Chapter 13 Book the Hotel
? Book the Hotel
AMY WELCH
Good morning, Jordan! I hope your holiday was great! ??
Bad news: We can’t do the final menu tasting today.
Sam got called away by his dad again. He’s in LA
I don’t want to do this without him.
Jamie’s unavailable too. He’s sick!
I know we’re cutting it close, but can we reschedule?
For the third time this morning, Jordan stares at the thread of messages from Amy.
He hasn’t responded yet. He’s processing. Trying to reformulate his plan.
Luckily, the caterer can’t cancel altogether whenever Jordan calls to reschedule the tasting. The contract’s signed. The McClintocks have been on time with every vendor payment too. That doesn’t mean Jordan can’t be more than a tiny bit frustrated with them.
Is Sam going to make it to his own wedding? The honeymoon? What about after that?
Nope. That’s not Jordan’s concern. He just needs to get Sam and Amy down the aisle. On the cover of every bridal and media magazine. One painstaking step at a time.
His first priority is rescheduling with the caterer. Which he will, eventually.
It’s just that …
His eyes keep sliding back to Amy’s messages.
Jamie’s unavailable too. He’s sick!
Jordan’s stomach knots. The last time they spoke was the dress fitting. Jordan isn’t avoiding him. He’s busy, that’s all. Between the wedding and organizing Nic’s basketball tournament and Javi kissing him—
On cue, Jordan looks up. Javi passes his office, eyes forward. He stops, hesitating, before quickly disappearing in the opposite direction.
He’s been doing that all morning. Every day since that kiss.
Jordan hasn’t made any real attempt to talk to him either. He’s too preoccupied. Too consumed by his thoughts.
Why wasn’t kissing Javi like kissing Jamie?
He glances back to his phone. “Jamie’s sick,” he whispers, sadly, guiltily, to absolutely no one.
Jordan’s thumb hovers over his text thread with Jamie. He considers opening it. But he knows what’s in there: Jamie’s last text from December. When he invited Jordan to walk around Decatur Square. To watch the tree lighting.
It wasn’t a date. Not by definition. But, somehow, Jordan’s brain got other ideas, and here they are.
Jamie, sick in his apartment.
Jordan, slowly losing his mind at work.
The two of them, not speaking. Again.
It’s so stupid. What is there to think about? The wedding takes precedence. Besides, Jamie doesn’t need Jordan. Sloane’s probably looking after him. Maybe she’s made him tea. Tucked him into bed, crawled in with him, sliding under his sheets, and—
“Fuck,” Jordan hisses. He glares at his phone screen. How the hell did he end up on Sloane’s Instagram?
He’s a mess. An actual masochist. Because, one tap later, he’s watching her latest Instagram story. It’s time-stamped twenty minutes ago. Sloane, sunbathing on a beach with a caption that says, much needed qt with fam!
The geotag is Tybee Island.
Which means she’s not here. In Atlanta.
With Jamie.
He’s alone, sick. His best friend is in LA. His other closest friend is chasing her fiancé for wedding help and the woman Jamie’s not dating but also kind of is has traveled two hundred miles away to bronze her already sun-kissed skin while wearing a Versace one-piece.
Jordan pictures Jamie sprawled out on his bathroom floor. Red-nosed and pale. Coughing up a lung while Celine Dion’s “All by Myself” blares from a Bluetooth speaker.
It’s all very dramatic. Very Jamie.
Jordan locks his phone. No. He will not make this a thing.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Javi pause by his door again. He looks like he might come in this time. At the last second, Javi turns away, and fuck it, Jordan’s had enough.
He grabs his phone and keys. Rips open his office door. Jordan chases Javi before he can even think of what to say.
“Hi” is what comes out.
Javi jerks back, wide-eyed. “Oh, uh, hey?”
They stare awkwardly at each other. Jordan really should’ve thought this through.
But Javi clearly has. “About what happened…” He makes a face. Jordan’s unsure whether to be offended or ashamed. “I’m sorry. If you want to report me to Kami, I—”
“I’m not reporting anything.”
Javi nods. “But if you decide to, I understand. It shouldn’t have happened. I’ve never done anything like that before with a colleague.”
“I believe you.”
“You do?” Javi takes another step back. Like Jordan’s some kind of alien that can’t be trusted.
Jordan can’t help but laugh. “We’re good, Javi.”
“We’re … good?”
“Yes.”
Javi continues to watch him through narrowed eyes.
Jordan doesn’t have time for this. “Listen, you’re still the third-best event coordinator around here. You’re annoying as hell. Not very funny. You wear too much cologne. You have a villainous mustache and—”
“I have a what?”
Jordan goes on. “I’m better—will always be better—but I respect you enough to forget the other night if you will.”
A smirk slowly blooms across Javi’s mouth. “What other night?”
