Chapter 3
Chapter Three
JORDAN
Three Months Later
August
I take a deep breath and exhale, relief flooding through me as I gather my things.
I did it. I fucking did it.
Sabrina rushes to my side, doing nothing to hide the excitement on her face. The scent of espresso and her perfume hits me all at once as she squeezes my arm on our way out of the conference room.
The second we’re in the clear, she practically squeals. “Oh my God, girl! You nailed that presentation. This Hamptons remodel is yours.”
I nod, smiling, trying not to get ahead of myself. “I know. I know. Fingers crossed.”
She stops me, facing me head-on. “No crossed fingers. This account is yours. Let’s go celebrate.”
I stand a little taller, shoulders finally loosening. “No celebrating until I know that it’s a done deal.”
Sabrina groans, her gold hoop earrings reflecting in the light. “Come on! Let’s go to lunch and pop some champagne,” she whines. “I’ll buy.”
Her black curls are perfectly cropped on top of her head, and I still don’t know how she does it, how she always looks so put together and effortless at the same time. Like she just rolled out of bed and poof—flawless.
“Can’t. I already have lunch plans.”
“With who?”
“Matt.” I turn the corner, heading toward my office.
“Oh my God,” she draws out the word, emphasizing the “d.” “Please tell me you’re celebrating by getting naked with him then.” She bumps my shoulder, grinning.
I laugh softly. “I already told you—we’re just friends.”
“Mhm. Right. Girl, I’ve known you a long time. And when you say just friends, I know what that means. You’ve always been”—she lifts her hands for air quotes—“just friends.”
“I know. But the past is the past. It’s different this time. We really are just friends.”
“Right. And I’m fucking Cleopatra.”
She’s been giving me shit about Matt since day one, and honestly, I don’t blame her. I give myself shit for it.
I stop short when I spot Matt standing in my office, making himself way too comfortable, picking up a picture of me and my pappoús.
“Speak of the devil,” Sabrina whispers before slipping away, leaving me standing in the doorway, mouth slightly open.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, half amused. “I thought we were meeting at the restaurant. And why are you in my office? Who let you back here?”
Matt turns toward me, flashing that I’m Matthew Grayson grin that gets him whatever he wants before he even asks. “Finished my meeting early. You’re practically on the way, so I figured I’d swing by and pick you up. And the girl at the front desk let me back.”
I shake my head. “Without checking with me first?”
“In her defense, she tried to stop me…”
“Let me guess—you flashed her a smile, and all logic left the building?”
His grin widens as he leans back against my desk, every bit the cocky bastard he’s always been. “Something like that.” His gaze drags over me, slow and unapologetic, and I hate that after all these years it still gets to me. “She said she recognized me, so I told her I liked her dress.”
“Of course you did.”
I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips as he steps close and says, “Hey, babe.” He kisses my cheek before adding, “It’s good to see you too.”
His cologne lingers, bringing back memories that make my stomach tighten.
“Hi,” I say with a soft laugh. “Let me grab my purse and we can get out of here.”
I cross the room to my desk and tug open the bottom drawer, slinging my Chanel bag, the one my pappoús gave me for my birthday, over my shoulder. “When are you going to stop calling me babe?” I ask, tone light.
He doesn’t miss a beat. “When you stop answering to it.”
I stride for the door, and Matt follows.
“I’ve been calling you babe for twenty years. Why stop now?”
I just shake my head, grinning. Hopeless.
We walk down the hall together—Matt in his blue Tom Ford suit and a swagger that makes every head turn as we pass, me in an overpriced dress only God knows I can’t afford.
When we reach the elevator, I press the down button and glance his way. “Because people get the wrong idea.”
He rolls his eyes. “What, afraid people might think I’ve seen you naked?” He steps closer, voice low against my ear. “News flash. I have.”
The elevator slides open, and we step inside. Our reflection fills the mirrored doors as they close, his smirk meeting my glare.
“Hmm.” I tilt my head. “Can’t stop thinking about that, huh?”
He chuckles. “Never.”
I lean back against the wall, eyes trailing over him.
This is what he does.
He mirrors me, crossing his arms, that smug grin daring me to react. His gaze locks on mine, one brow lifting. A silent challenge.
A standoff.
I’m not sure who’s more stubborn, Matt or me, but he’ll keep calling me babe until his last breath.
Or until I push him out of my life again. Whichever comes first. My money’s on the latter. I have a tendency to do that.
The elevator jolts as we hit the ground floor. I take a breath, watching him step out ahead of me.
