Page 33 of Beachside Kisses With My Best Friend

She takes my shoulders and points me southeast. “Straight that way.”

Before she can say anything else, I’m off, bobbing and weaving through the crowd like it’s an Olympic sport and I’m a gold medalist.

I hear Constance before I see her. Her voice is tense, low. Nasty mean, like a cobra spitting poison. “I just find the whole thing very convenient, especially after claiming for years to be just friends.”

“The good thing is, Constance, that you don’t have to find it any particular way.” Jordan’s being very diplomatic, his voice calm and soothing, but tension rides the currents underneath. “You just need to accept it.”

I pop through the crowd and find them standing along the deck railing near the door that leads between the patio and the inside of the restaurant. Constance is short and thin in a wraithlike way, but nothing about this woman is meek—from her large hands to her loud voice, hissing at my best friend. Even the graying hair pulled away from her tan, weathered face adds to the severity of her features.

Constance’s husband is sitting at a table just inside, his face red as he strokes his bushy white mustache, watching the exchange. Once again, he’s standing (or rather, sitting) by while his wife runs roughshod over the dad of their grandchild. Unbelievable. They must have been dining when she saw Jordan out here. Ironic. Constance said she didn’t want Jordan to contact her about the court petition, butshe’sallowed to approach him in public?

Not cool. Not fair.

“I don’t accept it either,” she continues. “All I’m saying is, the judge might find it interesting to know the timeline.”

“And all I’m saying is,myattorney doesn’t agree with you. The timeline doesn’t matter—not with the love we have for each other.”

His words… They sound soconvincing.

But this is what we said, that we’d refer to our mutual love. Which we have. It just so happens to be platonic love.

At least…I think so.

“And you expect me to believe you just recently discovered this love?” Snorting scornfully, Constance wags a meaty finger at Jordan, who is dressed in a green T-shirt, black Adidas track jacket, and jeans. He faces Constance, arms crossed over his chest, casual and effortless—except for the way his hands are white-knuckling his biceps. It’s the only indication that this interaction bothers him. That and the way his Adam’s apple bobs at her question.

Part of me wants to hang back, wants to hear what he has to say. The other part doesn’t, because…it’s irrelevant.

Either way, right now, he needs me.

“There you are.” I smile like nothing’s wrong as I walk straight toward him and slip my arm around his torso so we can face Constance together.

Our gazes connect as I blink up at him, hoping he feels my support—literally and figuratively.

He squeezes my waist, his hand momentarily splaying across my hip.

I suck in a sharp taste of salty air before moving my attention back to Constance, forcing a smile. “Good evening, Constance.” I’d saynice to see you, but did I mention I really hate lying?

The woman—who I’d never have described as snake-like before now—stares at me with dark eyes that look like they want to devour me. Despite my long sleeves, a shiver courses up my spine, and Jordan moves his hand to my arm, rubbing it up and down, keeping me warm.

If only he knewthatwas making the shivering worse.

“Tell me.” She seems to be studying me the way a scientist picks apart an experiment. “If the two of you love each other so much, why does Ryder tell me that you’re sleeping on the couch, Jordan?”

He stiffens. “That’s really not your business, Constance. And I don’t appreciate you using my son to learn details about my life.”

“The welfare of my grandchild is most definitely my business, and if the two of you are lying to a child?—”

“Who says we’re lying?” Jordan asks.

“I do,” the woman says through clenched teeth. She steps forward, her voice hissing. I swear I see a forked tongue dart out as she speaks. “Either way, it’s a bad look. You’re sleeping separately, and it doesn’t matter to me if the reason is because you’re fighting—which, let’s face it, less than a week in does not bode well—or because you’re faking the whole thing to make Jordan appear to be a better dad by creating the appearance of a stable environment for Ryder.”

Fudgesicles.

I want nothing more than to smack the obnoxious, gleeful look off her face. I mean, Constance Comer is not a bad person—I know this logically. She just misses her daughter and wants to feel closer to her by gaining some sort of custody over her daughter’s son.

But to do all of that at the expense of Jordan?

I want to scream at her that this is not the way.

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