3. Jordan #2
“You did?” Her eyes went wide with astonishment. “Oh, my stars, this must be my lucky day. You’re very talented, young man.”
It was strange. If Levi had told me that, it would have put my back up. But it was impossible to be anything but charmed by this woman.
“Thank you,” I said. “That’s really kind of you to say.”
“I’m Doris,” the woman said, sticking out her hand. “And what might your name be?”
“Jordan.” I took her hand. Her grip was firmer than I expected for someone her size. “Jordan Brooks. It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
“Oh, ma’am. Just listen to you, an artist and a gentleman. I assure you, the pleasure is all mine. Now, let me ask you something, Jordan. Do you offer lessons?”
Doris brought her other hand on top of mine, cupping it like she was trying to infuse me with strength.
I’d never taught a painting class in my life, but her bright eyes and warm hands and sheer force of will made me want to say yes.
Like being compelled by a vampire—a vampire clad in orthopedic sneakers and terrycloth.
“I don’t—that is, I’ve never tried to,” I stammered. “I’m not sure I’d be very good.”
“Nonsense,” Doris said. “I can tell you would be excellent at it. I have very good intuition about people.”
“Ma’am, that really is kind of you, but—”
“Doris,” she corrected me. “You can save all that ma’am-ing for strangers. I can tell you and I are going to be friends. Now, tell me, what sort of supplies should I stock up on before your lesson? Do we need canvases, or will paper do for now?”
“I—I’m not sure I—” I stared at her. I hadn’t actually said yes, but somehow, the lesson seemed to be a foregone conclusion. “Paper’s probably fine. I guess it depends on what you’d like to learn.”
“Oh, it’s not for me, sweetheart,” Doris said, still squeezing my hand in both of hers.
“It’s for my husband, Arthur. And he’s not too picky.
I just think the man needs a new hobby.” She pursed her lips.
“I’ll tell you what. You bring whatever you think is best, and add it to the tab for the lesson.
Does five hundred sound good for an hour? ”
My eyebrows shot up. “Five hundred dollars?”
“Not enough?” she said. “I don’t know what the going rate is. Would six hundred be—”
“Oh God, no,” I rushed to say. “No, there’s no need. Five hundred is fine. It’s more than fine, to be honest. Fifty would probably be better.”
Doris pulled her top hand back, but just to hold up her index finger and wag it at me. “None of that, now. Don’t undervalue your time, young man. The world will be more than happy to do that for you, no need to help it along.”
“But still, five hundred is—”
“Is what someone of your caliber deserves,” she said. “If it makes you feel better, you don’t have to charge us for the supplies. Now, does tomorrow morning work? Should we say ten a.m.?”
“I mean, I guess?” My head was still spinning. Levi hadn’t asked me to help out at The Roastery tomorrow, but was I really going to give an introductory painting lesson to the husband of a woman I’d just met five minutes ago?
“Excellent.” Doris finally let go of my hand and fished a pen out of her bag. She scrawled an address on a napkin and handed it to me. “I’ll see you then, sweetheart. Looking forward to it.”
With a firm pat on my shoulder, she shuffled off, leaving me staring after her. She didn’t even order any coffee. Maybe I’d hallucinated her?
Except I was still holding the napkin she wrote her address on. Was she a fairy godmother? Or possibly a mob enforcer? It had been oddly hard to say no to her.
Nothing like this had ever happened in New York. No one pulled you aside there to offer you life-changing amounts of money because they liked your art. No, in New York, the best you could hope for was keeping your head above water, as just another anonymous nobody.
Then again, in New York, no one knew that your mom had a meth problem and an abusive ex.
No one knew that your sister had her first kid at age fifteen, then killed herself after having her second.
No one knew that you didn’t go home for the holidays because it was too painful to think about what you’d lost.
So I supposed it balanced out.
I was back behind the counter, just about to check my GayBae profile for messages, when yet another customer said my name.
“Jordy? Is that you?”
I looked up, ready to snap that yes, it was me, yes, I was back, yes, I was apparently the last person to understand what everyone else had always known, that I’d never be able to escape Summersea’s gravitational pull.
But the words died on my lips, because the person on the other side of the counter wasn’t just any customer. It was Cam Starling.
For a second, I thought I was dreaming. It was the only thing that made sense. Not just of Doris, but of the fact that my very first crush, the guy who’d started it all, was standing right in front of me. But then he spoke again.
“Jordy? That is you, right?”
I wasn’t dreaming. This was really happening. Cam was standing right in front of me and he was gorgeous. Still tall, still broad-shouldered, and more muscular than he’d been before, but still someone I wanted to wrap myself up in like a blanket.
His blond hair was wind-blown, and his blue eyes were still that piercing, inquisitive cobalt. He must have gotten new glasses at some point in the past six years, but they looked exactly the same as I remembered, the thin wire frames perpetually slipping down his nose.
He was wearing a button-down shirt in a soft, heathered blue, the sleeves casually rolled up. His khakis had a grease stain on the left leg. That, or something else was casting a shadow right there on his inner—dammit, stop looking at his cock!
I wrenched my eyes away and looked back at Cam’s face, only to find him staring at me suspiciously. Fuck, had he noticed where I was looking?
His voice rang in my ears, a rich baritone. I shivered. I hadn’t even realized I’d remembered how he sounded, but all of a sudden, I was a teenager again, listening to him talk about books, wishing I could crawl into his lap and purr like a kitten.
Except I wasn’t a teenager, I was an actual adult, and I really needed to say something before I made myself look even dumber.
“Uh, yeah,” I said, my cheeks flushing. “Yeah, I’m…me.”
So much for looking less dumb.
“I mean, that is, I’m…it.”
God, could I please get struck by a bolt of lightning and put out of my misery?
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I swear, I’m not usually this idiotic, I just—I wasn’t expecting—that is, you’re—I’m not—”
“Cam,” Cam said, pointing to his chest. “Cam Starling.”
And then he flushed, which only made him hotter, and that was truly unfair, because I probably looked like a tomato at this point, but Cam just looked all outdoorsy and rugged.
“I was friends with your brother back in high school,” he continued. “And now, too. But you probably don’t remember—”
“Of course I remember you!” I burst out. “You were my—my—my brother’s friend,” I finished lamely.
Probably not a good idea to tell him to his face that he was the source of my first ever wet dream. I was really doing my best to reach the summit of Moron Mountain, though.