Chapter 16 Approve the Seating Chart
? Approve the Seating Chart
July whips by in a flurry of endless to-do lists and ten-hour workdays and feverish summer heat.
From Monday to Friday—and sometimes Saturday and Sunday—Jordan’s in “go” mode. When he’s not with Nic, he’s with Amy and Sam. Jamie’s around too, not that they’re ever alone for long.
Not that Jordan trusts himself to be alone with Jamie without something—or someone—going down.
But they share little stares. Brief smiles. On one occasion, Jamie’s hand strategically finds the small of Jordan’s back. His fingertips skim the outline of Jordan’s ass. A shiver and a memory and a recurring need to find out what Jamie might do if Jordan was face down on his bed again.
He never finds out.
Jordan’s too busy making sure everything’s perfect. His goals won’t be deferred for Jamie’s tongue or anything else.
Before he realizes it, the last weekend of the month arrives. The wedding’s thirty days away. But first … the postponed engagement dinner.
On the McClintocks’ insistence, it’s hosted at one of their summer properties. A gated mega mansion deep in the hilly lushness of Sandy Springs. The house is Mediterranean inspired with modern elements. Eight bedrooms, a chef’s kitchen. The backyard alone is the size of a village.
Jordan sets the party in the stunning garden. A preview of what guests can expect at the actual wedding. Inside the massive white tent, he organizes the vendor employees. Javi’s in charge of catering and the waitstaff. They meet every half hour to discuss any needed adjustments.
It’s all gone seamlessly so far. Jordan hasn’t decided if that’s a good or bad omen.
There’s no time to decide. Guests appear just before sunset. Lydia, in a floral jacquard dress, leads a small crowd into the tent. She beams Jordan’s way.
“Everything looks so lovely!”
He nods dutifully.
Underlying it all, a sweet violin rendition of “At Last” plays.
“Nice touch with the live band,” Lydia says on her way to entertain new arrivals. “Tom, isn’t it wonderful?”
Tom hums his approval. He’s distracted by a whiskey neat that he downs in one swallow. After, he’s pulled from conversation to conversation with a group of silver-haired Hollywood types.
Most of the attendees are friends of Tom and Lydia. Some are lower-level celebs, an occasional pop star turned actor. The country club variety with their all-white ensembles to match their too-bright teeth.
Lydia refused to invite the press. “I want it casual,” she asserted. “Let’s focus on the happy couple!”
Still, Jordan can’t help but wonder if Amy knows a single person here.
He takes in the space.
Javi has a flock of servers laughing, already so in love, they’d fall on a sword for him. Watching it happen doesn’t irritate Jordan like it used to. He sees the value in the Javier Velasco charm. No doubt it can be wielded in evil ways. But if it keeps this event on task, Jordan will take it.
Sam is trading champagne flutes for hugs and handshakes. Like a good son, he greets everyone as they walk in. Jordan hasn’t seen Amy since the hair and makeup people swept her away to a private bedroom.
He adds a note to his list to check on her. Soon.
Right after he stops staring at the latest entry to the tent. It’s a struggle to keep his jaw from dropping.
Jamie Peters in casual wear with rumpled hair? Top five favorite sights.
Jamie Peters naked and smiling? An untouchable first place.
But Jamie Noah Peters in an all-black designer suit, the first two shirt buttons undone, throat and collarbone exposed, early sunset painting his skin gold?
Life ruining. Soul destroying. Slowly creeping into top two territory.
He grins Jordan’s way.
Jordan wants to cross the large gap between them and kiss him. Pretend no one else is here. But they are.
So Jordan holds up his iPad as if to say, I’m working hard and you looking this fucking hot is very distracting.
Jamie clearly doesn’t receive the message. He shifts through the crowd in Jordan’s direction.
And he’s not alone.
It’s been years since Jordan’s seen Jeff and Liz Peters.
She has Jamie’s brown eyes, same wavy hair, hers spun up into an elaborate bun.
Her smile’s pleasant and approachable, even though she barely acknowledges anyone.
Jamie gets his height and facial structure from Jeff.
He forces them to pause so he can chat with Tom and Lydia and other familiar faces.
This is Jordan’s chance. He needs to get back to the eighteen unfinished items on his list. Run away. But while his parents mingle, Jamie holds Jordan’s gaze. It’s the one thing that keeps him rooted to the same spot until Jamie’s right in front of him.
“Hi,” Jamie says.
“Hey,” Jordan says.
Jamie leans in to whisper, “Fuck, you look good.”
Pride beats hot in Jordan’s chest. He’s wearing tailored, pale blue trousers and a white cotton formal shirt, a silk tie, all from Burberry. Courtesy of Auntie Eva, of course.
His eyes trail over Jamie one more time. “You do too.”
The left side of Jamie’s mouth kicks up. Then he steps sideways. “Mom, Dad—you remember Jordan?”
“Vaguely,” Jeff says, hand extended for a shake.
