Chapter 48
Chapter Forty-Eight
MATT
I lean back in my chair, hands lacing together behind my head. “Shit,” I mutter, staring at the email from one of my VPs.
Someone fucked up. Someone has to be fired. And I hate being the person who has to make it happen.
I type back a quick response, stating the obvious. I know he already expects me to say it. It doesn’t make it any easier.
My phone dings and a picture of Jordan pops up on my computer screen.
Christ.
She’s in one of my shirts, a white button-up and a black pair of underwear. She only has one button done, and it’s barely covering her tits. My dick jerks in response.
Her text comes through beneath it.
Jordan
Just a reminder that you have a wife at home who is waiting for you to be done with work.
I glance at the time.
Fuck. It’s almost nine.
I scrub a hand over my face and type back, keeping her picture up on my screen.
Trust me. I haven’t forgotten. Christ, babe. You look so fucking hot.
Jordan
How else am I going to get you home? Going to bed at ten. If you wanna fuck, you have forty minutes to get home. Don’t make me send you an even naughtier picture. You know how I feel about that being out in the universe.
I chuckle.
I still have quite a bit of work left. Better send me another pic. Wouldn’t be upset if you were naked…
I stare at the picture she sent. Jesus. I adjust myself and close my laptop, already standing.
Fuck it. Nothing is worth passing up that offer.
I’m on my way.
Jordan
Good boy.
By the way, Yiayiá wants me to bring a dessert. Can you please pretty please stop at that bakery around the corner from your office to pick up a pie? It closes soon.
I already ordered it.
I shake my head, laughing to myself as I head for the elevator.
Are you fucking serious? All that was just a ploy to get me to the bakery before it closes?
One red ass coming your way.
Jordan
Promise?
Thanks, babe. I owe you.
I can think of a few ways you can repay me when I get home.
What time does Yiayiá want us there?
Jordan
3:00. FYI, I will be getting very drunk. Just found out Andrea’s pregnant, and I already know how annoying she’s going to be about it. Be prepared to be interrogated about when we’re having babies.
Oh God. I’m already dreading this.
I laugh again and call her as I exit my building.
She answers on the first ring.
“Hi,” she says cheerfully.
“Hi. So I take it things with your yiayiá went well today?”
Jordan finally had lunch with her mom two weeks ago, after we officially got engaged. Even though we’re already married. She showed her the ring, and caught her up on everything. Her mamá was receptive and kind. Jordan said she even apologized. That’s big for Daphne Demetriou.
Her mom wanted to make sure we were planning to come for Thanksgiving tomorrow. Jordan said she wouldn’t commit until she talked to her yiayiá, and that she would need to be the one to reach out and invite us.
Two days ago, her yiayiá finally called and asked her to come over today.
“Yeah. They went very well… considering it’s my yiayiá.”
“Christ. What does that mean?”
“It means it’s Yiayiá. She didn’t apologize, but she said she would try to accept this. And that she’s sure, with time,” she exaggerates, “that she’ll come to terms with this marriage.”
Pete pulls up and I slide into the backseat. I mute the phone. “We’ve got to stop at that bakery around the corner,” I say to him.
He nods, and I unmute.
“How big of her,” I say, unimpressed.
“It’s not so bad. Honestly, it’s more than I expected from her. She did say she was excited to discuss the future wedding… in Greece.”
I bark out a laugh. “Fuck. Hey, you’re the one who gave me the notes. I was told to say that.”
“Oh, I’m not mad about it. I’m just forewarning you that you are going to be spending an exponential amount of money on a big fat Greek wedding in Greece next year. Yiayiá said, and I quote, If Matthew is serious about this, he can help pay for this wedding.”
“Sounds like a Yiayiá thing to say.”
It should bother me, but it doesn’t. If I have to buy my way into this family, I will. “You know whatever my baby wants, my baby gets,” I add with a grin.
“Oh, God,” she says, and I guarantee that came with an eye roll.
“It’s one of the reasons I love you. Anyway, Yiayiá should be on her best behavior.
Not sure exactly what that looks like, but it will most likely involve a lot of pressure about babies and wedding talk.
By tomorrow night, you’ll be wishing you could take this ring back. ”
“Hmm,” I grunt. “Damn. I think the return policy expired about six years ago on that one.”
She laughs as we pull up to the bakery.
“Hey, babe, we just got here. I’ll grab this pie and see you in fifteen.”
“Alright. Love you.”
“I love you,” I say before ending the call.
One pie and a ten-minute car ride later, I’m stepping into my penthouse with one thing on my mind: getting Jordan naked.
I slow as I come into the kitchen. She’s standing by the stove, scrolling on her phone while she waits for the kettle. She almost always drinks tea before bed: chamomile, mint, or ginger.