How did I get here? I traded vows for freedom and somehow ended up right back where I’ve always been.
A few months ago, I was engaged to Dr. Richard Demos. A well-known, respected surgeon from a wealthy Greek family. He checked every box my mother ever wanted for me. She was thrilled.
I was living in a four-bedroom condo on the Upper East Side. On paper, I had everything a woman could want: a handsome fiancé, money, status, my dream job.
Now? I live in a studio apartment that feels smaller by the day. The walls seem to close in a little tighter every time I think about what I traded—one kind of suffocation for another. Expectations then, shame now.
And my family made sure I felt every ounce of it. My mamá didn’t speak to me for weeks. She spoke at me, through voicemails and text messages, but never to me. And my yiayiá? I’m officially the family disgrace. Because how dare I…
Sometimes I still see their faces, my mamá’s horror, the guests’ whispers, Yiayiá crossing herself like I’d just cursed the family name.
At least I still have my dream job. So I guess one thing’s going my way.
Oh, and Matt and I are friends again.
I glance up at him, falling into an easy rhythm beside him. There are only a few people in my life I’d let waltz into my office unannounced, or drag me to lunch in the middle of the day when I’ve got a hundred things to do.
Matt’s one of them. He’s always been one of them.
Well… almost always.
He shrugs off his suit jacket. “Christ. It’s fucking hot out here.”
He’s not wrong. It’s muggy, sticky, and the smell wafting from the New York sewers has me wanting to hold my breath. God, the smells.
“I don’t know how you wear a suit in this heat.”
“I wear a suit every day.”
“I know.” And damn, does he wear a suit. I remember what it felt like to be the one ripping it off him.
But then I remember how many other hundreds have done the same, and that thought kills whatever nostalgia had started creeping in.
He rambles about his work meeting for most of the short walk to his favorite steakhouse, weaving through the crowded Manhattan sidewalks, my heels clicking with every step.
Matt opens the door for me, his hand brushing the small of my back as I step inside.
The hostess smiles as she greets us and gestures toward the back of the restaurant, where Matt’s table, the one with the best view of the river, waits for us.
He’s been coming here for years. All he has to do is text the manager in the morning and voilà, a table appears, and the food follows shortly after; always perfect, the service flawless.
Matt pulls out my chair, and I slide in.
“You talk to Jensen this week?” I ask as he takes the seat across from me.
“Yeah. A few days ago.”
Jensen’s his best friend. They grew up in the same building, and Matt basically became an extended member of his family—holidays, sibling trips, Sunday dinners. He might as well be Matthew Adams.
The Grayson name is about the only thing he ever kept from his parents. That, and the pressure to uphold it.
I get that more than I should.
We’re similar that way. It’s part of why we’ve always bonded. Only Matt’s succeeded above and beyond. Me? I’m still trying to figure out how not to be a disappointment.
All I had to do was get a respectable job, marry up, and have babies.
I managed one of the three.
“How’s Alley?” I ask.
Alley is Jensen’s wife. She’s pregnant with their first child. They moved to Chicago a few weeks before the whole wedding fiasco. Matt doesn’t admit it, but I know it’s been hard for him having them gone.
“She’s good. Jensen says she’s feeling great. Just anxious to have the baby.” His brows furrow. “Don’t you talk to Al?”
I shrug. “Yeah. I’ve just… been MIA.”
From everyone. Especially anyone who was seated in that church when I suddenly had the urge to run as far away as possible instead of walk down the aisle.
It’s not that I didn’t love Richard. I did. It wasn’t even nerves or cold feet.
It was dread. Thick, suffocating dread that hit me the second I left the bride’s room.
Every expectation my mamá and yiayiá had ever placed on my shoulders tightened around my neck like a noose, and suddenly, I couldn’t fucking breathe.
A noose only stretches so far.
The first thing I did after fleeing the scene and downing a couple drinks at a dive bar?
Texted Matt.
I knew he’d listen. That he’d understand. That I could tell him everything I was feeling and he wouldn’t judge me. Even after I’d practically written him off. He’s a good guy—and, God help me, an even better friend.
“Makes sense. You’ve had a lot going on.”
Yiayiá never approved of Matt. Not that she approves of much. It doesn’t matter that he and his family practically own half the city, or that he’s respected everywhere he goes, even with his playboy reputation. He’s a goddamn king to anyone who’s anyone.
But he’s not Greek.
And he’s the opposite of everything Mamá and Yiayiá ever wanted for me.