Chapter 5 Choose a Venue #3
Jamie’s fingers wiggle, beckoning him. “C’mere. Trust me,” he repeats in a whisper.
Jordan absolutely does not trust him. This is the same Jamie Peters who, as teens, convinced him to put shaving cream in Denz’s hand while he slept. Who dared him to wear all his clothes backward for a day. Who fed him pot brownies and kissed him and then—somehow—cheated to win Mario Kart.
Trusting Jamie Peters is like trusting a hellmouth demon holding up a sign that says, FREE CANDY.
But when Jordan’s gaze shifts, he finds Amy’s eyes are on them. Sam’s watching too, doubt still pinched between his eyebrows. A quiet curiosity blossoms behind the concern. As if he’s invested in whatever Jamie has planned.
Reluctantly, Jordan rests his iPad on an empty table. He slides his hand into Jamie’s. It’s warm and soft, the way Jordan remembers. An unfortune shiver runs up his spine. He allows Jamie to lead him to the greenhouse’s center.
Jamie coaxes him closer. He positions his hands on Jordan’s hips. It’s barely a second before Jordan realizes what’s next.
“You’re serious?”
“Very,” Jamie says, eyebrows wiggling.
Jordan bites down on a swear. He swallows his hesitation. Stiffly, he locks his arms around Jamie’s neck.
“Now, Ames,” Jamie calls.
Amy hits Play on his phone. Ed Sheeran’s “Thinking Out Loud” fills the glass enclosure. “It’s our song!” she swoons.
Sam’s mouth twitches a little.
“Now, picture it,” Jamie requests. He starts to sway. Tiny rocking motions that Jordan half-heartedly mimics. “It’s sunset.”
Peach and maroon wash through the sky above them. The sun’s drifting. Its final rays cast an orangey pool of light around them.
Naturally, it’s all coincidental.
“The room is silent. The DJ calls you two center stage. Plays your song,” Jamie continues. He rotates them in a graceless, wobbly circle. Coordination is not one of his strengths. Problem is, Jordan doesn’t care.
He’s pulled by the music. By the smoothness in Jamie’s voice. The confident grip he maintains on Jordan’s hips.
“And it’s just you two.”
Jordan finds flecks of copper and citrine in Jamie’s eyes.
“Your first dance as husband and wife.”
They turn again.
Reflexively, Jordan inhales. Amber and oak and sweetly ripe peaches.
“In front of your family. All your friends,” Jamie narrates. “That one douchebag from high school you hated but invited anyway because you want him to see how fucking amazing you’re doing. ‘Eat shit, Chaz. No one likes you and I’m happily married.’”
Amy snort-giggles loudly.
In the honeyed light, Jamie smiles. Sincere and innocent. The way he almost looked ten years ago.
“All that matters is you two. Here. Dancing.”
For a second, Jordan’s eyes close.
He hasn’t shared a proper slow dance with anyone since Yazzie.
Junior prom. For his senior prom, Jordan didn’t stick to one dance partner.
Yazzie was his date again, but she didn’t seem to mind the way he bopped around from person to person while Calvin Harris pulsed in the background.
She never complained when Jordan preferred to sit and talk while he caught his breath during the sappy love ballads.
This dance is different.
Strange. Mesmerizing.
Jordan’s lost in every plucked string. The rise and fall of Ed’s scratchy vocals. The broad shoulders his forearms rest on. Soothing thumbs rubbing circles along his waist. This one moment.
“Shit, Jamie.”
Sam’s awed voice breaks the spell.
The song stops. Jordan’s eyes pop open. Jamie grins at him in that sinful way Jordan recognizes—and low-key hates right now.
“See,” Jamie whispers, angling his head until his mouth is close to Jordan’s ear, “I told you to trust me.”
Jordan forces himself to look in Amy and Sam’s direction.
Flush pours down Sam’s cheeks. Amy beams so hard, Jordan’s convinced she might explode.
“That was everything we want,” she says. “Right, Sammy?”
“You know I hate that nickname,” Sam says, sounding anything but annoyed. “Fine, fine. Let’s get married here.”
Amy’s whoop carries through the greenhouse. It’s almost as loud as Jordan’s unsteady heartbeat.
He steps away from Jamie.
What the fuck just happened? How did he get so caught up in one stupid slow dance? In a demonstration meant to persuade his clients into believing this is the ideal place for their wedding?
Jordan swallows, then says, “P-perfect. I’ll just, um, let Lilly know.”
He could do better. Should do better, sound way more enthusiastic. But he’s between remaining professional and throwing a plant at Jamie’s head.
He mouths Thank you, ignoring the smug smile taking over Jamie’s face.
Turning toward the entrance, Jordan says, “Shall we—”
The doors fly open.
“I’m so sorry I’m late!”
A woman runs inside. Her heels click on the stone.
She has long, thick chestnut hair, one of those heart-shaped faces people pay for, and eyes so emerald Jordan can’t believe they’re not contacts.
She stops at Jamie’s side. Her hand grips his bicep for balance before she drops air kisses on Amy’s and Sam’s cheeks.
Breathless, she says, “Work ran late.” Her gaze scans around. “Wow, is this it? Are you two getting hitched here?”
Sam nods. Amy’s shoulders bounce excitedly.
“It’s gorgeous,” the woman says.
Jordan inspects her. He tries to figure out who she is. She has sun-kissed skin but looks nothing like Sam or Amy. He rules out a relative. Maybe a classmate from Brighton? Or Emory? Or possibly—
Her hand slides into Jamie’s. Slim fingers tangle around his long ones.
A ringing starts in Jordan’s ears. That invisible hand from earlier latches onto his stomach again. It squeezes relentlessly.
“Jordan?”
It’s Sam. Jordan’s head snaps in his direction. He pushes a smile on his lips.
“Hmm?”
“Should we talk to Lilly? It’s getting late.”
“We, um … all of us?”
He doesn’t mean to let his eyes shift back to Jamie. To the woman whose manicured hand rests on Jamie’s chest. Like this is something she’s done before.
Something she does often.
“Sorry, we’re so rude,” Amy says. “You two don’t know each other.”
“We don’t,” Jordan confirms in a rough voice.
“Jordan Carter is our wedding planner. The one Jamie suggested. And this is Sloane Smith.”
Jordan waits for Amy to say more. She doesn’t.
Instead, it’s Jamie who says, “She’s an old family friend.”
“Another,” Jordan chokes, then clears his throat. “Another family friend?”
“Oh, Jamesy,” Sloane says, half giggling. “Is that all?”
Jamie doesn’t answer, sucks his cheeks in.
Sloane’s sharp green eyes find Jordan. She smiles warmly. “I’ve known him since we were in diapers. And recently, things took a little change.”
The noise in Jordan’s ears grows louder. But he still hears Sloane say, “We’ve been on a few dates.”