Chapter 10 the Floral Design #2
“Ow!” Jordan yelps, shocked but giggling. “Did you just give me a purple nurple? What are you? Ten?”
“Don’t lie to me,” Jamie commands, smirking.
“Ugh. Fine. Yes, strawberry lemonade is still my favorite. Happy?”
“Very. Be right back.”
Jamie jogs off in the direction of the rainbow-umbrella-shaded white cart. Jordan studies the way Jamie instantly wins over the vendor. Within seconds, they’re exchanging laughs and head nods like they’ve known each other for years.
It’s so easy to like Jamie.
So natural to fall for him …
Jordan blinks. Recalibrates. It’s so natural for people to fall for Jamie. Like, the world in general. No one specifically.
Jamie ambles back over. He holds up two popsicles wrapped in plastic. Strawberry lemonade for Jordan, raspberry lime for himself.
“I see your taste hasn’t changed either,” Jordan comments.
Jamie grins, his eyes lingering. “No, it hasn’t.”
A rush of warmth creeps up Jordan’s neck. Heatstroke, probably. He clumsily unwraps his popsicle.
“Shall we”—Jordan waves a hand around aimlessly—“keep walking?”
Jamie directs them toward the happy yipping. There are two separate enclosures. One for bigger dogs, the other for smaller breeds. They pause by the latter. Five different types of dogs scramble around like they’re drunk on summer and freedom.
Jordan can almost relate.
“I always wanted a dog,” Jamie comments. He looks eager to jump right in. Roll around in the grass with the delighted pups.
Denz once said Jamie reminded him of a golden retriever. But Jordan can’t unsee that tenacious, keen side of him.
Border collie, for sure.
“You never had one growing up?” he asks.
Jamie snorts derisively. “With my parents? Wasn’t an option.”
The temptation to question Jamie more about his parents reemerges. Jordan resists. He can wait for Jamie to go there voluntarily.
Instead, he says, “What about with Denz?”
“Denz is a cat person.”
Jordan squints. “Denz is not a cat person.”
“Yes, the fuck he is!” Jamie peels the plastic off his popsicle. “He’s territorial. Impulsive. Sneaky and suspicious. He’s friendly until you forget to feed him—”
“That’s my cousin you’re talking about,” Jordan says, guffawing.
“And my best friend! That doesn’t change the fact that he’s obviously a cat person.”
Jordan’s mouth opens to argue. He stops short. Jamie’s comparison is … extremely accurate. It makes sense. How did Jordan not see it before?
Jamie grins at him. “You see it, don’t you?”
“Whatever,” Jordan says. “You should get a dog.”
“You think so?”
“I would if I were you. The companionship would be nice.”
Jordan does his best not to wince at how his last sentence comes out. Like he’s lonely. Like he needs something else to fill the spaces in his life. Jordan’s learned how to ignore that emptiness. How to find other things to occupy that void.
He’s good.
Jamie bumps his shoulder. “We should get Mikah a puppy for Christmas.”
“So Kami can murder us before New Year’s? No thanks.”
“It was nice seeing him and Suraj together today.”
“It was,” Jordan says after a long beat.
Jamie licks his popsicle. “Was it like that for you growing up? With Tevin?”
“It … was.”
Jordan smiles softly. He doesn’t think of it often. Ever since he found out the truth about his biological dad—that his grandparents forced his mom to end things with him before Jordan was even born—he’s focused more on what he missed because of it.
He’s rarely reminded of what he gained.
Tevin bought him his first basketball. Taught him how to hit a smooth three-pointer. Took him to get his learner’s permit, then, a year and a day later, his license. Tevin wasn’t always around, so busy with music, but when he was, Jordan felt it. He still feels it.
Jamie’s mouth quirks. “You’d make a great dad.”
A surprised laugh leaps out of Jordan. “What makes you say that?”
“I can just tell.”
“Yeah? You’re part psychic now?”
Maybe Cheryl should start consulting Jamie about Jordan’s love life. On second thought? That’s a terrible idea.
Jamie’s tongue glides across the top of the popsicle. It’s a slow, drawn-out process. Jordan coughs, then chomps into his own popsicle.
Cringing, Jamie says, “Fuck, I forgot you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Eat your popsicles like a monster. Who bites a popsicle?”
“It’s cold!”
“That’s the point!”
Jordan scoffs. “I don’t see the problem.”
“Because you’re a maniac,” Jamie says, elbowing him. “This is how you’re supposed do it.”
He lifts the popsicle like he’s giving a YouTube tutorial. His tongue glides over one side. Then the other. His eyes flutter shut, mouth closing around the top. His cheeks sink in as he sucks.
Slurps.
Sugary, dark red juice drips from the corners of his lips. Down his chin. Jamie pulls off with a loud pop that echoes like a gunshot. Like fireworks on the Fourth of July.
Ironically, Jordan freezes. An unexpected tingle shifts between his thighs.
“Shit!”
