Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
MATT
I knock on Cole’s bedroom door before pushing it open. “Alright, buddy. Time for bed.”
He’s stretched out on the bed, controller in hand. “But it’s Friday.”
“Yeah,” I say. “And it’s ten-thirty.”
He sighs, dramatic. “My dad always let me stay up till midnight.”
Fuck.
The words hit harder than I expect, and I already feel myself caving. How the hell am I supposed to compete with that?
I lean against the doorframe, buying myself a second. “Okay,” I say slowly. “Here’s the deal.”
His eyes flick up, hopeful.
“Tonight, you can finish this level. Fifteen more minutes.”
He grins.
“But tomorrow,” I add, “screens shut off by ten. Deal?”
He thinks it over, then nods. “Deal.”
I point at him. “And if you push it, I’ll make it nine.”
“I won’t,” he says quickly.
I don’t fully believe him.
“We’ll see,” I say, already backing out of the room.
When I turn around, Jordan’s standing in the hallway, watching us with a smile. “Look at you,” she says, teasing. “And you were worried you wouldn’t be able to say no.”
“I didn’t,” I say. “Did you miss the part where I immediately caved?”
She shakes her head. “You didn’t. That was perfect.” She pauses for a beat, hesitant. “I’m going to get ready for bed.”
The air thickens.
We both know what that means.
Bed.
As in—together.
It’s not something I’m mad about in the slightest.
I grin. “See you in there, wifey.”
“God.” She rolls her eyes. “For future reference, ‘wifey’ is about the biggest turnoff ever.”
I chuckle. “Noted.”
She smothers a smile and turns for the bedroom, my eyes following her until she disappears.
I head for my office. I need something to take my mind off things, and I already know turning on the TV would be pointless. I wouldn’t watch it, anyway.
I settle into my chair and open my laptop. There’s always work to do.
Tonight was… good.
After we picked up Cole, Jordan suggested going out for dinner. We let Cole choose—some shitty fast food where he could get chicken strips and fries. We hit the drive-thru for him, then DoorDashed our food because Jordan’s picky.
We ate together at the counter while Jordan grilled him with questions about middle school.
Favorite teacher. Favorite subject. Best friends.
He answered everything easily, until she asked about a crush. He tried to deny having one. The girls at his school are dumb.
But then Jordan started telling him stories about us. How we’d write notes to each other and fold them up into stupid shapes. About our first kiss in the B hall. How a crowd gathered, even though it was just a peck.
He finally gave in—Abby, an eighth grader.
Jordan’s so good with him. Natural in a way you can’t fake.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen her with Cole, but tonight it hit differently. I’d never really looked at Jordan as a mother before.
Tonight, I couldn’t stop.
It was our first real trial run at what this could look like if we were a family.
And I loved every minute of it.
Which is fucking terrifying.
Because Cole may end up with Cece.
Jordan will most likely want a divorce the second this is over.
And I’ll be left alone in my penthouse, missing the same damn thing I always have.
Again.
Fifteen minutes later, Cole’s standing in my office doorway.
“Matt?” he asks, hesitant, like he’s afraid of bothering me.
I look up from my computer. “What’s up buddy?”
He holds out the controller from his new PlayStation. “Here. My dad always had me give him my controllers at night. I didn’t know if you wanted that, too.”
The urges to smile and cry hit me at the same time. I force the smile.
Christ. I fucking miss him.
Our eyes meet. I’m not sure what he’s asking for here, what he’s needing.
“Do you want to give it to me?” I ask, letting him take the lead.
He starts to nod, then stops, shaking his head instead. “No,” he says quietly.
Okay… I expected him to say yes. Take the routine. Something familiar.
I lean back in my chair, giving it a moment. “Alright,” I say slowly. “You can keep your controllers. I trust you.”
Relief flashes across his face. “Thanks, Uncle Matt. Goodnight.”
“Night.”
My eyes squeeze shut the second he’s out of sight, and I swallow hard as the emotion crashes in out of fucking nowhere. I rub at the corner of my eyes, breathing through it.
God. It’s a lot.
The pressure. The responsibility. This anxiety I don’t know how to live with.
And then there’s her.
My ex.
My fuck buddy.
My friend.
My goddamn wife.
She’s been every name in the book.
And I’m supposed to just walk in there and pretend it’s normal to lie beside her and sleep, when all I can think about is how easy it would be to slide my hand under her shirt and make her gasp my name.
I need a release.
And I’m not talking about my hand.
I need to fuck.
And I’m trying really fucking hard not to make that her problem.
I agreed to this. Hell, I suggested it.
Though when I first pitched the idea, not having sex was definitely not part of the plan.