Her head lifts when she hears me, and the most gorgeous smile spreads across her face, like she’s genuinely that happy to see me.
“Hi, babe,” she says.
I grin, eyes raking over her. She’s still in my shirt, only now a few more buttons are done up in the center. One side has slipped off her shoulder, and the bottom hangs open, teasing the strip of skin above the black underwear she’s wearing. Her legs—goddamn, her legs. Long. Lean. Bare.
I walk straight to her, pausing only long enough to set down the pie. I grip her thighs and lift her onto the island counter.
She laughs softly in my ear, arms wrapping around my neck.
My hands comb through her hair, the scent of her shampoo filling the space between us. I breathe it in, savoring her. Promising myself that I’ll never take this for granted—her, in my shirt, in my kitchen.
In our kitchen.
My lips meet hers with devotion, slow and deliberate.
“Well, hello, Mr. Grayson,” she whispers, her breath warm against my skin.
Christ.
My fingers slowly climb up the smooth, bare skin of her legs, stopping when I reach the crease of her inner thigh.
I tighten my grip and tug her closer. “Hey, baby,” I murmur.
She grins against my lips, then purrs as she slants her mouth and dives her tongue into mine, sending every thought in my head scattering.
Her hands roam over my body, fingers tracing, nails lightly scratching the surface of my skin.
I slip a hand inside the shirt she’s wearing, finding a breast, letting the weight of it sit in my palm before swiping my thumb over her peaked nipple.
For years I tried to understand why it took us this long to finally get here. Nothing ever made sense.
For so long I thought life was the milestones: the deals, the wins, the empire, chasing the big moments.
Turns out the only things that actually matter are the people waiting for you at the end of the day.
Cole. Jordan.
And this—coming home to her in our kitchen wearing my shirt.
Yiayiá greets us at the door with a smile—or something close enough to it for Yiayiá.
“Ah, agapi mou,” she says, wrapping her arms around Jordan before leaning back to assess her. Her gaze sweeps Jordan from head to toe. “Perfection,” she finally says. “You look lovely.”
Jordan smiles. “Thank you, Yaiyia. You look beautiful too. I love this dress.”
“Oh.” She waves a hand. “This old thing? It’s from last season’s collection.”
I stifle a laugh, knowing the heavy eye roll Jordan’s holding back.
She turns to me. “Matthew,” she says with a polite nod. She doesn’t hug me, but she also doesn’t look at me with complete disdain.
I’ll take that as a win.
“Come in. Come in. Jordan dear, after you hang your coat you’re needed in the kitchen. Matthew, the men are in the sitting room smoking cigars.” Then she glances at Jordan. “Panagía mou! The whole house is going to smell of that stench.”
She huffs and walks away, arms lifting in a dramatic wave as she disappears around the corner.
I meet Jordans eyes and a laugh busts out of her. “Oh my God, I don’t know what she’s complaining about. The smell of lamb always overpowers everything else.”
I chuckle, helping her out of her coat. “Just tell me there’s a turkey.”
She lifts a brow. “Doubtful. I can’t remember the last time I had turkey on Thanksgiving. Andrea brought one once—to this day, it’s the only time she was ever liked less than me.”
She laughs softly, and I pull her into me, brushing my lips across hers, noticing the ease in her body. “You’ll always be my favorite person here,” I murmur. “You doing okay?”
She nods. “Yeah. I feel good. Things feel good.” She gives me a small smile. “I’m happy you’re here. It’s been a long time since we’ve spent Thanksgiving together.”
“Yeah,” I say, thinking. “Probably ten years. At least.”
Growing up, I used to come here for Thanksgiving. But once we were in our twenties, I got sick of the bullshit with her family. And honestly? Jensen’s family is just a hell of a lot more fun. Jordan never felt brave enough to ditch hers. So we’d meet up afterward.
She promised we’d go to the Adams’ next year, and we’ll do Christmas Eve with them this year. Together—hopefully with Cole.
I hand her the pies. “Have fun in the kitchen,” I say with a grin. “I’m going to go smoke a cigar.” I tap her ass as she turns.
“Lucky,” she whispers. “I’ll walk you back.”
We walk down the hall to the sitting room. Jordan’s pappoús sits in a dark green chair facing the window, cigar in one hand, newspaper in the other.
Shit. I didn’t even know people still read the newspaper.
I’m relieved to find him alone. No Christopher… for now.
“Pappoús!” Jordan’s voice cuts through the room.
He looks up, eyes lighting instantly. “My sweets.” He starts to stand.
“Don’t get up,” she says, making her way toward him. “I just wanted to say hi before I head to the kitchen.”