It’s been four days since I’ve returned from Vegas. A lot of that time has been spent at the arena and weight room, but it’s recovery day, so I get to relax. It’s been a weird few days. Bryan is pissed. I don’t have to worry about any more wedding festivities interrupting my schedule. At least, I assume the wedding is off, based on the way she left Vegas without even getting her stuff from the hotel. That was some heavy shit that went down.
I can’t imagine what Jordana—Jordan—is feeling. I’ve received more accusatory texts from Bryan, trying to blame me for how his dick found its way into Veronica. Sometimes they’re threatening, but Bryan’s all talk. And I haven’t admitted to anything. He deserves to be in the hot seat for a while. I’m no saint, but that was a fucked-up thing to do. I don’t regret telling Jordan. Ever since the night at the lodge, I’ve been suspicious.
I take another sip of my large black coffee at my favorite hole-in-the-wall coffee shop, Uncommon Grounds, and the simple act of bringing the mug to my lips makes my overworked muscles ache. I should have stretched this morning, but I had to get here early so I could get my hands on two jumbo pumpkin muffins before they were gone.
This place makes killer fucking muffins, and I wait all goddamn year for the pumpkin ones. Call me a basic white boy, I don’t give a fuck. You’d do the same if you knew how good they tasted. The owners already had them set aside; they know me well. This place is mostly frequented by an artsier crowd. I’ve learned over the years the majority of them aren’t concerned with NHL standings or anything hockey-related, so I get to live in anonymity and enjoy my coffee like everybody else. This place is my best kept secret.
A woman reads the newspaper at the table next to mine, and I lean over and clear my throat. “Mind if I steal the sports section?” She smiles and separates the pages for me, handing them over.
“Thanks.”
She nods, and we both go about our reading. God, I love it here.
A few more customers trickle in, and the ambient noise of steaming milk and cups clinking have blurred into the background. The article I’m reading criticizes the Lakes for choosing such a young captain to take over Lee Sullivan’s spot. As I’m peeling the second muffin from the paper liner, the barista calls out a name that cuts through the haze.
“Jordan. Small iced mocha with heavy cream.”
My gaze instantly snaps up to the counter, and there she is.
No fucking way. It’s creepy seeing someone right after thinking about them. And here, of all places. What are the odds? I would have taken her for a Starbucks girl. She drops a few dollars in the tip jar and smiles at the man behind the counter before finding a table on the other side of the café. I dip my eyes back to the article, but it’s impossible to focus on the words. Peeking up again, I give her a once-over. Not a stitch of makeup, her hair likely hasn’t seen a hairbrush today and is piled on top of her head in a messy bun. She looks so different, but no doubt, it’s Jordan Landry.
I never noticed the freckles over the bridge of her nose. She must cover them up, because there’s no way I’d forget those. I have a thing for freckles. Her tight leggings show off her figure, but the rest of her is swimming in an old college sweatshirt with a stain on the sleeve.
It’s fascinating to see this version of her, knowing how much money she comes from. The Landrys run in some of the same circles as my family. The top one percent are very aware of each other and their business dealings. In my family, appearance is important. Prestige is everything.
I suppose that’s the difference between old money and new money. Old money knows they’re rich, they don’t need to show it off. New money has something to prove. Jordan is definitely the former. She doesn’t show off labels or flaunt designer purses, she’s always dressed conservatively . . . but never slouchy. Which is why her current ensemble captures my interest.
Am I supposed to say something? Shit. Give her my condolences? I don’t want to be some shoulder for her to cry on. The only body part I want on my shoulders are legs. Besides, she’s better off this way. But damn, she’s been betrayed in the worst way possible—ugh. Fuck. Before I realize it, I’m already picking up my things.
She catches me striding across the room and cocks her head to the side.
“Hey.” Her eyes are tired, but she greets me with a lopsided smile. “What are you doing here?”
I smile back. “This is my place.”
“Your place? I’ve been coming here for years. They know me by name,” she chirps.
“Do you think that makes you special or something? They know me by name too.”
She holds up a white paper bag. Why is she still wearing her engagement ring? “They had my bakery order ready. I’m very special. So, suck it.” Her bright, clean perfume wafts toward me when she sets the bag down.
I present my matching bag as I pull out the chair across from her and sit down. “Checkmate,” I counter.
“Oh, would you like to join me?” she asks, rolling her eyes.
I smirk at her. She takes a sip of her coffee and leans back in her chair, regarding me in silence. I don’t like how exposed I feel. The air between us wanes. “So . . . how are things?” I ask, equally sarcastic.
“Can’t smile wide enough.” We’re on the same wavelength. Glad she’s not going into more depth, I’m not in the mood to listen to a sob story. I sip my coffee and open the sports section again.
