Chapter 12 Register the Gifts
? Register the Gifts
“It’s so very un-fucking-believably serious,” Jordan grumbles at the red velvet doughnut perched on his desk. “She had lunch with his parents.”
Shockingly, the doughnut doesn’t say anything back.
Jordan tosses his head in his hands, groaning.
His traitorous brain does the same thing it’s done for the last three days: rewinds to Piedmont Park. To them walking under American beech trees. Jordan asking about Sloane. Jamie swearing they’d only hung out a couple of times. It’s not a relationship.
Fast-forward to Jamie smiling at him while they danced to Bruno Mars. King of Pops and watching dogs play. Their moonlit bodies pressed together as Jamie kissed him.
Sloane tucked against Jamie in the bridal shop …
“It’s not nothing,” he tells the doughnut.
The problem—besides that he’s talking to an inanimate object—is that he has absolutely no idea what it is.
He thinks about how sincere Jamie’s been. So attentive during their talks. The small touches and vulnerable smiles and how comfortable he’s made Jordan. That’s real. But so are Jamie’s deflections whenever the topic turns to parts of himself that he’s never shared with Jordan.
Three versions of Jamie live rent-free in Jordan’s head:
The carefree Jamie from their teens, who was kind and an awful influence.
The spontaneous Jamie from the park, who was bold and gentle.
The guarded Jamie he sees with Sloane. Closed-off. Strange.
Then, Jordan remembers the Jamie he knows. Who loves love. Who’s dedicated and monogamous in his relationships, no matter how short they are. Who wouldn’t disrespect a partner like that. Who wouldn’t intentionally hurt Jordan either.
If he was serious about Sloane—if they were in a relationship—Jamie wouldn’t have kissed Jordan.
It’s all so confusing. Like his life. Like how he feels about Jamie in the first place.
“What should I do?” Jordan says to the doughnut.
He supposes he should ask Jamie that.
No, Jamie needs to come to him. Explain himself. Until then, Jordan gets back to work.
After he devours his unresponsive doughnut, of course.
Jordan’s shoved half of it in his mouth when his phone vibrates. He considers not answering. It’s probably an email. Maybe a text from his mom about another blind date. It could be Jamie, which makes Jordan’s heart speed up like he’s just mainlined a case of Red Bull.
It’s none of the above.
Instead, it’s a FaceTime call. Jordan props his phone against the jade plant on his desk. He answers.
Nic’s face appears. She stares at him, an eyebrow arched high. “What’s that white stuff around your mouth?”
Jordan chokes. “Excuse me?”
She circles her index finger around her own mouth.
Finally, Jordan looks to his video square at the bottom corner. Remnants of cream cheese frosting are smudged around his lips. He quickly wipes it away.
“It’s frosting!”
“Oh…” Nic hiccups a laugh. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”
Jordan narrows his eyes with indignation. “It’s not—what do you know about that, anyway? You’re, like, barely out of high school.”
Nic’s eyebrows wiggle in a way they shouldn’t.
“Never mind,” Jordan huffs, flustered. “Why are you FaceTiming me?”
“Because you are supposed to be down here.”
“Down where?”
“Skye’s the Limit! I’m showing you around today? So we can finalize logistics for the basketball tournament.”
The other half of the doughnut falls from Jordan’s hand. “I, uh—”
Nic glares at him. “Don’t you dare say you forgot.”
“I didn’t!”
She’s not convinced. “Jordan, you sent me a calendar reminder. You even sent one to my mom. I skipped breakfast for this.”
“It’s 10:30 AM,” he points out.
“Don’t change the subject,” she says, clearly deflecting. “You forgot!”
Fuck, he did.
Jordan was so busy talking to a doughnut about Jamie, he didn’t bother to do his usual morning routine. Like checking his calendar. Verifying his appointments. He’s an asshole. Worst of all, he’s an asshole who failed Nic, the one member of his family who gets him in a way no one else does.
“I’m on my way, I promise,” he says, pushing his chair back.
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ll make it up to you. I’ll buy you lunch.”
“And breakfast,” Nic tells him with a heavy side-eye.
“Breakfast too,” he agrees, lifting his phone.
Jordan studies the mess the doughnut left on his desk. He wonders if he can persuade an intern to clean it up before he gets ants.
“Less talking, more walking,” Nic demands.
Fuck it. An army of ants is still less scary than a pissed-off Nicola Carter.
“Leaving now!”
Or Jordan would. If he could. There’s currently a Javi-shaped demon waiting on the other side of his office door.
Nic hangs up. Jordan sighs before opening the door.
Javi smirks. “Going out?”
“Yes,” Jordan says through his teeth.
“Great. I’m coming.”
Jordan balks at him. “No, you’re not. It’s not wedding-related. Stay here and—”
“I know it’s not for Amy and Sam,” Javi interrupts, waving him off. “You’re meeting with your cousin Nic.” He flashes his phone screen. “It’s on the calendar you shared with me, remember?”
