THIRTY-TWO
JORDIE
The scrape of the butter knife against toast might as well be a chainsaw.
I sip my coffee. It scalds my tongue. Somehow that feels easier than speaking.
Across from me, Callum bites into his toast. The crunch feels amplified. Or maybe it’s normal volume and my nervous system is just shot.
My kitchen feels like a showroom. Too quiet, too neat, too staged.
We’re not Jordie and Callum, friends with banter and shared eye rolls. We’re two semi-strangers, politely navigating breakfast, pretending we haven’t seen each other come undone.
I stare at a tiny chip in my mug, thumb grazing the crack over and over. I can’t look at him. Not directly. Because if I do, I’ll remember the way he watched me, memorizing every detail of the moment I shattered.
He clears his throat. A gentle, almost polite sound.
“So . . .” he says, “are we supposed to not talk about last night?”
I blink. I hadn’t expected him to ask. Hadn’t even considered that he might want to bring it up. A part of me had hoped we could let it float, something special and unspoken, without labels or promises.
“What’s there to talk about?” I say, careful to inject just enough sarcasm to make it sound breezy. “Just friends who occasionally strip each other’s clothes off. Super casual.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice tight. “Okay.”
His eyes search mine, and I hate how much he tries to find something there. Some kind of hint that I’m joking. That I don’t mean it. Or maybe that I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. That I’d wake up beside him instead of all the way across the room like I’m afraid of the plague.
Except it’s not a plague.
It’s worse.
It’s the thing I swore I wouldn’t do again—getting too fucking close.
When I can’t stand his gaze anymore, I get up, clear the table, and head to the sink. The kitchen tap squeals as I twist it on, then sprays sideways, directly into my face.
“Seriously?” I mutter, twisting the tap off and wiping my face with the back of my sleeve.
Behind me, I hear his chair scrape back.
“Here. Let me—”
“I’m good,” I cut in, crouching down and yanking open the cupboard beneath the sink. “Grab my toolbox, please? Laundry, bottom cupboard.”
He goes. Comes back. Doesn’t say anything when he sets it down beside me. I take the spanner, reach into the cold metal innards of the sink, and twist the shut-off valve hard to the right. The dripping slows. Stops.
“Didn’t know you were handy,” he says.
“Didn’t know you assumed I wasn’t,” I fire back.
I tighten the fitting, check it again, then back out of the cupboard.
“Try the tap?” I ask.
He does. Water flows. No shriek. No spray. No leaks.
The opposite of whatever’s happening inside my chest.
“Fixed,” he says, sounding equal parts impressed and—God help me—a little turned on.
I’m still crouched on the floor, one knee pressed into the tiles. He holds out a hand.
I just stare at it.
“I know you’re stubborn but . . .” he pauses, amusement ghosting across his mouth. “Let someone help you, Goblin Queen.”
I don’t take it. I push up on my own.
“Well,” I say lightly, “one must know how to do everything on the prospect of being alone forever.”
His fingers flex, then curl back in as he drops his hand.
“You really believe that?”
I don’t answer.
His eyes land on the damp strand of hair stuck to my cheek, and I know what he’s about to do. Know he’s going to reach for it. Because he’s sweet. And careful. And devastatingly tender like that.
Don’t you dare lean in, Jordie.
I tuck the hair behind my ear. Beat him to it.
Then step away.
Not because I want to.
But because I can’t bear his gaze. Or his warmth. Or the weight of this . . . thing between us.
I grab my phone.
“Leith’s coming over,” I announce.
Not a lie. Leith’s text glares at me on the screen.
I take a sip of my lukewarm coffee and finally say, “You should go.”
Callum doesn’t argue. Just nods.
He picks up his keys. Steps toward the door. Pauses. “Jordie, are we okay?”
I look at him, and the question slices through me because I know he means, “Are you okay?”
I give him the smile I reserve for self-preservation.
“We’re good,” I say, knowing full well we’re not. I’m not. “I’ll see you Tuesday.”
He holds my gaze a moment longer, then leaves.
And I stand there, mug to my lips, regretting I said we’re good when what I really mean is, I don’t know how to do this without destroying us.
I’m sweeping the floor when Leith lets himself in without knocking, as usual.
“Morning, House Mouse,” he calls, as he takes his sunglasses off and breezes past my doorway. “Still alive? You didn’t answer your phone.”
“Didn’t check it,” I mumble.
He makes a beeline for the kitchen and plucks a banana off my fruit bowl. Peels, then pauses. Sniffs.
“Your house smells like a department store,” he says. Another sniff. “Was there a Jo Malone orgy in here last night?”
No orgy.
Just me. And Callum.
Having sex.
I swallow, though the motion lodges somewhere behind my collarbone, where my high-neck top is already doing its best impression of me being strangled.
And not in the good way.
The high neckline is strategic. It’s the only thing concealing a very vivid hickey currently turning my collarbone into a tell-all.
And the scent? Me trying to fumigate the lingering cologne of a certain doctor and the god-awful shame molecules now baked into my upholstery.
I’ve got three diffusers going full blast—lavender, eucalyptus, and something that reeks of a Bali brothel.
