Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
MATT
Jordan
I don’t think I can do this.
I stare at the screen for a long second, my chest tightening.
Fuck.
This is what she does when she gets overwhelmed. She doesn’t argue. She doesn’t panic out loud. She disappears. She builds a fucking fortress and locks herself inside.
It’s pointless to text her back.
I pick up the phone and call her, because if there’s anyone she might talk to, it will be me.
If I’m lucky.
It rings once before I’m sent to voicemail.
“Goddammit, Jordan.”
I clench my jaw and type.
What happened and where are you?
It stays on delivered.
“Motherfucker,” I mutter.
I stand and start walking, pacing aimlessly around my office.
It’s Thursday night, and my day has been hell. Just one meeting after another. All day long. I’m over it, and it’s not even done. I still have so much work to do.
I’m supposed to meet Jordan tomorrow at lunchtime to get this thing done. Get married.
I grip the back of my hair, pulling, then grab my phone.
Jordan. Don’t do this. Please. We already told everyone we’re married.
I’m fucked if you bail on me now.
Yeah. I’m a total dick. But I don’t have the time for fucking manners. I’m too invested in this for her to shut it down now.
Christ. I’m stressed to the max.
My heart races as I pull up the FindMy app. I snuck into Jordan’s phone a few weeks ago at lunch and shared her location with me.
We used to share everything. Passwords. Locations. Life.
She still knows my password.
I know hers too.
I don’t care what she’ll say about it. It’s a safety thing. She thinks I’m possessive. I know I’m protective. I follow everyone in Jensen’s family, including Alley. They all follow me. It’s just what we do.
She’s at her apartment in SoHo. I’ve never been to her new place. She’s only lived there since she left Richard. Of course she’s never invited me over. We have boundaries now.
I’m the last one at the office tonight, so I lock up and ride the elevator down, face buried in my phone the whole time. I hail a cab and pull up the address on her location.
Ten minutes later, I’m standing outside a building I hope is hers. I have no clue which floor she’s on or what door is hers. And worse than that, I need someone to buzz me in.
“Shit,” I say, trying the doors again. I huff out a breath and sit on the stairs, letting my head fall to my hands. I guess I wait for Jordan to text me back or for someone to open the door.
I open Instagram and pull up Jordan’s profile, seeing if she’s posted anything on her story today. Anything to give me a clue about why she’s suddenly panicking. She’s the one who jumped the gun with the whole being married thing at the funeral. She seemed confident. Controlled.
It freaked me out for a minute, but it was really cool of her. A total turn-on.
A familiar voice cuts through my thoughts. “What are you doing?”
Jordan.
I look up to find her standing in front of me, arms full with a bag of groceries.
“Waiting for you. You sent me that text and then you just fucking ghosted me.”
She purses her lips. “I didn’t ghost you. I went to grab a few things and left my phone. I needed to clear my head, and it’s a nice night, so… I took my time.” She scowls. “Wait—how do you know where I live? I’ve never given you my address.”
My mouth curves on one side. “FindMy App.”
“But I never—” She stops mid-sentence, shakes her head, and takes two steps up to me. She puts her bag in my arms. “Here.” She climbs the rest of the stairs and enters her code.
I stand and turn, staring, dumbfounded at how impassive she’s being. Like she didn’t just cry wolf and send me spiraling.
“You coming?” she calls over her shoulder.
“Yep,” I call back, then mutter, “Fucking Christ.”
I step in beside her at the elevator.
“Um, my apartment…” She glances at me. “It’s not really ready for company. I would have picked up if I’d known you were coming.”
We step into the elevator.
“And it’s really small.” She combs her fingers through the ends of her hair. “Like really, really small.”
What the hell is this? Is she nervous for me to be here?
I’ve seen Jordan at her most vulnerable—crying, morning breath… Hell, my face has been buried between her legs when she’s been overdue for a wax. So her apologizing about the state of her apartment?
That’s fucking weird.
Even if we are just friends.
We reach the third floor, and I follow her to her door. She enters the code and pushes the door open, flipping on the light.
Holy shit. She wasn’t kidding. This place isn’t small. It’s smaller than that, whatever that would be.
I’d say I’m taking it in, but I already did. One turn of the head and… yep. That’s it. You can get it all in one camera frame.
She scoffs, catching my reaction. “Told you it was small.”
I try to act normal. Jesus, I’m such a prick. “I didn’t say anything.” Nope. That’s not it. “I’m just taking it in,” I add quickly. “It’s nice.”
