Last June
I think you deserve more than what you’ve settled for.
“Mission: Impossible—Fallout!”
“No, you fool, it’s—”
“I’m sorry,” the ginger-haired host with sparkly cat-eye glasses says at the front of the small stage. “The correct answer is—”
“Top Gun: Maverick,” Jamie says, grinning as he pours a violently blue cocktail into a Collins glass.
“—Top Gun: Maverick,” the host echoes into her microphone.
Jordan’s mouth quirks. “How’d you know that?”
“Easy.” Jamie hands him the glass. “It’s a rom-com.”
Jordan takes a sip. The urge to gag is instant. He holds it in, his eyes wet as he says, “Top Gun: Maverick is not a rom-com.”
“Of course it is!”
Jamie spears a pineapple slice and a maraschino cherry. He dunks them in Jordan’s drink. As if that’ll help.
“Miles Teller’s and Glen Powell’s characters clearly wanted to fuck in that movie,” Jamie adds. “Their chemistry was undeniable.”
Jordan rolls his eyes, smirking. Not a mean one. More curious. Amazed.
Nothing and everything Jamie Peters says makes sense.
He leans on the bar. The stickiness doesn’t seem to bother him, Jordan’s noticed. He also may or may not be observing the winding veins in Jamie’s flexed forearms. The wisps of dark hairs against his summer-tanned skin.
That’s happened more frequently. These little details on Jamie that Jordan can’t look away from. Like he’s trying to memorize every feature each time they meet up.
Like their hangouts might stop at some point. It hasn’t happened yet.
Not even now that Denz knows. Well, Denz thinks he knows. He thinks there’s something more between his best friend and his cousin than them casually spending time with each other. Alone. Quite often.
But there isn’t.
Jordan just enjoys being around Jamie. And Jamie keeps texting or calling, asking Jordan to show up places.
Like tonight.
Jordan waves a hand around. “Is this what you invited me here for? Pop Culture Trivia Night?”
Diamonds & Spades Tavern is plopped on the corner of a newly refurbished neighborhood downtown. Approximately five blocks from another bar Jamie works at.
It has a vintage vibe. All wood and brick and fire engine red–leather booths, giant flat screens.
Vines of fairy lights hang from the ceiling, bathing the interior in gold.
The circular high-top tables are shoved around the stage, crowded with several loud and tipsy teams competing for tonight’s grand prize: a $300 gift card to a local bookstore.
Jordan’s tempted to enter just for that.
“No,” Jamie says, “I didn’t invite you here to play trivia.” His mouth curves up. “But we’d so win.”
“Would we?” Jordan asks skeptically.
There are at least two teams of four who look like their actual career might be studying all things pop culture. Scouring BuzzFeed. Tracking trends and memes and knowing every detail of Taylor Swift’s cats’ dietary restrictions.
“Obviously,” Jamie says. “You know sports. Entertainment shit because of your job.”
Jordan sighs. “My job is way more complex than ‘entertainment shit.’” Most of it, anyway.
Jamie keeps going: “I know rom-coms. Tropes. Cars—”
“You know nothing about cars,” Jordan protests.
The bar’s lighting throws amber into the pool of ivy and rich earth in Jamie’s eyes. “I’ll have you know,” he starts, “I’ve seen every Fast and Furious movie.”
“Why, do you hate yourself?”
Laughter springs out of Jamie. A raucous noise that causes more than one head to crane around and glare.
Blush reddens Jamie’s cheeks. He flicks the back of Jordan’s hand. After, he lets it stay there. On the bar. His fingers millimeters from Jordan’s knuckles.
“That franchise is full of cool cars and hot people,” Jamie tells him. “Michelle Rodriguez? Hot. Jordana Brewster? Hot. Tyrese Gibson? Hot. Paul Walker, rest his soul? Hot. Charlize Theron? So hot. Ludacris—”
“Let me guess,” Jordan interrupts. “Hot?”
“Extremely hot!”
Jamie smacks his palm on the sticky bar’s surface for emphasis. Luckily, the trivia teams are too wound up over the “Is it Madonna or Lady Gaga?” category to care.
At the other end of the bar, two men in flannel shirts signal for fresh beers.
Jamie obliges, then quickly returns. “Point is,” he says, leaning in Jordan’s direction, “I know cars.”
“You didn’t mention a single car, Jamie.”
Jamie pffts. The angle of his body pulls his black T-shirt’s sleeves high up on his biceps. It’s a sight that would look intentional on anyone else. A look Jordan wouldn’t care about. But on Jamie, it’s …
Interesting.
“A 1970 Dodge Charger R/T,” Jamie says.
Jordan blinks. “What?”
“A car from the movie,” Jamie tells him. “The most iconic one.”