Jordan texts me from the bedroom.
Jordan
Bathroom is yours.
Thanks. Be in soon.
Not that she needs to know.
I stare at my work a minute longer. I’m too exhausted for this.
With a quiet exhale, I push up from my desk and head to my bathroom to brush my teeth.
Jordan’s still there, brushing her teeth like she’s got nowhere else to be.
And she’s wearing the same goddamn sleep outfit she wears every night.
The same one she’s been wearing when she passes me in the kitchen, leaning over the counter and pretending not to notice me staring.
The same one that’s been giving me a hard-on every morning since she moved in—a white tank top and women’s boxer briefs that are clearly underwear.
She’ll argue that they’re shorts.
They’re not.
She has dozens of each and wears them every night. Has for over a decade.
And this outfit—her pajamas—will be my downfall.
Our eyes meet in the reflection of the mirror the second I walk into the bathroom, and I stop a few feet behind her. She mumbles something through the foam in her mouth.
Don’t know. Don’t really care.
I’m too busy letting my gaze wander over her backside, taking in every curve, every inch of bare skin she’s casually offering me.
She spits and rinses, then stares into the mirror. At me.
“What?” she asks, turning to face me. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
I scoff quietly, shaking my head. “You can’t wear that.”
Her brows lift. “Excuse me?”
“You can’t wear that,” I repeat.
She crosses her arms, toothbrush still in hand. “And who died and made you king?”
She’s joking. I know her different tones.
I’m not.
“I’m king because I said so,” I reply evenly. “And you can’t wear that. Not tonight.”
She smiles, sweet and innocent, but it’s loaded with ammo, just like that tone she gets sometimes. “Well, if you’re king, that makes me queen. And this is what I wear to bed. It’s what I always wear to bed.” She tilts her head to the side. “And you know that.”
I bring my hand to my face, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Christ, babe. I don’t have the energy for this right now. Can you please just change into something else?”
She exhales, exasperated. “I just don’t understand—”
I snap. “Because your shirt’s see-through, Jordan. I can see your nipples, for Christ’s sake.” I step closer, my voice dropping. “And it’s making me want to suck one into my mouth and do things I’m trying hard not to do. So if that’s what you want, go ahead. Wear it to bed.”
For a second, I think she’s considering it. That she’s actually going to change. Her brows pull together, lips pouty in a way that makes me want to scrape my teeth against them.
Then the pout hardens into a scowl.
“Let me get this straight,” she starts, annoyed as hell. “You want me to change because you’re—what, horny and turned on?”
Her tone is almost mocking, and it sends heat rushing through my veins.
“So what if I am?” I ask, forcing my tone to be chill.
“Too fucking bad, because this is what I’m wearing.” She makes for the door. “Jesus. Don’t be so immature,” she adds. “They’re just tits. You’ve seen a thousand of them.”
I turn. “They’re your tits,” I say slowly, my voice edged with warning.
She crosses the room to her side of the bed, and our eyes lock. “I don’t see why that makes a difference.”
I laugh, low and deep. “Fine.” I fold my arms, then grab the hem of my shirt and yank it over my head. “You remember what I like to sleep in, too, right?”
I shove my pants down, step out of them, and toss them toward her. She bats them away, mad as hell.
“I’m not in my birthday suit quite yet,” I say, my voice smooth, taunting. I hook my thumbs into the sides of my boxer briefs. “Should I keep going?”
Her gaze flicks down, mouth parting.
Then she lifts her chin, like she doesn’t give two shits. “I don’t really care what you do. I’m going to bed.”
She yanks the covers back and climbs in with an irritated little huff, like I’m the one being dramatic. Like she didn’t just spend the last two minutes poking a starving animal with a stick.
She turns away from me and flips the light on the headboard off—cool, calm, and completely unaffected.
I stare into the dark, jaw set tight.
Then chuckle under my breath.
She’s going to fucking kill me
I fill the tea kettle with fresh water and turn the burner on high, then place a griddle over the second burner and set it to low.
Opening the pantry, I grab the pancake mix and a mixing bowl. Cole loves blueberry pancakes. He likes chocolate chip even more, but I’m fresh out because I’m a thirty-five-year-old bachelor.
A door down the hall to the right shuts, which means Jordan’s up. Cole’s room is off the living room on the other side.
One good thing about being here in Chicago is that she can’t parade around half naked outside our bedroom.
She rounds the corner looking hot as hell in that bedhead, freshly fucked kind of way that drives me crazy—wild hair, jacket half zipped over her tank and slipping off one shoulder, leggings that make her ass look incredible.
Christ.