Page 31 of The Chance

Chapter Fourteen

Jordan

I had no businessasking him that.

Thinking that.

Wondering that.

The organized mayhem of Aria’s shop has calmed, but not considerably.

It has made it easier to step back, watch from afar as Mac hands off the twins to his brother and is swept away by Aria.

He’s safe with her, I know he is.

Yet I still find his absence palpable. Like I’ve left my favorite hoodie behind or lost my lucky coin. Except, I’ve never believed in that shit. There was never anything in my life that I could attest to being a beckon of some kind of fortune or blessing. Mostly, I’ve been more prone to find the things that wereunlucky,which is probably why I opened my big mouth.

I shouldn’t have asked him.

He’s single and has been for as long as I have known him. That wasn’t fair of me to bring it up, and yet … I can’t find it in me to hate his answer.

Mac wants kids … someday.

Just not today. Which only eases the guilt swimming in my chest about looking at him the way that I did. For feeling the things that I am.

For imagining what I did when his mouth dropped open.

Feed me.

I try to shake off the tingling that has taken over my skin by walking around, checking in with Jonathon, even doing another round outside.

The fresh air does nothing to ease the tightness in my chest or the churning in my stomach. But when I step back inside and see the studio has been converted into a photoshoot, my feet root in the spot.

It’s not the backdrop that takes up one whole wall and drapes across the ground like the satin can mimic waves. Nor is it the lights with the umbrellas attached or even the camera taking up Aria’s sister’s face.

No.

It’s Mac.

As always, drawing my attention right to him despite the flurry of others in the room.

With his tight black jeans and painted nails. His Chucks that are probably as old as he is. Those wild curls of his peeking out between his bandana and the hood of a brand-new hoodie.

An unzipped hoodie with the As Above emblem painted in every color of the rainbow on the left side of his chest.

But as much as the bare chest beneath it catches my sight and dares me to hold it, I don’t.

No.

Instead, I flick my sight to the hardline of his jaw that hosts a ghost of a smile and the pride that shines in his lined greenish eyes.

He lifts his chin, defiant and strong, and shoves his hands in the pockets of the hoodie. The move straightens the logo, making it stand out, a stark contrast to the dark material behind it, and my chest fills.

He looks like a warrior readying for battle. A rebellious leader.

A misfit dressed in all black.

My heart thunders in my chest when he spins, the same colorful name across the expanse of his shoulders that lift when he flexes, the hoodie raising enough to flash the skin of his lower back.

---