Jordan accepts with a tight grin. “Mr. Peters.”
“Denzel’s cousin, correct?” Liz says. “Kenneth’s nephew?”
“That’s me.”
“Thank God he finally retired,” she says airily. “It’s a shame he had to work for that long.”
Jordan’s brow wrinkles. “Well, he loved his job. Plus, he was only fifty-eight.”
“Creating a reputable name takes time when you’re unestablished,” Liz carries on. “But Kenneth’s a great man.”
“Solid,” Jeff agrees, swiping two champagne flutes from a passing tray. He hands one to his wife.
“To his good health and your family’s continued success,” Liz says.
Jordan can’t tell if that was a toast or an obituary.
She half turns to Jamie, pouting. “Oh, darling. This hair. It’s too long.”
Jordan eyes Jamie. His usually tousled waves have been deftly styled into a neat coif. A single lock curls across his forehead.
Liz reaches up to tuck it back. Jordan wants to swat her hand away. He grips his iPad so hard his knuckles crack.
“It’s not very Peters-like,” Jeff comments. His own graying comb-over is like a single scoop of vanilla ice cream—perfectly acceptable, perfectly boring.
Jamie’s jaw twitches, but he stays quiet.
“I can call Laurent,” Liz offers. “He’s fabulous. And gay. Maybe you know him?”
“Because he’s gay?”
Liz shrugs at Jamie, taking a sip. “I can’t imagine the community’s that big here.”
Jamie’s hands curl into fists at his side. His cheeks darken too. He avoids eye contact with everyone, including Jordan.
“We donated to that Travis Project,” Jeff tells Jordan, as if it’s an anecdote he drops at every one of these things. Like he walks around wearing a commemorative pin on his sharp navy suit to show off. Right next to his I VOTED FOR OBAMA AND YOUR RIGHTS MATTER … ONLY WHEN THEY DON’T AFFECT ME pin.
“Trevor Project,” Jordan corrects gently. He slaps on the plastic grin he learned as the child of a Carter. “It’s a great foundation.”
Jeff grunts a mild agreement.
“You know,” Jordan starts, “there’s some local nonprofits—”
“Is this the Armani?” Liz interrupts, still facing Jamie. She fiddles with his lapels before starting on the undone buttons. Jordan might scream. “I was hoping you’d wear the Dolce. It looks much better on you.”
“More professional,” Jeff agrees, before he takes a drink.
Liz’s gaze floats around. Discreetly, she says, “You don’t want anyone here thinking you’re … less than, do you?”
Jordan’s eyes narrow.
Less than what? The polite servers who are aptly attending to every guest as if they are royalty? The bartenders shaking up all the dull cocktails shouted at them?
Jordan, the event planner?
“Impressions are lasting,” Jeff tacks on.
Jamie nods, staring past his dad’s shoulder, clearly disassociating.
“You still look nice, son,” Liz swears, patting his jaw. It’s bare again. Clean-shaven. Jordan already misses the scratchy bristles under his fingertips and against his skin. “Just, next time, let Sloane pick out your wardrobe.”
At that, Jamie’s eyes slide back to Jordan.
Credit to himself, Jordan doesn’t react. Outwardly. On the inside, he’s chucked his iPad at the gorgeous macaron tower Sam’s posted up next to.
“Mom…” Jamie begins.
Liz ignores him. “You two are perfect for each other. I don’t know how you didn’t see it sooner.”
“Mom.”
“Fantastic girl,” Jeff agrees, before finishing his drink. “Smart. Pretty. Comes from a respected family.”
He sounds like a list of attributes found on a dating app for bland, rich white men. Blandr. List your net worth and your golf handicap for local trophy wives in your area.
Shoulders stiff, Jamie maintains eye contact with Jordan.
Jordan inhales. This isn’t his fight. In fact, he shouldn’t even be standing here. He’s just the wedding planner.
Jamie has everything under control.
“I’m so happy we set you two up,” Liz says, raising her glass as if giving another toast.
“She’ll make you a better person,” Jeff declares.
Okay, never mind. This has officially become Jordan’s business.
“I’m sorry,” he says, even though he’s not, “do you really believe Jamie’s incapable of finding the right partner for himself?”
Liz’s face pinches. “He hasn’t so far.”
“Maybe love takes time?”
Jesus, fuck, did he really just quote a Mariah Carey song as part of his argument?
“Please.” Jeff grabs another glass. “Liz and I were dating by eighteen.”
“We were barely out of college when we got married,” Liz tuts. “We were each other’s first loves.”
“That’s nice, but Jamie’s not you,” Jordan tries to reason.
“He’s a Peters,” Jeff says with a finality.
Problem is, Jordan doesn’t quit that easily. He crosses his arms. “And what if he met someone else? Fell in love? What if they didn’t come from”—he gestures around the tent—“this? Would that be a problem?”
Liz puts a hand to her chest, like she’s offended by his questions. “Of course not!”