Chapter 28 Jordan
JORDAN
As the car pulls up to the event, my stomach knots.
There are a lot of people here. A lot. Is that a red carpet? Tate never mentioned that.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, from the hair and makeup team Tate sent to my guesthouse this afternoon.
I smooth my palms over my dress, the wine-red one. The stylist included six gowns, all floor length and in various jewel tones to flatter my cool, peachy-pink skin, but this one called to me.
It’s fitted in the bodice and hips, drapes off the shoulder, and dips low in my minimal cleavage.
Deeply sexy. The bangs the hair stylist insisted on giving me tonight?
They look incredible. Curtain bangs, he called them.
My dark hair has a slight wave, so they look undone yet deliberate, kind of seventies and cool with my long hair around my shoulders.
My makeup is subtle except for a black liquid liner, a little flick at the corners of my eyes, and my skin glows.
I do look good. The winged liner and false lashes make me look like one of those old Hollywood stars. I’m torn between feeling self-conscious in this elegant costume I’m wearing and supremely attractive.
My hand goes to the base of my neck, where I’m wearing my black velvet choker. Just something to make me feel like me. An anchor.
The car pulls up to the event, someone opens the door, helping me out, and I come face to face with—
“Jesus Christ.” Tate blinks at me, stunned and frowning, and my stomach drops through the floor.
Tate Ward, wearing the hell out of a tux. Dark hair styled neatly, his clean scent making it hard to think. Tall, so tall, and broad, with a thin layer of stubble across his jaw like he’s a model in a cologne ad.
Tate Ward is so disgustingly handsome that sometimes, I forget I don’t like him.
Currently looking at me with a weird expression, like I’m roadkill.
His eyes move from my hemline a couple inches above my ankles, up the slim fit of the dress over my hips, to the structured bodice and off-the-shoulder neckline.
He sighs, still looking at the dress with a mix of resignation and worry. “That’s what you’re wearing tonight,” he says, like he’s disappointed, his hand on the back of his neck.
And I actually thought I looked good.
I suddenly become too aware of my exposed decolletage. He probably dates women with elegance and class, women who never say the wrong thing and are impeccably dressed without professional help. Women who have thousands of friends and can walk into any room and make a thousand more.
Not that I care who Tate Ward dates, nor do I care what he thinks of me.
“Yep. This is what I’m wearing.” There’s an edge to my tone as I scramble to regain my confidence.
“You look very . . .” His gaze lingers on my choker.
I wait a beat. “Yes? What?”
Trashy? Like I’m trying too hard? Like I’m trying to be the center of attention? Like a child playing dress-up?
He blinks, dazed. “Pardon?”
“I look very what?”
Like I belong behind the bar, in the background, instead of representing the team with some of the most respected people in the city?
“Sophisticated,” he finishes, finally meeting my eyes. His throat works. That is obviously not what he wanted to say, but Tate is endlessly polite and pleasant, even to me.
“It’s a sweetheart neckline,” I say stupidly.
“Sweet isn’t the word I’d use.” His gaze flicks at my hair. “You cut your hair. It, um.” He clears his throat. “It’s something.”
It’s something. I bite back a bitter laugh. That’s what he said when he tasted the awful coffee but he didn’t want to be rude.
So not his type. I don’t care.
“Well, see you later.” I start ascending the steps to the grand old hotel, but his warm hand comes to my bare elbow.
“This way,” he says, low in my ear, leading me to the side, where a woman with a clipboard waits. “Tate Ward,” he tells her.
She finds his name on the list. “Thank you. And your date?”
“Jordan Hathaway,” I answer without thinking.
“Not my date,” he says at the same time in a firm tone, cutting a glance at me.
Oh god. Heat crawls up my neck. That’s what I should have said—that I’m not his date.
“She’s with the Storm as well,” he clarifies as the woman searches for my name.
“My mistake.” The woman smiles apologetically. “You arrived together so I assumed.”
“Definitely not.” He gives her a polite smile, but his features are strained.
She gestures to the side, and Tate’s hand returns to my elbow, leading me forward.
Three lights flash in quick succession, blinding me, and I take an instinctual step back. My body seizes up, my lung capacity suddenly the size of a thimble.
“Are you okay?” I hear him ask in my ear.
“You didn’t tell me there was a red carpet.”
“We always take photos at events. It brings awareness to their organization.”
It’s not like the Academy Awards, with a hundred paparazzi in suits, shouting at us. There are three photographers, but the flashes are bright, and I’m front and center, attention on me.
Exactly where I hate to be.
Another flash. My skin crawls.
“What’s wrong?” Tate’s low voice brings my anxiety down a notch. It’s the same concern from the closet, when I cried.
“Nothing.” Off his arched eyebrow and unbreaking eye contact, I blow out a heavy breath. “Everyone’s looking at me. I never should have worn this dress.”
Another flash. “You don’t like the dress?”
“I love the dress.” I swallow. “I’m not used to being on display like this. I feel like a zoo animal.”