It’s as if he’s gotten closer. Or the alcohol has made Jordan’s depth perception abysmal. Either way, Jamie’s smile tips higher. There’s a light, warm brush against Jordan’s knuckles. Jamie’s fingers.
He says, huskily, “Have I mentioned Vin Diesel is hot? Because—”
“‘Like A Virgin’!” someone shouts.
“Correct!” the trivia host cheers.
Jordan’s body heats up. There are way too many people in this bar. He drags his hand away to have another sip. The sting at the back of his throat is unbearable. “Jamie, what is this?”
“A sapphire martini!”
Jordan stares at the glass, betrayed. “This is not a sapphire martini.”
Jamie’s brow creases. “Are you sure?”
“You put, like, five different liquors in here!”
“Let me check.” Jamie tugs his phone from his dark jeans.
Jordan inclines—careful to avoid touching the bar—to watch the screen. It’s tab after tab of cocktail recipes. Yes, this is the height of Jamie’s bartending knowledge. Google-able, step-by-step directions on how to make a screwdriver. He shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near alcohol.
“Aha! This says it’s a—oh.”
“An electric iced tea?” Jordan groans.
Jamie scratches his scruffy jaw. “Well, shit. I forgot to add the lemon-lime soda too.”
“You think?”
Jordan raises the glass to the light. Peacock-blue liquor sloshes out of the side. It almost lands on the sleeve of his pale yellow button-down.
“I can make you another,” Jamie offers.
“No, thanks.” The second Jordan hops off this stool, he’s going to fall over. He’ll probably be drunk for the next week.
Jamie smiles guiltily. It’s adorable on him. No wonder he makes so many tips.
He inspects Jordan’s glass. “Wow. I’ve never made one of these before.”
“I’m shocked,” Jordan deadpans.
“Whatever it is,” a voice says from his left, “I’ll take five of them.”
Jordan looks over. A thirtysomething white woman in a body-hugging navy cocktail dress with a deep V-neck and long, caramel blond hair props herself against the bar. The pink sash across her chest reads TEAM brIDE in glittering gold sequins.
Jamie flexes a friendly smile. His bartender smile.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
The woman fixes him with a confident stare. “Agreeing to a bar crawl for my cousin’s bachelorette night? Bad idea. Wearing heels for said bar crawl? Bad idea. Participating in a trivia night with four tipsy women who only know babies, husbands, and the Real Housewives? Unforgivably bad idea.”
She points a well-manicured finger at Jordan’s glass.
“Getting drunk to forget every terrible decision I’ve made so far?” She beams for Jamie. “Best idea I ever had.”
Jordan snorts.
Jamie tips his head back, laughing. “Whatever the lady wants!”
He starts gathering bottles. The woman settles onto the stool next to Jordan. “Meg,” she announces. “Figure we should be on a first-name basis since you’re saving my life.”
“Jamie,” he offers. “And that’s Jordan.”
Jordan nods at her sash. “Maid of honor?”
“Fuck no.” Meg cackles. “Just a bridesmaid. My cousin is way too controlling. She’s gone through three wedding planners now.”
“Wow.” Jordan’s heard horror stories like this from his uncle Kenny. He didn’t want to believe them but, well, here he is.
“She even organized her own bar crawl,” Meg says with a sigh. “Which is how we ended up here.”
“Hey,” Jamie objects as he pours into five glasses. He doesn’t even bother measuring. Just eyeballs. “This is a fine establishment.”
“When Kim Kardashian broke the internet!” a man drunk-yells from one of the high-top tables.
Meg cocks an eyebrow. “You were saying?”
“Next time,” Jamie says, “you should hire Jordan. He’s an event planner.”
“Coordinator,” Jordan whispers.
Jamie must hear him because he makes a face. He reaches over and drops his hand on top of Jordan’s. “He was just promoted.”
Pride washes over Jamie’s face as he says it.
It stirs warmly in Jordan too. When it happened, he told Jamie first. Not his mom—partly because, as the family and office gossip, she already knows everything. But he didn’t run to Tevin or Denz either. He told no one else.
Just Jamie.
It was this instinctive act. Jordan didn’t even have to think about it. The second he left Kami’s office with the news, Jordan’s hand immediately scrolled to Jamie’s name in his contacts.
But now, Jordan does think about it. With Jamie’s soft, slightly damp palm resting on his knuckles. That lit-up grin pointed at him.
Why was Jamie first?
“He’s smart and has great taste,” Jamie adds. His thumb strokes Jordan’s wrist.
Blush runs lava-like through Jordan’s cheeks. When has he ever felt embarrassed by a compliment?
“I’ll remember that,” Meg notes.