“I’m sorry, but . . .” She looks around. “Why are you here?”
“Pumpkin muffins. Why are you here?”
“I mean, why are you sitting at my table?”
My lips curve into a half smile. She really doesn’t give a shit. It’s intriguing. “Answer my question first.” I fold the newspaper and set it down.
She taps her chin and narrows her eyes. “Well, let’s see. My ex-fiancé hasn’t stopped calling or texting since a few days ago when my mother picked me up from the airport after I left my own bachelorette party because he slept with the maid of honor of our wedding. Before we even got to my condo to pick up some clothes, my mother informed me that sometimes ‘accidents happen’”—she uses air quotes—“and he’s probably trying to sow his wild oats before the wedding. So I’ve spent the last however-many days being told I’m overreacting. Like, fuck me for expecting my fiancé to not sleep with my best friend, right?” She throws an arm out. “Oh, and I really like the apple-cinnamon scones, so I’ve been stuffing my face to pass the time.”
She takes a deep inhale and presses her palms into her eye sockets, mumbling something about how she can’t believe she’s talking to me about her problems. When she drops her hands and locks her eyes on mine, I almost choke on my bite. She’s got some of the richest chestnut-brown eyes I’ve ever seen. Jordan doesn’t look at you, she looks into you. It’s something I’ve picked up on before, but this is the most attention I’ve ever received from her, and it’s coming at full force.
I nod, giving her a minute to get everything off her chest while she blows off steam.
“My pumpkin muffin is better than your scone.”
She laughs. “That’s all you’re going to say? After everything I just told you?”
I shrug. “It sounded like you needed a little normalcy. And what am I gonna say? Sorry about your shitty life?”
“Hm.” She crosses her arms.
“Let me try a bite of your scone.”
She studies me. If she thinks I’m about to get in the middle of their situation, she’s wrong. I’m not gonna say shit about their relationship or tell her what to do. I don’t care.
“I’ll let you try my muffin . . .” I coax.
“Bet you say that to all the girls.”
At least she’s got a sense of humor. She slides the scone sitting on top of the bakery bag across the table, and I hand her my last pumpkin muffin. She doesn’t even realize the sacrifice I’m making.
I break off a piece of hers and pop it in my mouth. Meh. Not bad, but it’s no pumpkin muffin.
“I shouldn’t eat this, scones are my ride or die. Feels like I’m cheating on them.” She turns the dark orange piece of muffin in her hand, and her eyes grow large. “God, this must have been how Bryan felt. How tragic.”
I stare at her with a single raised eyebrow, my hand frozen, half reaching for the pastry.
Her lips curve into a half smile. “Too soon?”
I grin back, surprised by her unexpected dark humor. She’s never been this candid with me before. We share the same defense mechanism.
She chuckles, tears off a small piece of the pumpkin muffin, and savors it. “Mm, tastes like infidelity.”
Shaking my head, I take a sip of my coffee. My gaze drops, and I stare at the massive diamond on her finger. “So, are you wearing the ring because it matches your outfit, or is it stuck on your finger?”
“It’s stuck on my finger.”
I laugh, but her face is sober. “Really?”
She nods. “I’m an emotional eater. Now that I’m off Bryan’s wedding diet, I’ve been hitting the baked goods—hard.”
I love challenges. “Let me take off his ring.”
She holds her hand out. “Good luck. It was tight when he gave it to me.”
“Why didn’t he get it resized?” I suck her finger into my mouth down to the knuckle, and somehow, her already dark eyes get even deeper. She tastes like apple cinnamon. I swipe my tongue around the taut metal band.
“I thought you were going to use butter or something, you fucking psycho.” She stares for a moment then clears her throat. “He said it was motivation to help with the wedding weight loss. It was supposed to fit once I hit my goal.”
Well, if that’s not the most fucked-up thing I’ve heard all year.
I pull her finger from my mouth. “You’re joking.”
She shrugs. “Wish I was.”
I can get it to turn, but it’s not budging. She wasn’t lying, it’s stuck. “Fuck, this thing is stubborn,” I murmur, working on it.
“I know, I’ve got an appointment with the jeweler this afternoon.” She withdraws her hand and gazes out the window while trying to twist it off. She winces, tugging at it like it’s burning her flesh.
“One sec.”
I walk up to the counter and grab a thin wooden stir stick from the jar. “Hey, Carol. Do you have any string back there I could have?”
“We have baker’s twine. How much do you need?”
“Twelve inches or so?” She cuts me off a piece, and I head back to the table.
“Okay, new tactic.”
Using the stir stick, I push the end of the string under the ring and leave a short tail sticking out a couple inches. With the long end, I wind it around her finger tightly and tie it off around her manicured nail. Taking the short end, I unwind the string in the opposite direction, and her eyes light up when the ring moves.