“You don’t have to. Your face says it all.” She laughs quietly. “You’ve always been a bad liar. It’s fine. It’s not like I don’t know that I live in a four-hundred-square-foot box.”
She sets her purse on the counter. “Well don’t just stand there. Come in.”
I’m already in. Three more steps and I’m basically in the middle of this entire place.
“So what’s up?” she asks. “You’re freaking out because of my text?”
“Well, yeah. And then you didn’t text me back, so I came all the way over here and sat outside your apartment. What the hell’s going on?”
She disappears around the one and only corner in here. “I’m sorry,” she calls out, her voice trailing off, like she’s not done talking, but won’t finish until she can see me again.
I move to follow, clocking the clutter on every surface. Clothes piled in the corner like she never even attempted to put them away.
Shit.
I forgot how messy she is.
On the surface, Jordan’s the most put-together woman in the room. Always. That’s the version the world gets. But behind closed doors? She’s a goddamn mess. Chaos. Beautiful, lived-in chaos.
And I kind of fucking love it.
This version of her, unraveling, unguarded, not trying to control every variable, is my favorite. I haven’t seen it in a long time.
I round the corner to her closet, which connects to the bathroom... and stop dead.
She’s pulling her shirt over her head.
Fuck me.
Smooth tan skin. Curves I could draw from memory. Heat slams into my chest like a shot of liquor, and our eyes lock as she tosses the shirt aside, completely unbothered.
A hint of a smile lifts her mouth.
I turn fast, gaze dropping to the floor. “Sorry. I—I didn’t know you were changing.”
What am I, a fucking priest?
I don’t look away when women get undressed. And I sure as shit have never looked away with Jordan.
“It’s fine,” she says coolly. “Don’t be weird about it. Like you said the other night—you’ve seen my tits.”
Then she unzips her pants and pushes them down, and that tiny shred of conscience I didn’t even know I had keeps my eyes glued to the nightstand.
I hate that nagging little fucker.
Same one that stopped me two weeks ago when I could’ve gone looking to get laid, but didn’t. Same one that used to send me to confession back in middle school.
She brushes past me like this is nothing. Like my pulse isn’t pounding in my throat—and my dick. Like she didn’t just undress in front of a guy she knows is attracted to her… and would love nothing more than to strip her naked and do things I shouldn’t even be thinking about.
She climbs into bed and flips on the TV. She’s wearing a tight black tank, cropped of course, teasing that strip of skin I’d give anything to touch. Her oversized sweats are rolled low on her hips.
And I couldn’t tell you why exactly, but it’s hot as hell.
She pats the mattress. “You wanna watch a show? I’ve been rewatching Sex and the City.”
I just stare at her, trying to understand how she’s acting so completely normal when she hit the panic button an hour ago.
And then it clicks.
She’s resetting. Pretending there isn’t a crack in something she doesn’t want to deal with. She sent that text, then regretted it. She couldn’t unsend it because I’d already read it.
This is so Jordan.
Something freaked her out, and she’s shoving it far enough away so she won’t even have to look at it. So she can forget about it. She’s burying her needs and putting everyone else first, like she always does.
She doesn’t want to do this. Doesn’t want to get married.
But she will. Because that’s who she is.
And selfishly? I’m letting her.
I tell myself this is for Cole. That this is temporary. Necessary, even.
But every day that’s becoming less and less true.
Because the more time I spend with her, the more space she takes up in my life. The more she shows up for me.
The harder it gets to pretend I don’t actually want this.
And not for Cole.
For me.
One hour, two episodes of Sex and the City, and three too many snacks later, I’m stretched out on Jordan’s bed beside her.
There’s a tray of food in front of us—cheese, crackers, hummus, and cut up vegetables. I’m more relaxed than I should be, and I’m thoroughly enjoying myself.
We’ve talked a bit. Mostly about her time in the Hamptons. It’s been light and easy. The kind of conversation that feels safe because neither of us is touching the thing underneath it.
The TV helps. It’s a good buffer. A distraction.
“You ever get worried things are going to change once Jensen and Alley have their baby?” she asks, eyes still on the screen.
Miranda just had her baby, and the friends are struggling to adjust.
I glance over at Jordan as she bites into a carrot stick, something she genuinely believes qualifies as a snack, and chews thoughtfully.
“No,” I say finally, my voice lower than I expect. I turn back to the TV. “They already have.”
Her gaze shifts fully to me then, studying, assessing. “Because he moved?”