Jordan flinches. For a moment, he forgot she was there. He eases his hand out from under Jamie’s to fix the cuffs of his shirt.
“It’s called 24 Carter Gold,” he says nonchalantly. “If you’re ever interested.”
Meg nods like she’s not.
Her sharp green eyes are focused on Jamie as he adds blue curacao to each drink. Jordan’s seen that look on people before. As if they’re really seeing Jamie for the first time.
That tousled brown hair. The wrinkled brow as he concentrates on not spilling. Bar lights amplifying his tan complexion. Unkempt, dark facial hair framing that pink mouth. Worn-soft work T-shirt with the collar stretched enough to see faint chest hair.
The Jamie that Jordan gets to see all the time. Even when he’s not trying.
Like now.
Jamie catches him, eyebrows raised.
Jordan clears his throat. Fucking fake sapphire martini. He shifts back to Meg.
“Where’s your next stop?”
She pulls an honest-to-God printed itinerary from her clutch. It’s on expensive cardstock. With gold filigree. Her cousin must be a terror on birthdays.
“Hmm. Lucky Mickey’s Tavern?”
Jamie almost knocks over the row of drinks.
Jordan sips from his glass to keep from laughing. Instant regret. Jesus, why does he hate himself?
“That place is … uh, great,” Jamie stammers.
“Is it?” Meg asks, clearly appreciating Jamie’s biceps as he loads a tray up with their electric iced teas.
“Oh, yeah,” Jordan says teasingly. “Highly recommended. The bartenders are—”
“Hot?” Jamie suggests, sensing where Jordan was going.
“More like”—Jordan pretends to think, spinning his own glass on the bar—“a work in progress.”
Jamie tosses a lime wedge at him. Jordan catches it one-handed. He watches Jamie’s white teeth pin down a corner of his grin. It makes his lower lip plumper. Redder.
Another weird belly flip. A flop, to be accurate.
“You should come,” Meg says over the cheers from a rowdy group of trivia contestants. She looks directly at Jamie.
He rubs the back of his neck. “Me?”
Meg nods eagerly.
“And Jordan?” Jamie inquires.
Her eyes cheat in Jordan’s direction. It’s not the most favorable glance. But Meg manages to paste on a smile. “Sure. Both of you.”
Jamie crosses his arms over his chest. He really has no clue how tight that shirt is. Jordan rolls his eyes.
“Nah,” Jamie says after a second. “I’m here pretty late. I’ll slow you down.”
“We can wait,” Meg offers. “Or I can wait.”
Jordan senses where this is headed.
It’s been months since Jamie was on a date. At least, Jordan thinks it’s been that long. He doesn’t ask. Denz mentioned a breakup earlier this year. It’s a topic Jamie never brings up.
Regardless, far be it from Jordan to cockblock him. If Jamie’s into Meg, good for him. It doesn’t explain the strange tightness corkscrewing in Jordan’s chest, but that’s probably the blue death he continues to sip on.
He begins to stand.
Jamie smiles widely. “That’s okay. I have plans after work anyway. With Jordan.”
Jordan loses his balance and the back of his hand hits his glass. Blue liquid splashes onto his sleeve.
Thing is, he doesn’t care. That much. Because Jamie’s staring right at him.
“Remember? We’re getting pie?”
Jordan swallows. “We are?”
Jamie nods. “Celebration pie.” He plucks a few cocktail napkins from a tray on the bar before reaching over. He gently dabs at the stain on Jordan’s shirt. “We haven’t celebrated that big promotion yet.”
They haven’t. Not that they had planned to. His mom and Tevin made a big enough deal about it. So did Denz. Still, Jordan can’t help his smile.
“Okay.”
Jamie rubs at his sleeve for a second longer. It’s not helping. But Jordan swears he can feel it through the fabric. Through the napkins. Jamie’s delicate, attentive touch.
“Well,” Meg says loudly. She drops two twenties on the bar. Snatches the tray when Jamie lifts it. “At least these drinks will keep me company on this stupid bar crawl.”
She spins and storms away.
Jamie winces sadly. “I forgot to add the lemon-lime soda again.”
Jordan nearly tips off his chair laughing.
He lets Jamie get back to work while regrettably finishing his own poorly made drink. The heat in his chest is nice. A perfect counter to whatever’s happening in his stomach.
The alcohol makes him less cagey. Less weird.
When Jamie stops in front of him again to wipe down the counter, Jordan freely asks, “Is that why you invited me tonight?”
“Hmm?”
“To celebrate,” Jordan clarifies.
Jamie cocks his head. He leans on the bar. His crooked grin scrunches his eyes.
“Jordan, I never need a reason,” he says so easily, so natural. “I always want you around.”