Chapter 46
kennedy
Sitting on my couch with my friend Ginny in my hand, a bag of sour cream and onion chips on my lap, and watching The Notebook with a box of Kleenex at the ready was not the way I thought this day was going to go.
But getting called into work to discuss a personnel matter, that ended up being an anonymous report about a bad landing, means I’m upset and desperate to drown my feelings in gin and Ryan Gosling.
Just as I’m about to get a refill on snacks, the door pops open.
“Hey! I’m back,” Jordan says, surveying the situation of me lying out across the couch in baggy lounge clothes.
My hair is in a messy bun. Chip crumbs on my shirt.
I literally look like a trash panda that infiltrated the apartment.
Meanwhile, he looks like he stepped off the cover of a goddamn fitness magazine wearing a tight-fitting Riders shirt, his damn gray joggers that hug every inch of him, and a piece of his still-damp hair falling in front of his face.
My eyes trail over him, my body heating more and more at every inch I see.
Grilled Cheesus, take me before I die of embarrassment.
I quickly try to clean myself up, wiping the crumbs off my chest and sitting up straight. “Just…” I clear my throat, “I’ve just had a bad day.”
“Give me your glass,” he says, holding out his hand.
“Jordan, I’m not drunk—”
“I know—I’m getting you a refill. You’re a quart low.”
I can’t help but smile, a warm feeling spreading across my chest. The last couple of weeks have been insanely busy for us both.
Between him being in the middle of the playoffs, me having two weeks of mandatory guard duty, being in different cities and on different sleep schedules, we’ve only been able to fool around once.
We were both exhausted but too amped up to be around each other without exploring, and he said he wanted to ‘get in more practice’ on his finger drills.
I wasn’t about to complain. Honestly, he doesn’t need any more practice.
He’s better with his hands than anyone I’ve ever been with.
He pays attention, remembers every little detail…
the man has skills. Fuck that girl for ever making him feel like he wasn’t good enough.
I grip the edge of a throw pillow, wishing I could strangle that bitch.
But I can’t change his past. All I can do is help him gain back his confidence.
But right now? I’m the one who needs the pep talk.
“You wanna talk about it?” he throws over his shoulder as he empties the melted ice into the sink.
I lean my arm across the couch and word vomit, as the pop of the gin bottle echoes across the room.
“I got called into work today because someone reported me for a bad landing. But the flight in question? I wasn’t the one flying at the time.
I was on the radio, so it couldn’t have been me. I don’t get who would do this.”
“First of all, yikes bikes. Second, you would never have a bad landing because you’re perfect and can do no wrong. Third,” he pauses, looking back at me, “explain this to me like I’m five. What do you mean you were on the radio, so it couldn’t be you?”
I snort, realizing he doesn’t know the first thing about my job.
It’s sort of cute. Okay, maybe a lot cute.
He walks back to the couch, handing me my drink and curling up next to me.
He even made a little slice in the lime to put it on the rim of the glass.
Goddammit, he’s thoughtful. My stomach flutters at this confident, caretaking side of him.
I run my fingers through his hair, his body relaxing against mine, and the stress of the day finally begins to melt away.
So different from that first time he was here, thinking I was going to crack his skull open with a hammer.
“So, on a crew aircraft, one pilot is flying, and the other is monitoring instrumentation and manning the radio. And we switch each leg. If you pull the recordings from air traffic control, you’ll hear me on the radio—not Chadd.
We got clearance to land, you can hear me talk to ATC and confirm.
That’s why I’m so confused. Why would someone report me when all we have to do is pull the tapes and listen?
It’s like someone wanted to make me go through all this extra shit to prove it wasn’t me.
It will be fine, but it’s…” I let out a defeated sigh.
“This is humiliating. Why would someone do this? Even during our debrief, Chadd fucking acknowledged the landing was a little rough.”
“Can you appeal this and get it off your record or whatever?” he asks as he finds a stray curl and tucks it behind my ear.
“I did. It’s just a hassle.” I scrub my hand down my face. “I just really didn’t need this right now, you know?”
“Do you think it was Chadd McDumpsterFire?”
I snort, loving that he has a new nickname for my co-worker every time he comes up in conversation.
“I have no fucking clue. I didn’t think he was that pissed about us dating, but who else would even know to do this?
” I let out a defeated sigh, my shoulders slumping forward.
“I’m just so pissed. And then I turned on the TV and this movie was on and everything came crashing down in a big, depressing, full-on crying session. ”
“I’m sorry, that sucks ass. I would be pissed too. Fuck I’m pissed for you! My offer to Crazy Rich Asians buy the airline still stands.”
I lean into him as I laugh. “Thank you, but buying the airline isn’t necessary. I’ll figure this out. I just can’t work out who in the hell reported me. And why? Anyway, sorry to bombard you with this just as you came in the door. How was practice?”
He narrows his brow. “Kennedy, you didn’t bombard me with anything. We’re,” —he gestures between the two of us— “we’re friends, right? I’m here to talk about anything you want. Chadd McDipshit, work stuff, lady time troubles. Whatever it is, I’m here for it all.”
My heart flips at his sickeningly sweet nature. The fact that he’s also, apparently, not embarrassed to talk about shark week is damn cute. They must make them different in Canada.
“Buuut,” he singsongs, “we are done with the pity-party starter pack here.” He snags the remote, finding something else to watch on TV.
“Now this! This is a much more uplifting movie to watch. Ooo! And it’s almost at the dance scene!
Come on up! Off the couch.” He grabs my hand, pulling me up to join him, as I watch Jennifer Garner doing the same to Mark Ruffalo.
“Jordan. No. Hell no. I am not doing the Thriller dance from 13 Going on 30. I look like trash, and I do not dance except to sway awkwardly during songs at a Taylor Swift concert.”
