Chapter 8 Send Out Save-the-Dates #2
Kami carries on. “With your vision and his experience, the execution will be flawless—24 Carter Gold is all the media’s gonna be talking about.”
“His experience?”
No. She’s not … she can’t.
“When I approached Javi about it—”
Jordan leaps to his feet. His heart is so far up his throat, he’s not sure how he gets out, “Kami, you want me to work with him on this?”
She stares at him, confused. “Yes. Didn’t we just agree—”
“No, we didn’t.”
“Jordan—”
He shakes his head. “It’s my wedding, Kami.”
Silence hangs in the air for a beat.
Jordan’s breaths come fast, hectic.
Kami crosses her arms, her head tilted in such a way as to remind Jordan this is her office. He just raised his voice at the CEO. His boss.
Slowly, he sinks back onto the love seat.
“I’m sorry.”
Kami exhales. “I know what you’re capable of. But this is big, Jordan. Javi has done big. His list of credentials speaks for itself.”
Jordan wishes that was the only thing that spoke for him.
“You’re still the lead on this project,” she assures. “He’s there to help. Anything you need to turn this wedding into the most unforgettable event this company’s seen since Audrey Hudson’s.”
Jordan smiles, small but there.
Javi’s only his assistant. Jordan’s in charge. That’s all that matters.
“It’ll be bigger than hers,” he promises.
Kami grins. “I know it will be.”
When he leaves her office, Jordan’s in a daze. He moves aimlessly, unfocused. He’s never yelled at Kami before. During a family game night? Sure. But never at work.
What was he thinking? She could’ve pulled him off the wedding. Worse, Kami could’ve fired him on the spot.
He let his frustration—his disappointment—get in the way. His competitive nature almost cost him everything.
To no one’s surprise, Jordan’s own office isn’t empty when he arrives.
Javi lounges in the chair opposite the desk like it’s his favorite spot in the entire building. He looks up from his phone. A smug grin teases his lips. His shirt is a dull green. Puke green.
Jordan considers vomiting all over his stupid face. It’d be an improvement.
Something else catches Jordan’s eye. On the edge of his desk sits a cardboard cup. He recognizes the logo. Crema the Crop, a local coffee shop Denz used to frequent.
“Is that yours?”
Javi lifts his own cup high. “S’mores latte. I’m told it’s the drink of the summer.”
Jordan doubts that.
“See.” Javi waves at the cup on Jordan’s desk. “I’m quite good at—what was it you said? Small, insignificant, minuscule tasks?”
“I’m not apologizing.”
“I didn’t ask you to.” Javi rubs his chin hair. “Look at us. Already agreeing. We’re going to make a great team.”
“We’re not a team,” Jordan says. “I’m in charge. You’re simply here to assist. Provide suggestions—”
“Which I have,” Javi mentions.
“—that I’ll take into consideration,” Jordan finishes. “Ultimately, I have the final say.”
Javi smiles a little too agreeably for Jordan’s liking. This is a trap. “Should we get started now?”
“No,” Jordan says flatly. His phone lights up. A new message from Nic. “I need to take care of some things.”
Promptly, Javi stands, that loose smile still curled across his mouth. “How about after lunch?”
“I’ll be busy.”
“Later, then? We can do dinner—”
“Still busy.”
Jordan has massive, very unbreakable plans with his dirty laundry. He also needs to start that new drama series on Netflix he’s been hearing about.
Javi sighs. “At least share your calendar with me.”
Jordan pretends to think. “I’ll take that into consideration too.”
For a moment, Javi hangs in the doorway. His eyes scan around like they did the last time. Something passes over his face. In a blink, it’s gone.
“This will be great for both of us,” he insists. “Give me a chance.”
If Jordan squints, he can almost see a speck of sincerity in Javi’s expression. “I doubt it,” he says.
Then, he drops the cup from his desk into the wastebasket.
“And I hate coffee.”
Jordan can’t stop staring.
He’s speechless.
On his phone’s crisp FaceTime video, somewhere in the golden radiance of Culver City, is Denz. The same Denz who Jordan spent summers with. Eating hot dogs, swimming, staying up way too late playing video games. The same Denz he spoke to a couple of weeks ago. Except, now his hair is …
Blond. Platinum blond.
“You’re blond,” Jordan says for lack of anything better. Also, in case Denz is unaware.
He rolls his eyes, laughing. “I know.”
“Did Braylon break up with you again?”
Jordan knew he shouldn’t have gone this long without calling his cousin.
He let work—and other things related to men with nice shoulders and border collie energy—get in the way.
Still, Denz seemed happy on their last call.
A tiny bit loopy from lack of sleep, but he was good.
He was planning date night with Braylon.
Either in WeHo or at a beachside bistro in Venice.
Where did it all go wrong?
“What? No,” Denz cries. “Me and Braylon are fine.”
“Is this a midlife crisis?”