“You alright?” Leith asks. “You’re squinting like someone lobbed a flashbang.”
“Headache.” And guilt that’s taken up residence in my soul.
“You’ve been more headache-y lately.”
“It’s the pill,” I mutter. “Hormones messing with everything. Sleep, tummy, vibe—take your pick.”
“You’ve seen your doctor?”
No. Because I am emotionally constipated and professionally evasive.
“Why are you here so early, Leith?”
He chews the last of the banana and pulls an envelope from his jacket like a magician presenting a trapdoor.
“To hand-deliver this. Because some things require gravitas.”
I take the thick cream cardstock; wax seal stamped with the M.P.F. logo in gold foil.
“Didn’t realize it’s that time of year again,” I say.
“Every year for seven years, and it still sneaks up on you.”
The envelope is embossed in deep navy ink: The Melissa Pratt Foundation Annual Starlight Gala.
“I’ll wear something nice, so I don’t embarrass you,” I muse.
Leith rolls his eyes and moves toward the bin.
“You won’t,” he says over his shoulder. “Because I’m sending you a curated rack. Giambattista, Bottega. Maybe even a Schiaparelli if you’re emotionally stable enough to carry it.”
He pauses mid-bin toss. Stares.
“Huh.”
He drops the banana peel in and shuts the lid.
Shit. What did he see?
I try to swallow again, running a finger along my neckline, suddenly way too aware of how tight it feels.
“Didn’t realize your aversion to high necklines was over,” he says casually. “Maybe I’ll add a Valentino. Their spring collection has a few boatnecks. Very I’m fine, nothing to see here.”
Leith pours himself coffee, watching me with that expression that says: I know everything, but I’m going to let you squirm first.
“So . . .” he says, dragging the word out like it’s got a runway to strut. “What’d you do last night, House Rat?”
I blink. “What?”
He smiles sweetly. “Sorry. House Mouse. My bad.” Sip. Pause. “Just curious since you smell like a Diptyque crime scene, and you’re dressed like someone trying to hide a suck mark the size of Tasmania.”
I rush to the bin, yank the lid open, and groan. “Was it the beer cans that gave it away?”
“No. Clocked something was up the second I got here.” Leith watches me with a look of unholy delight. “You’re walking like someone who just had their soul excavated through their cervix.”
“Oh my God.” I choke, hands over face. “Leith—”
“Probably by an anesthetist.” Leith tilts his head. “Shame. Would’ve been a much cleaner metaphor if he were a gynecologist.”
I consider several responses in quick succession: murder, denial, and hurling myself into the bin I’m already standing next to. Instead, I make a strangled sound somewhere between a gasp and a death rattle.
Which is unfortunate because it only confirms I have no defence and Leith knows it.
“So,” he says, like this isn’t the verbal equivalent of setting me on fire, “you and Callum.”
I say nothing.
He nods once. “You’re in the post-coital existential fog. The good news is, it’s survivable. The bad news is, you’re you.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “Just . . . tension. Weirdness. One-night stand stuff. Casual.” I swallow again, and the next words taste like steel wool. “It’s nothing.”
Saying it that way feels like trying to fold something sharp into a small, round box.
“Jords,” he says gently, “you’re not built for casual.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“I think you’re pretending you don’t. Which is worse.” Leith sets his mug down with a soft clink. “I’ve only known Callum for five minutes, and even I can tell—he’s linen sheets and slow Sunday mornings. Not pub bathroom hookups. Not a nothing kind of guy.”
He doesn’t blink. Just lets the words hang in the air.
“So,” he adds, almost gently, “if you’re going to pretend it’s nothing, maybe make sure it’s not something first.”
My nails dig into the edge of the counter like I’m trying to hold my own spine up.
“I’ll figure it out,” I mutter.
“Well, figure fast,” he says, reaching for his sunglasses on the counter. “Because your mother dearest is coming up.”
My stomach drops so hard I feel it in my ankles.
“Probably unannounced. Probably with some real estate bullshit offer in her last-season Birkin.”
“You don’t know that.” The words catch in my throat—half disbelief, half the sinking dread curling in my gut.
“Margaret called your old solicitor. Asked about the house. Asked if you were still living here. Said she’ll be up to visit a friend.” He air-quotes friend, contempt scrawled all over his face. “Didn’t know malignant narcissists made friends.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I’m in Brisbane four days a week. Harrow’s board is on the edge of flipping, and I’m about to offer one of the sharks a seat at mine. I don’t have time to clean up Margaret’s emotional wreckage and run a company.”
“Leith, she’s not—”
“She is.” His tone is unshakable, reserved for boardrooms and breakups. “It’s the same chill I get when a bitchy bridesmaid walks into my hotel lobby wearing Gucci knockoffs with unprocessed trauma.”
He’s halfway out the door, sunglasses on.
Then he stops.
Turns.
“You’ve got two options, Jords: act like nothing happened and push Callum away or define it. Because you’re going to need someone in your corner when your mother shows up pretending this house is hers and your life is a personal insult.”
A pause.
“Better Callum than me. Because if I ever end up in the same room as Margaret, I will wrap her in a weighted blanket of her fucking sins against you and throw her into a shark-infested ocean.”
And he’s gone.