Jamie looks down. At his own shirt, thankfully. He’s dribbled red spots all over the fabric. He props the popsicle back between his lips, undoing the buttons. The shirt hangs open in the cool breeze.
Five dogs, their owners, and whoever else is watching get a clear view of Jamie’s tan chest. The light dusting of dark hair between his pecs. All the definition in his stomach.
Of course, Jordan isn’t one of those people staring. He merely observes. Takes a few mental notes so he can revamp his entire workout routine.
“Did you learn anything?”
“W-what?” Jordan stutters.
Jamie waves his popsicle in front of Jordan’s face. “Do you get it now?”
No, Jordan doesn’t. He has no clue what they were talking about. Or what’s going on with the lower half of his body.
“Yup. No other, uh … demonstrations needed.”
Jamie beams victoriously.
Jordan shoves his own popsicle into his mouth. He’s determined to prove this “death by brain freeze” theory true.
“Should we get going?” Jamie offers.
There’s a push and pull inside Jordan. A tug-of-war. He needs to get home. He’s lost too many hours where work should’ve been done. But he likes it here among the yapping dogs and melting popsicles and random flash mob proposals.
Here with Jamie.
Jordan shouldn’t like it. He’s been down this path before. It didn’t end well.
Not for him, at least.
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s late.”
Jamie’s face is blank. No relief or disappointment. Only a long stare Jordan can’t shake.
Finally, he says, “Want to walk together?”
Jordan smiles. “Why not.”
Jordan’s parked in a paid lot like a normal, law-abiding citizen. He can’t say the same for Jamie.
Somehow, Jamie knows of a secret lot behind an abandoned auto shop. A place where no one puts a wheel clamp on your car. Or reports you because it’s an abandoned property, who the hell parks there in the first place?
Instead of walking to his own car, Jordan accompanies Jamie. It’s not that he thinks anything will happen to Jamie. But it’s downtown. At night. And, well, Jamie doesn’t look like he can throw a punch.
Not without hurting himself in the process.
Faded oil stains the uneven pavement. In one corner, shattered glass glitters under orangey streetlights. Used tires are piled in another. The air still smells of grease. In the distance, the noise of roaring cicadas and late-night traffic is softened, nearly muted.
Harmless.
Jamie’s Jeep is the only vehicle in the lot. Yellow hazard lights flash as he unlocks the Jeep with his key fob. He leans with his back against the driver’s-side door. Jordan stuffs his hands in his pocket. He rocks on his heels, looking around.
The few streetlamps cast everything in half shadows. Not enough to hide the definition in Jamie’s body. His shirt is still undone, his long torso exposed.
Jordan swallows. “Okay, well. See y—”
“Hey.” Jamie’s hand catches his elbow. “Today was good, right?”
It’s hard not to focus on Jamie’s thumb rubbing circles into the soft skin on the inside of Jordan’s elbow. The warmth spreads from that one point of contact to the rest of Jordan’s body.
“Which part?” Jordan says. “Crashing someone’s proposal? Your tragic dancing? The part where you publicly shamed me for eating a popsicle wrong?”
Jamie’s grin crinkles his nose. “All the above.”
Jordan shrugs. “It was okay.”
“Okay?”
“I’ve had better days.”
Jamie tilts his head. “With me?”
Yes, Jordan thinks to reply, but his mind drifts to places it shouldn’t go. “Today was good,” he says.
“Like old times?”
There’s something strange in Jamie’s voice. A want. A hope.
Jordan doesn’t think about it too long before he says, “Yeah, like old times, Jamie.”
They’re stuck like that. Quiet under a crescent moon and cooling night air. Smiling at each other.
“Hey,” Jamie says again.
His grip tightens around Jordan’s elbow. He pulls gently. Jordan goes like he’s caught in the tide.
When he’s inches away, Jamie says, “I’ve wanted to do something for a while.”
“What?”
There’s barely any space between their bodies. Jordan’s stomach is in knots. He’s been in this position before.
He told himself he’d never be in it again.
“I’m gonna kiss you,” Jamie says, voice scratchy, rough. “If that’s okay?”
Alarms go off in Jordan’s brain. Red flags everywhere. This went bad last time. Really, really bad. But when Jamie’s tongue—stained dark red from his popsicle—flicks over his lips, every color in his eyes shrinking away against his black pupils, Jordan shuts down his warnings.
Systems offline.
“Is this”—Jordan pauses, inhaling—“for practice again?”
Jamie smirks. “Do you still need it, young apprentice?”
“I might.”
“Hmm. I am a good teacher.”
Jordan snorts. “Overestimating your capabilities again.”
Jamie’s eyes grow darker. He eases Jordan that last inch. His other hand angles Jordan’s jaw up.
“Let’s see what you’ve learned.”
The pressure of Jamie’s mouth isn’t like ten years ago. It’s not tentative, guiding. This is hunger. A promise. Jamie’s kiss is comforting in a way Jordan can’t explain, so he chooses to concentrate on other things.