He frowns. “Your parents are famous. Were famous,” he amends.
“But I’m not famous.” Another flash. “I didn’t grow up in the spotlight. My mom wanted to keep me away from all that stuff.”
“You two can go in,” the coordinator calls to us. “Thank you.”
We step off the carpet into a side entrance to the hotel lobby. My heart rate descends into a normal range.
“You’re shy,” he says, giving me a curious look.
There’s an unfamiliar, raw feeling in my chest. “Just because I don’t want my face splashed all over the media doesn’t mean I’m shy.”
“It’s part of this gig, being in the media.”
Shadowing him. Working for the team. “Yeah. I didn’t think of that. Not that it would have changed anything.”
A moment of silence passes between us.
“She was a model, right?” he asks. “Natalie?”
I nod. “Until she had me, and then she retired.”
My parents met at an event probably similar to this.
His eyes linger on my hair, my face, my eyes. “That makes sense.”
Being my mom was what she was meant to do, she always said. She looked at me the way Tate looks at his daughter. My chest aches, and I clear my throat. Clear all the unwelcome thoughts away.
He turns back to the event, surveying the attendees. “We could use a safeword.”
I give him a strange look. His mouth is twitching.
“Excuse me?”
The implication of using a safeword with Tate Ward is—yeah. We’re not even going there.
“In case the attention gets to be too much and you want out of there. I can help you, if you ask for it.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“It needs to be something you won’t say accidentally,” he muses, like he didn’t hear me. He still has that amused look in his eye. “How about . . . horned screamer?”
I choke on a laugh. “You want me to say horny screamer if I need help?”
“What? No.” He frowns, but there’s a deliciously interested, playful spark in his eyes, the same one I see when he drinks the gross coffees I bring him. “Horned screamer, I said.”
A beat. “Are you fucking with me?”
He looks like he wants to laugh, and I wish he would. He’s so handsome when he laughs. “It’s a type of bird. Bea did a school project on it a couple weeks ago.” He gestures at his head. “It has a long thing on its head.”
“You have a really weird sense of humor.”
He chuckles, and my gaze catches on his broad smile. My fingers tighten on my clutch, thinking about how his stubble would feel beneath my fingertips.
He looks down at me, and his eyes are so deeply green, with a ring of amber around the irises. Dark, thick lashes and tiny crinkles around the corners. This tux he’s wearing, with his crisp white shirt and inky black jacket, is doing extraordinary things for his olive skin tone.
His scent washes over me and I take a step back. Tate Ward is just so much.
“Yes?” he asks, with an expectant look.
I shake my head, swallowing. “Nothing.”
“You look uncomfortable.”
His eyes skate over where I’m smoothing the skirt of my dress over my hips. The fabric is so soft, I keep catching myself touching it.
“You’re too tall,” I blurt out.
His eyebrows lift, eyes amused once again. “Too tall.”
“Yes.” I chew my bottom lip and his gaze dips to follow the motion before it snaps back to mine. “Not everyone is into super tall guys.”
All the guys I’ve been with have been about my height. It’s easier to intimidate them when you’re a similar size.
“My neck hurts,” I add.
He gives me a sympathetic look, but it looks like he wants to laugh. “Jordan, if you want a neck rub, all you have to do is ask.”
My face burns. Is he flirting with me? Or does he think I’m flirting with him? “That was not what I was—”
A loud gasp, followed by the sharp, quick sound of heels approaching, has both of us whipping our heads around.
“You got bangs?” Georgia descends on me, all big curly auburn hair, gorgeous lashes, and a floor-length gold gown. She grabs me by the shoulders, inspecting me, a crestfallen expression on her face. “You got bangs and you didn’t call me.”
“Listen—”
“Bangs.” Georgia looks over her shoulder at Alexei. “She got bangs.”
He raises one eyebrow at me, giving me his signature glower, like I’m on his shit list for not telling his beloved wife I was about to cut my hair.
Georgia gawks at me, taking in my dress. “You look incredible. Holy shit. My god. This dress.”
We hear a long, low whistle.
“Holy,” Luca calls, making his way over, eyes all over my dress.
“Walker,” Tate snaps, a sudden sharpness replacing the playful light in his eyes. “Be respectful.”
Luca puts his hands up in surrender and I give Tate a strange look. I’ve never heard that tone from him.
“It’s fine,” I tell him. “Luca’s twelve.”
“Hey.” Luca looks mock-offended, and I smirk at him.
“Wow.” Darcy appears at my side, looking pointedly at my dress. “Va-va-voom.”
Pippa and Hazel are right behind her, Pippa giving me a shy smile. “You look beautiful, Jordan.”
Hazel’s eyes bug out as my skin goes hot again. “Look at you.”
I give her a tight smile. “Wish you wouldn’t,” I mutter under my breath. My face feels warm, and I try not to squirm, not to tug at the dress. “Thanks.”
Tate leans into my ear. “Remember the safeword?”
I snort. “Yes. Unfortunately.”
The ghost of a teasing smile crosses his face. “Just checking.”