrhaging.”
Jordan lets out an exhausted sigh. “Jamie, you’re not a doctor.”
“True.” Jamie’s eyes narrow. Brown flecked with moss and cedar. “But I did marathon six seasons of Grey’s Anatomy the other week.”
“That’s depressing.”
“Tell me about it. Everyone dies on that show.”
“Still doesn’t make you a doctor,” Jordan points out.
“Okay, but hear me out: Those actors know a lot about medicine and stuff,” Jamie counters. “Which they got from the show writers. Who probably spent months with real doctors. Ergo, I’ve absorbed all their knowledge through observational learning.”
“Did you just”—Jordan would raise an eyebrow if his forehead weren’t throbbing so much—“ergo me?”
“I did.”
Jamie’s smile is like the sun. Jordan has to blink several times. Either he’s truly concussed or Jamie’s argument almost made sense.
“It’s like Six Degrees of Kevin Sausage or whatever,” Jamie adds.
“Bacon,” Jordan corrects.
“What?”
“It’s Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon.”
“Sausage, bacon. Who cares? They’re all breakfast meats, which you’ll still get to enjoy because your brain isn’t hemorrhaging.” That crooked grin reemerges. “That’s my final diagnosis.”
“Uh … thanks?”
This is Jordan’s moment. To pull away from Jamie’s warm hands. Escape his careful touch.
He needs to get up and leave. Isn’t that why he fled to the restroom in the first place? To get away from Jamie?
Instead, Jordan stares at him. Wavy brown hair falling messily over a wrinkled brow. His tan skin glowing under the restroom’s accent lighting. Those unreadable eyes. His pink mouth hitched into that one-of-a-kind Jamie Peters smile.
Fuckfuckfuck.
The door swings open again. Kami’s head pokes in.
“Everything okay in here?”
Jordan tenses. He can only imagine how this looks to her. To anyone who saw them:
Jordan splayed on a toilet. Jamie kneeling between his cocked legs. Hands all over Jordan’s face.
The whole thing is very … suggestive. The complete opposite of what was happening between them.
Jordan leaps to his feet so fast, he knocks Jamie over.
He blurts, “Jamie hit me with the door.”
“On accident!” Jamie says, gesticulating wildly.
“I’m fine,” Jordan continues. “I think?”
“His brain’s not bleeding,” Jamie tells Kami.
“Okay.” Kami drags the A out for a long beat. Her gaze shifts from Jordan’s panicked posture to Jamie on the floor. “Good to know. Shall we start the meeting?”
“Yes!”
Jordan marches right past Kami.