Page 13 of Crossing the Brooklyn Briggs
“Yeah?”
“Just tell me what you want. I’ll get it for you.”
“I’ll pay you—”
I groan. Is this what the whole weekend is going to be like? I can only argue for so long before I start forcing kindness, and I can’t see that ending well for me. She may not be a nationally ranked superathlete, but Brooklyn can hold her own. “You’re killing me, Queens.”
She matches my groan with one of her own, reminding me of how easily I used to get on her nerves. That groan made up a significant portion of my high school soundtrack. “Fine. Dr. Pepper with raspberry and coconut. Please.”
“Was that so hard?”
She mumbles something unintelligible, making me chuckle.
“I’ll be back to your house soon, Queens. Don’t get too bored without me.”
When I let myself into her basement apartment half an hour later—I’m almost surprised she didn’t lock me out—I find Brooklyn exactly where I left her on the couch, though she has procured a blanket at some point and turned on the TV. She turns to greet me, probably with some snarky remark, but she only gives me a smile.
And while I’m not in the market for someone to hang on to my heart, that’s the kind of smile that makes a guy want to hand over his dignity and pledge fealty to his fair lady.
Hmm. That could make things interesting.
Chapter Six
Brooklyn
I might be a littletoo excited to see Jordan walking through my door, and though I pretend it’s because he comes bearing my favorite soda, I know better than to lie to myself. I’m excited to see him because I really, really have to pee.
It turns out hopping on one foot with a possible concussion is incredibly painful, and I quickly discovered I landed funny on my wrist as well because crawling was an immediate non-option. And I may not have a lot of dignity left, but army crawling to the toilet felt like too much.
“Oh, thank goodness you’re here,” I say breathlessly. I’ve been bouncing on the couch for the last ten minutes, doing everything I can to distract myself.
Jordan lifts a dark eyebrow. “You must really like this soda.”
I hold out an arm. “Pick me up.” He did it so easily the last time that I’m sure he can do it again.
“Um.”
I have very little bladder room for patience, as much as I wish I did. “Daniel Jordan Torres, pick me up and carry me to the bathroom before I explode. Please!”
Though he does as he’s told, he gets an odd look on his face as he slides one arm behind my back and the other under my legs. Sure enough, he lifts me easily and crosses the room to the little hall leading to my bedroom.
“The door on the left,” I tell him and click the light on as soon as I can reach it.
“I forgot how tiny your bladder is. I’m going to assume you don’t need help beyond this point.” He smirks as he places me on my feet. Well, foot.
I give him a shove. “Absolutely not. At least, not until I’m done.”
He salutes—a man this annoying should not look that handsome—and then shuts the door on his way out.
Ah, sweet relief.
“By the way,” he says, and I’m so glad I don’t have a shy bladder or I would be ready to murder him for standing right outside the door. “How do you know my full name?”
I wait until I’m finished with my business and washing my hands before I respond. I almost expected him to make this whole thing awkward, but he acts as if using the bathroom is a basic human function. Which it is, obviously, but I expected him to tease me about it or something. Had we still been in high school, he probably would have made me do the army crawl or found a way to make me pee my pants.
“I don’t know,” I say with a shrug he can’t see. “Houston must have told me at some point.”
“I’m not sure Houston even knows. I’ve always been Jordan to him.”
