Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
MATT
I pour myself a second shot of whiskey and kick it back just as Jordan comes rushing into the kitchen.
“Shit,” she says, stopping just long enough to slip on her heels. “Shit. Shit. Shit.” She fumbles with the straps. “We’re going to be late.”
I calmly pour another shot, only this time, for her.
She’s going to need it.
We both are.
She stands, smoothing her dress. Her hair is straight and sleek, the opposite of the wild mess it was this morning.
Her brows pinch together. “Whiskey?”
“It’s just one shot, babe. Here.”
I hold it out, and she grabs it, tossing it back like a champ. She blinks a few times before setting the glass on the counter with a sharp gasp.
“Alright,” she says. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”
I pick up the empty glass, slide it into the dishwasher, and follow her to the elevator.
She fidgets the entire ride down.
“Did you read the notes I sent you?” she asks.
“I read them.”
Yep. She made notes. In a Word document. Then emailed them to me.
What to say if they ask this. What not to say if they ask that. The story of how we got back together. The timeline, after Richard, of course. The wedding. How she moved in after we got married.
God forbid they know their thirty-five-year-old granddaughter is having sex before marriage.
Jesus Christ.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
Jordan’s grandmother has never liked me. Her mother tolerates me. And her grandfather’s nice to me, for Jordan’s sake. The man’s a saint. Anyone who’s put up with her yiayiá that long deserves a fucking medal.
The elevator opens on the ground floor, and I reach for Jordan’s hand, holding it tight as we step out.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
She’s not.
Pete pulls up to the curb, and I open the back door for her. She slides in, and I circle the car, settling beside her. I take her hand immediately.
Jesus.
She’s shaking.
“Hey,” I say quietly, keeping my voice calm. “I’m right here. I’ll be with you the whole time.”
She drags in a breath, then lets it out slow. “I know. God, I don’t know why I’m so nervous.”
I do.
“I see my yiayiá and mamá almost every week. We have dinner all the time.” She pats the top of her hair, smoothing it, then lets out a nervous laugh. “Sorry. I’m being ridiculous.”
I lift her hand and press a kiss to her thumb. “You’re not ridiculous. Your yiayiá is terrifying.”
“I know.” She exhales. “How does she do that? She’s so tiny, but holy shit, she scares me.”
I chuckle, and she laughs too, some of the tension easing.
“Tiny but mighty.” Our eyes lock, and fuck, I’d give anything to kiss her right now, melt the fear away with the warmth of my mouth. “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“Yeah, right.” She snorts. “I’m nothing like her. I doubt she ever sat in the backseat of a car on the way to her yiayiá’s house scared shitless.”
“Well,” I say lightly, bumping my shoulder into hers, “I also doubt she ever married a guy her family didn’t approve of behind their backs.”
“Oh, she’d never step out of line.”
“You aren’t out of line, babe. Yours just wasn’t drawn with a ruler. That’s okay. Be proud of who you are.” I squeeze her hand. “I am.”
A smile ghosts her lips, just briefly, before she blinks and looks away. “Thank you. Not just for saying that, but for coming with me. It means a lot.”
“Well, you wouldn’t be dealing with any of this if it weren’t for me. Probably should’ve taken two shots.”
She lets out a soft laugh. “No shit.”
I take a steadying breath in the hallway of Jordan’s grandparents’ condo, overlooking Central Park. It’s prime real estate. The kind that stays in families for generations.
Jordan’s no more relaxed than she was in the car. She’s rigid and tense, nervous energy radiating off her.
Hell, even I’m nervous, but I’d never let her know that. I can take the beating. Mostly because I don’t give a shit what these people think. They’ve never liked me, and they’ve been hard on Jordan her entire life, setting expectations no one could ever live up to.
Jordan’s a natural-born people pleaser.
It’s a terrible combination.
She looks beautiful, though. Dressed to the nines. Designer dress. Heels. Not a hair out of place. Where most people show up to family dinners in sweats, ready to unwind, Jordan shows up in her best—polished, perfect. Mask on.
It’s expected here. Her yiayiá wouldn’t blink if you walked in wearing cocktail attire. She’d appreciate it, even.
Christ. Just standing here, it already feels suffocating. I’m dreading it. I know I’ll drink more than I should. More than I want to. It’s the only way through the night.
One large glass of wine after another.
My mind flips through the old rules Jordan used to drill into me when we were younger.
Be on your best behavior.
Don’t over-speak.
Don’t swear.
Don’t make crude jokes.
And for Christ’s sake, I better remember the damn notes from today.