Finally, Jordan relaxes. “I need a favor. For the wedding.”
Javi raises an eyebrow in a tell me more fashion.
“I have to go … take care of something,” Jordan says, barely making eye contact as heat spreads throughout his face. “I need you to contact the caterer.”
“Me?”
Jordan unequivocally hates what he says next: “I need you to use your Javier Velasco charm to convince them to reschedule the menu tasting without ending all future relationships with the company.”
Javi smiles wickedly. “So, you agree I’m great at what I do?”
“Being a cocky shit who overestimates his abilities? Yes, I agree.”
“I’m leaving.” Javi starts to turn.
“Please,” Jordan says, sincere.
“Fine. I’ll work my magic.”
“Again, embellishing your skills,” Jordan says while walking toward the elevator. Javi’s full-bellied guffaw stays with him even after the doors close.
Jordan arrives at Jamie’s apartment with two canvas tote bags full of groceries and his clothes covered in a light layer of mist.
He’d just climbed out of his car when the rain started. Atlanta’s unpredictable weather strikes again. He’s not mad about it. Another rainstorm suits the mood he’s been in for the last few days.
Gray and irritable.
That last part might have to do with how he’s been standing in the apartment building’s lushly decorated top-floor hallway forever. Jamie hasn’t answered the door. As he knocks again, louder this time, at least two neighbors pop their heads out to scowl at him.
Jordan ignores them.
“Jamie Noah Peters, stop crying on the bathroom floor and—”
The door swings open.
Jordan’s unprepared for the sight of Jamie: erratic hair.
Glassy eyes, heavy shadows underneath. He’s pale and red-nosed, like Jordan imagined, but also unshaven and his posture’s saggy, as if one good wind could knock him over.
He scratches the fine dusting of hair on his belly.
That’s when Jordan notices he’s wearing nothing but two mismatched socks, a pair of threadbare plaid boxers, and the world’s ugliest robe.
Jordan has seen fancier items on a Target clearance rack.
“Why am I crying on the bathroom floor?” Jamie asks, voice scratchy.
“Never mind.”
Jordan eases past him to get inside. He stops cold, mouth open.
He’s visited the apartment a handful of times since Denz moved.
Not that he’s ever telling his cousin that.
And while everything in Jordan’s own apartment has a specific place—he swears he’s not type A, even though it might look that way—Jamie prefers to live like a teenaged boy with a no-limit credit card and eleven hundred square feet to play in.
It’s disorganized and dysfunctional. Yet it works.
But this? This is pure anarchy.
Clothing tossed haphazardly on the sparse living room furniture.
The coffee table layered in used Kleenex and wedding invitation samples and DVDs of what Jordan can only assume are Julia Roberts’s greatest rom-com hits.
Old takeout boxes in the kitchen. Discarded candy wrappers accumulating on the green sofa.
Jordan half expects a raccoon to pop out from around a corner with a half-eaten sandwich at any minute.
Paused on the wall-mounted flat screen is a man holding up a giant cue card that says, TO ME, YOU ARE PERFECT.
Horrified, Jordan spins around. “Tell me you’re not watching Love Actually.”
It’s worse than he thought.
Jamie sniffs. “What’re you doing here?”
“You’re sick.”
Jamie squints at him like he’s overstating the obvious. A fair point.
“I wanted to make sure you’re okay,” Jordan says. “And to help.”
“Help?”
Jordan lifts the canvas bags higher. “I brought supplies.”
He steps over empty water bottles en route to the kitchen.
The marble island is primarily clear. Jordan unpacks the bags there: vegetables, herbs and spices, boneless chicken, a packet of his favorite soup mix, a carton of orange juice, day and night cold medicine, cans of ginger ale, and vapor rub.
Since Amy didn’t specify what Jamie’s illness was, Jordan decided to play it safe.
From the sofa, Jamie says, “You’re cooking?”
His body’s twisted sideways, legs tucked under him as he watches Jordan rummage through the cabinets. Remarkably, he finds a pot big enough for what he’s planned. It’s brand-new, like Denz or Jamie forgot about it or bought it by mistake.
“I am,” Jordan verifies.
“You … cook?”
Jordan laughs lowly, unearthing a cutting board. “I do.”
“I didn’t know that.”
At this, Jordan pauses. It’s not something he does often. Certainly not with any witnesses. Anytime he and Jamie have hung out here, they’ve ordered delivery.
A realization hits him: Jordan’s never cooked for anyone outside of Cheryl and Tevin.
This is another first. With Jamie.
He decides not to think about that.
“I had to learn,” he admits, chopping the garlic. “My mom was always working late. Tevin too. We ate a lot of takeout. Sometimes, Auntie Leena gave me a bunch of prepared meals after Sunday dinners.”
Jamie smiles softly, knowing exactly how thoughtful Denz’s mom is.