“Oh my God! It’s working!”
Her eyes are glassy and full of anticipation. As soon as we get to the knuckle, I pause and stare at her. “Ready?” She bobs her head up and down, and I unwrap the string two more times and slide it off her finger.
Her other hand rubs the red indent around the base.
“Holy shit. Thank you!”
I inspect the ring. It’s gaudy and pretentious. Not something I would pick—not that I’d ever buy an engagement ring.
“Your ring is ugly.”
“Dick.”
“Be honest, would you have picked this?” I hold it up.
She purses her lips but doesn’t deny it. She knows I’m right. The corner of her mouth tips up slightly. “You think that’s bad? Check out the engraving.”
I spin it until my eyes catch the words inscribed into the silver band. I read it aloud and instantly cringe.
“I love you this much.”
I stare at her with my head lolled to the side. “And you still said yes? Talk about low standards.”
I’m not romantic by any stretch of the imagination, but even I know that’s bad. Bryan’s worst quality is assigning the things in his life with monetary value. Even people. Who’s well-connected, who has money, which important public figures would be valuable to have in his corner. But to put that on an engagement ring? Damn.
“I tried to look at it through his eyes. Like, maybe that was his way of saying he loved me a lot? It sounds stupid when I say it aloud. The diamond was expensive, but his words cheapened it. I’d rather be proposed to with a Ring Pop than have a dollar sign in front of my worth.”
She’s hurting.
Trying to make light of the situation, I chuckle. “I mean, better than a Ring Pop that says I love you this much, right?”
She stares off into space for a moment, and I don’t fill the air. Truthfully, I don’t feel the need to. The silence doesn’t sit heavy between us. She’s lost in her thoughts, but when she returns, she gives a tight smile and eats another piece of muffin.
“You’re right, these are pretty good—” She chews while tilting her head. “But the scones are better.”
She reaches across the table and pulls it back to her side.
“You’re so full of shit,” I say, beaming. The scones are good, but these particular muffins are leagues above.
She shrugs and takes another bite, then wipes her hands clean of crumbs and holds out her hand. I drop the engagement ring in her palm, and she leans over to tuck it into her messenger bag slung on the back of her chair. When I first sat down, I assumed the conversation would be forced and awkward, but she’s easy to talk to. I’m actually enjoying myself.
Zipping the bag closed, she sighs. She’s dressed like a bum. No prim manners or empty boring complacencies like everyone else who comes from rich families like ours. She doesn’t carry herself with any entitlement—so different from Bryan. She’s unapologetically herself in her stained baggy sweatshirt and leggings. Her legs are tucked under her, almost like a child. It’s a little unnerving, if I’m being honest. At first, I thought it was because she was depressed and neglecting her appearance, but she has a sparkle in her eye she didn’t have before. It’s authenticity. Maybe this is the version of her she hides.
Or maybe I’m looking into it too much.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“You just did,” she says in a dopey voice, then sticks out her tongue. Smartass. I haven’t heard that response since grade school. It’s stupid and nostalgic enough to make me smile. “What do you wanna know?” she asks, picking at her scone.
“We’ve only ever spoken when Bryan was around, but you seem like a completely different person away from him. You’re very . . . informal. So, why were you even dating? Was it like an opposites-attract thing?”
Her shoulders rise as she takes a deep breath and then blows it out slowly. “It’s something our parents set up. I mean, to a degree. We’re the ones who kept dating and going along with it. They thought our union would be beneficial for both parties. There’s always been an understanding we would get married. Our relationship was not a fairytale by any means, but whose is? Fairytales aren’t real, ya know? We got along, we had similar goals, we knew what we wanted in life, my parents loved him.”
This kind of thing isn’t uncommon, it’s definitely something Bryan’s parents would support, though.
“What about you?”
“Did I love him?” She sighs and ponders the question. “I don’t know.”
One of my rules in life is if it’s not an enthusiastic yes, then it’s a no. “I don’t know” is what you say when you can’t decide what to eat for dinner. It’s not the answer you give when asked if you love your fiancé. And refer to it in past tense. I’m not surprised. Until the other night, every time I’ve seen her with Bryan, their interactions were stiff, like they’re following a script. Though, I never would have guessed their relationship was this transactional.
“So, what’s the plan?”
She shrugs. “We haven’t sat down to talk about it. There’s a lot wrapped up in this. It’s not like I can just walk away and never speak to him again. We live together, there are wedding plans, and there’s all the family involvement. My parents left for Monaco this morning. When I waved goodbye, I saw Bryan’s car near the gate. I need to deal with it, but I don’t want to.”