“Don’t care. Come ooonnn,” he whines, “it’ll be fun! We’re doing it.”
He doesn’t seem to be phased by the laser beams of death shooting from my eyes. My stomach twists, realizing he’s not letting me out of this.
He stands beside me and counts off ‘two, three, four’ as he starts to tilt his head to the side, while stomping, making the iconic zombie-dinosaur motion back and forth across his chest, clapping his hands above his head, then sliding across the floor with an impressive shimmy.
He glances over his shoulder with a smile.
His infectious grin falls when he notices I’m still frozen in place.
“Kennedy Kramer, come on! Dance with me!!”
I shake my head, but, for some stupid reason, my body betrays me, and I join in, surprised I remember the moves.
I’m at least dressed like a zombie. As we shuffle our feet, stepping forward and tilting our heads to the side, I begrudgingly admit this is kind of fun.
We dance. We laugh at how bad a dancer I am, and he promises to give me lessons, claiming to be a better instructor than I am.
Doubtful. Glancing over at him, seeing his eyes light up, has the corners of my lips tipping up, effortlessly getting me out of the funk I was in earlier.
As the song ends, and the movie goes to a commercial, Jordan wraps his hands around my waist and dips me as if we’ve just ended a slow dance. He pulls me up, my face a breath away from his, with a smile that makes my lungs struggle to breathe. “Feel better?”
“I do,” I say, just the slightest bit out of breath. “Thank you. I really hate to admit this, but…I needed that.”
“I know,” he says, leaning down, his eyes fixed on my lips.
God, I want this man so bad. The way he makes me feel.
The way he comforts me. I never thought I wanted any of this.
But here I am, in the arms of someone who makes me feel as if I asked for the world, he’d give it to me in a heartbeat without question.
I bite my lip, my pulse stuttering. Wanting him physically is one thing.
But this? Wanting more—wanting something that matters, something real?
Wanting him like this is a problem for a thousand reasons.
But right now, with the space between us shrinking, his fingers flexing against my waist, I can’t remember one of them.
We’re pulled from our thoughts as his phone vibrates in his pocket, and I hear mine chime at the same time. Weird.
“Just ignore it,” he says, pulling me in a little tighter. “It’s probably someone from the group chat.”
Maybe he’s right. But thoughts of work are still there, and my muscles tighten. “Let me make sure it’s not work after everything today.”
We both grab our phones and simultaneously read the message as we cover our mouths with our hands. My heart thrums in my ears, my entire body shaking.
What. The. Fuck.
Blocked Number
Peek-a-boo…I see you! Thought I’d start a group chat since you both seem to be ignoring me. I want to make sure you get this one. Stay the fuck away from each other. This is your last warning…or we’ll have a real Thriller on our hands.
And included with the message is a photo of us.
In my apartment.
Dancing to Thriller.
“Holy fucking shit!” Jordan screams as he drops to the floor, urging me to fall to the ground with him. I duck behind the couch as he army crawls to the window and reaches up to pull all the curtains shut. “They can see us!”
“What the fuck is with this person! Why are they doing this? Listen…I know you don’t want to go to the police, but we are in over our heads here. We need to involve the authorities.”
He stands up wearily, as if he’s unsure the curtains are truly blocking the view.
“Yeah. Yeah…you’re right. Let me call my dad and have him get a discrete security detail here. Kenni…” He extends his hand to help me up. “I know you don’t want security, but we’re beyond that point right now.”
I throw my arms wide. “Jordan, we need to call the police!! This has gotten out of hand.”
“What do you think this person is going to do if we call 911? They are around here, somehow watching us, which means they’ll know.
All we’re going to do is piss them off even more than they already are when they see a bunch of cop cars pull up outside the building.
” He places his hands on my shoulders, his eyes bouncing between mine.
“I know you’re going to call me Richy Rich when I say this, but Ray, our head of security, is legit the best at this kind of shit. He is a former CCIS.”
“What the hell is CCIS?”
He huffs a light laugh, easing the tension a bit, as he drags his fingers down my arms to hold my hands.
“Canadian Central Intelligence Service. It’s like the CIA here in the States.
That’s basically the police, right?” I drop my chin in a stilted nod.
“Let’s run this by him and get a security detail here.
I’ll make sure it’s discreet, and no one knows that’s what they are doing but us. ”
I run my hand down my face, all of this adding to the shit day I’ve already had.
“Okay. Fine. I’ll allow it. I just can’t imagine who would be doing this.
Should we stay somewhere else? It’s one thing for them to send a creepy bear via delivery, but it’s another to send a picture of us doing something that happened less than five minutes ago. ”
He pulls me in tight, his grip like a weighted blanket, calming me down amidst all the chaos.
“I think we stay here. You have a doorman downstairs, and we can get some security here ASAP. I think if we move locations, they’ll be watching and follow us out.
We fly out to Denver in the morning, so let’s just get through tonight, and we’ll figure out a plan from there. ”
I nod my head against his chest, “Okay,” the only word I can muster out.
I don’t know who is trying to scare us, but it’s fucking working. I’d still rather call the police, but as much as I hate to admit it…he’s right.
“Come on,” he says, dragging me back to the couch. “Now that we’ve got the windows covered, let’s find another movie to watch, and we’ll order in some food while I send a message to Ray.”
“So you’re going with the ‘feed me and tell me I’m pretty’ method?”
“I didn’t say you were pretty—I’m the pretty one, remember?” he says with a smirk.
I double down on my glare, teasing him with a little smack on the arm.
“Plus,” he says, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. “I would never call you pretty. That word doesn’t come close to how beautiful you are. You’re gorgeous, Kenni,” he says as he presses his lips to mine. “Now, come on…let’s watch How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.”