God, Jordan knew he’d regret that decision.
He was being nice. Javi has been genuinely helpful with the wedding. Still as annoying as a wedgie you can’t yank out because you’re standing in line at a crowded coffee shop, but helpful.
Unfortunately, Jordan forgot to hide his personal appointments from Javi’s view. Things like meeting with Nic.
Javi’s demonic grin grows. “I heard you talking to her.”
Jordan scowls. When he gets promoted to events manager, the first thing he’s going to ask Kami for is a soundproof office. She’ll undoubtedly say no, but what’s the point of moving up if you’re not going to make a few outlandish demands?
“You’re not going,” he snaps.
Javi shrugs. “Okay, cool. I’ll just see if our boss has anything for me to work on. After I tell her you left the office for something other than the wed—”
“You’d narc on me?”
“Whoa.” Javi holds up his hands. “I’m no snitch.”
Funny, Jordan doesn’t believe him. Something about his villain mustache. The sly way his tongue flicks over his lips.
It’s official. Jordan will always hate him.
Still, he exhales, “Fine, whatever. I’m driving.”
Javi rubs his hand together, excited. “You mean I get to ride shotgun in that beautiful Audi of yours?”
“No,” Jordan grunts, pushing past him. “You get to ride in the trunk.”
Despite all the incredible things he’s heard about Skye’s the Limit from Denz and Braylon, Nic too, Jordan’s never actually visited.
It’s located in a quieter part of downtown. An astonishing piece of architecture. Two stories of floor-to-ceiling windows. White stucco walls emblazoned with SKYE’S THE LIMIT in black letters.
Nic meets them at the doors.
“And this is—?”
Right. Jordan forgot he hasn’t mentioned Javi to anyone but Denz. Or that he was being blackmailed into bringing him to the nonprofit. He goes through formal introductions.
Javi’s all fake charm and suave voice and a kiss to the back of Nic’s offered hand. She squints at him like he either smells bad or is untrustworthy.
Another reason Jordan loves her.
Nic escorts them inside. Pastel furniture fills the lobby. Just beyond that are rows of cubicles. A painted rainbow river winds over the concrete floor. Multicolored flags hang high on the walls.
This time, Jordan recognizes each flag. From pan to aromantic, they’re all there.
Nic introduces them to Whit, a development manager, who eyes Jordan suspiciously after learning he’s related to Denz. She goes on for no less than ten minutes about how much she loves and misses Braylon.
Whit is equal parts funny and terrifying. Jordan’s favorite kind of person.
She walks them to the back of the center, explaining the importance of “never touching the espresso machine without proper supervision.”
“That was one time!” Nic gripes.
“You only get one,” Whit says, half smiling, half serious.
A chorus of laughter spills down a nearby stairwell.
Whit points up. “Book club.”
“They’re reading Cemetery Boys,” Nic says.
“Great choice,” Javi comments. He looks relaxed here. Hands in his pockets, loose shoulders. Jordan pretends it doesn’t bother him. How one more person fits so comfortably into a space while he just … doesn’t.
He follows Nic through the back doors.
“And here’s the court!” she announces, arms out wide like they just won a new house.
Jordan cocks an eyebrow.
It’s a half court, to be more precise. Fenced in with a state-of-the-art hoop. There are also two sets of bleachers. A blue-and-pink multi-sport court with sharp white lines. It’s not much, but he can work with it.
He wanders around. They’ll need to reconfigure the spacing. Ask for permission to shift some things he had planned to the inside—can they still have a DJ?—but he’s made miracles out of less before.
“Are we still good?” asks Nic after he’s mentally mapped everything out.
“We’re still good,” he affirms.
“So…” Javi tilts his head, searching Jordan’s face. “You’re planning a basketball tournament?”
Jordan swallows a sigh. During their entire eighteen-minute drive to Skye’s the Limit, he refused to answer any of Javi’s questions. Ignoring him wasn’t easy but cranking Kendrick Lamar helped. Now they’re here. Pretending Javi doesn’t exist is no longer a choice.
“Yes,” he says.
“Because…” Javi leaves space for Jordan to fill in.
“Because this”—Jordan gestures to the bright white building that stands out like a beacon against the blue sky—“is more than just a center for the teens who come here.” He tries to remember all the things Nic told him over brunch.
“It’s their safe space. Summers aren’t easy for them. They deserve to have some fun.”
Nic nods like a proud mom instead of a cousin seven years younger than him.
“Is it a celebrity tournament?” Javi asks.
“No.” Though Jordan had considered making a few calls.
“And you’re not bringing in the press?”
“Absolutely not.”
“So none of this is for the company?”
Jordan tries to figure out where Javi’s going with this.
“You’re doing it … pro bono?”