“You don’t have to play nice, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he cheated on you—with your best friend—and yet you seem so pragmatic. Why don’t you teach him a lesson or something?” Bryan’s a friend, but he fucked up. “Every time he does something stupid, he gets a pass. Don’t give him one.” His actions are constantly excused. Even as kids when we did something we weren’t supposed to, I’d be punished and he’d get a slap on the wrist. I kinda wanna see her give him hell over it.
“What’s done is done. I’m hurt, but I’d rather not rock the boat and make this more tumultuous than it needs to be.”
Rock the boat? He had an affair with her best friend. I’d say she’s entitled to a little rocking. I pause for a moment, not quite sure how to ask my next question, but it’s an important one.
“Are you safe with him? Before Vegas happened, I mean?”
She narrows her eyes. “What do you mean?”
I rub my jaw as I formulate my words. “Remember that night at the lodge, when I walked in on you two talking?”
“Yeah . . .” She takes a sip of her iced mocha.
“I’d been eavesdropping and heard the way he spoke to you. Does he do that a lot?”
“He’s jealous and paranoid.” She waves a hand. “The irony, huh?”
“That can be a dangerous combination.” Bryan and I were best friends, but since that night, it’s like I’m seeing this darker side to him. The anger, the cheating, even his attitude is different. “It’s your life, you know your relationship best, but just . . . be careful. There are people and resources I can hook you up with if you feel like you can’t cut things off.”
She averts her eyes and nods. I can tell she knows what I’m getting at. Which makes me think the thought has crossed her mind before.
“I’ll be fine. I can figure things out on my own.”
Talking about him makes her tense. She’s back to staring out the window, which normally would look casual, but her shoulders are hunched, and I wonder if she’s thinking of other times he spoke to her with that tone.
“So, can I get your number?”
She flicks her gaze to mine. “Seriously? Are you really trying to—”
“Glad to see his cheating hasn’t changed how highly you think of yourself. I meant, exchange numbers for platonic purposes. If you ever need help with him or whatever. It sounds like you’re going through a lot, so if you need something, I want you to call me.”
I can’t believe I’m even offering to do this for her, I shouldn’t be getting involved, this is stupid.
“Shit.” She winces, letting out a nervous giggle. I find her embarrassment kind of adorable. She pushes her unlocked phone across the table toward me. “Yeah, we can exchange info.”
After saving my number in her phone, I smirk and raise my eyebrows. “I mean, if you really wanna get back at him, I’d be willing to . . .” I’m only teasing, but my brain gets stuck on the image of being her revenge sex. My eyes drop to her chest. She’s got nice tits, it’s a shame she’s hiding them in that oversized sweatshirt.
She rolls her eyes at me. “Please, I’ve read the tabloids. I know all about you, Teller.”
She proceeds to nibble on her scone, and my shoulders drop.
“You read about me, huh? Well, don’t keep me in suspense . . .”
After she swallows her bite, she smiles and dusts her hands clean of crumbs, preparing to give me the rundown. “You play hard, you party hard, and you—”
“Fuck hard?”
“And you’re a womanizer. Just because I was in a committed relationship, doesn’t mean I can’t spot a fuckboy. You’re not coming near my vagina.”
“I could come on your back if that works better?” I wink, and she actually blushes. She’s cute. Most of the beautiful women I talk to are trying to sleep with me. It’s easy to accidentally fall into the flirty version of myself.
She scoffs. “Okay. I’m not a bunny, so this”—she waves her arms around—“thing you’re doing, I’m immune to it.”
That kind of pisses me off. I don’t like being judged as if sex is a bad thing. “And what would work on you? Being a narcissistic egomaniac? Is that more your type, Sunshine?”
“No, you’re not my type at all.”
I laugh. “Well, that’s good, because I only take home good girls who ask nicely.”
She tries to act flippant, but I saw her pupils dilate. Somebody’s got a praise kink . . . She studies me with narrowed eyes, almost as if she’s considering it. I already know what my answer would be.
I realize I’ve made a grave miscalculation when she starts laughing. It’s a laughing at, not with situation.
“Oh my God, is that what you say to women—that’s your line? And this works for you?”
She plucks the last bite of my muffin off my plate and pops it between her lush lips.
Goddamn it, I was going to eat that.
“Yep. Scones are definitely better.”
Standing from her chair, she gathers her coffee and messenger bag and swallows the bite. My last bite. With my tongue tucked inside my cheek, I shake my head.
“See you around, Teller,” she says, pushing in her chair and starting toward the door. Her smile is forced and doesn’t wrinkle the corner of her eyes.
I call after her, “I meant what I said earlier. Reach out if things get tough.”
She’s already stepping out the door but holds her hand up to let me know she heard me.
I shake my head and smirk. “Jordan—fuckin’—Landry.”
I’m glad she’s not marrying that prick; motherfucker didn’t even know what he had.