“Jordan, I turn twenty-seven in less than two weeks.”
“Quarter-life crisis?” Jordan suggests.
“That already passed, remember? I faked a relationship with my ex to prove I was serious about a job I didn’t actually want?” Denz smiles. “We got back together. I moved across the country for him. He’s not getting rid of me that easily.”
“Is this some kind of Gen Z ennui?”
Denz makes a face. It’s like a cat swallowed a roach. “What the hell is that?”
“I don’t know! I saw a post about it on Quora,” Jordan says, pacing his apartment’s kitchen.
“Why the fuck were you on Quora?”
Certainly not reading responses to the “Am I queer if I’ve only been into one guy before” posts, he thinks but doesn’t dare say.
He could though. Denz has been great about allowing Jordan to work his way through this process.
Instead, he says, “Why is your hair blond, cuz?”
Judging by the cloudless blue sky in his background, the distorted sounds of cars from somewhere below, Denz is on his balcony.
Jordan imagines the weather’s perfect in California.
It was for nearly all four years he had lived there.
Never too hot, edging toward cool as evening unfurls.
Unlike Atlanta where it was approximately seventy million degrees outside while the sky shifted toward a heavy gray on his drive home.
A storm’s looming.
“It’s for Pride,” Denz finally explains. “I’m doing sponsorship stuff around the city. I was on a parade float with some kids from a Hulu series last week.”
“Fancy,” Jordan teases.
“I’m still finding glitter in places it shouldn’t be.”
Jordan laughs. Serves him right. There’s still trails of glitter in Jordan’s closet from the Valentine’s Day gala Denz threw.
Last year.
He opens a brown bag on the kitchen’s quartz countertop. He pulls out a paper-wrapped fried chicken sandwich from his favorite on-the-go restaurant. Jordan considered cooking after leaving the office but today was too exhausting.
As if on cue, Denz says, “You didn’t call for updates on my hairstyle, Jordan.”
“I could’ve.”
“But you didn’t.”
On screen, Denz gives him a long look. It’s mildly patient.
“The wedding’s getting a ton of buzz,” Jordan says.
They’ve discussed the company’s change of direction before. Jordan had to suffer through no less than ten minutes of Denz gloating. He was the one who had originally pushed Kami to switch back to wedding planning.
Denz raises his brows as if to say, What else?
“Kami’s … concerned,” Jordan says. “She gave me an ‘assistant.’”
He violently air-quotes the last word.
A laugh sputters out of Denz. “Okay. But Kami trusts you, cuz. More than me.”
It’s a lie but still nice to hear.
“Who is it?” Denz asks. “Kim? Connor? Eric? An intern?”
Jordan bites into his sandwich, chewing. “Javier Velasco.”
Silence fills Denz’s end. Jordan can see him mentally flipping through his list of contacts. People he’s met while working for 24 Carter Gold.
Another beat passes. And then …
“Javi?!”
Jordan lowers the volume on his phone before Denz’s screech wrecks the speaker.
“As in Javi, our competitor?” Denz growls.
“Yup.”
“The dude your mom tried to set me up with?”
“Same guy.”
Jordan launches into what Denz has missed out on since their last talk. He’s aware Kami and Denz FaceTime. Mostly to catch up on how she and Suraj are doing. Or Mikah commandeering the phone to tell Denz about whatever his latest obsession is. The topic of work never comes up, on purpose.
Denz is happy for his sister, but Jordan wonders if the scars from their CEO battle are still a little too fresh.
“Fuck.” He brushes a hand over his blond hair. “Okay, that’s fine.”
Jordan arches an eyebrow. “Is it?”
“Hell no!” Denz tips his head back to mumble something at the sky. He collects himself. “It doesn’t matter. You know why?”
Jordan bites into his sandwich, shrugging. “Because the zombie apocalypse is starting tomorrow?”
“The way this world’s going? Probably,” Denz jokes. “But, also, because you’re Jordan Carter. The most competitive man I know. You’d never let anyone take an opportunity away from you.”
“That, and now I have better hair than you.”
“Shut up.” Denz guffaws.
The noise dies quickly when, from off camera, a shout comes from inside Denz’s apartment.
“What. Is. This?”
Denz’s head snaps to his left, eyes widening.
“Who the bloody hell is Bigelow?”
“Braylon,” Denz says calmly, like a mediator diffusing a potential hostile situation. “It’s a tea brand. I got it from Sprouts. I used the last of your Yorkshire Tea and—”
“And you thought this was a suitable replacement?”
Braylon’s barely in the camera’s view now. He towers over a still-seated Denz. All honey-brown skin and dark stubble and narrowed eyes. His short curls are also inexplicably blond, but more of a sunny shade than platinum. He shakes a red box at Denz.
“You might as well just pee in a cup and call it English Breakfast!”
“To be fair,” Denz attempts, “English Breakfast does taste like pee.”