Page 31 of Crossing the Brooklyn Briggs
“Did you know chemistry has a ton of math to it?”
He laughs. “I knew there was a reason I didn’t like it.”
“Hey, don’t be hating on chemistry.”
“Oh, I’m a huge fan of chemistry. It’s the most important ingredient in a budding relationship, so I hope you and Mushu have it in ample supply.”
I wouldn’t know, considering our one and only conversation started with me screaming. “What kind of PR work did you do, anyway?”
“Deflection. I see how it is. I worked mainly with high profile celebrities and business tycoons. The big fish.”
“What is with you and fish metaphors?”
“What is with you ordering salmon for breakfast?”
I scowl at him, even if his comment is perfectly valid. “You don’t know my tastes, Jordan. I’ve grown up a lot since you saw me last.”
“I’ll say,” he mutters, though I’m not sure he meant for me to hear it. “We’re getting off the topic of your flirting training, but I’ll allow a slight detour if you really want to know about my work. I was pretty important once upon a time.”
That should come across as bragging, but it doesn’t. Jordan has this way of saying things that always sound easy and carefree, and I’ve always been jealous of his confidence. I once heard him tell someone at one of the baseball team’s afterparties that he had a knack for saying all the right things to girls, and I found myself nodding along with him even though I had only snuck downstairs to grab a snack and hated the way he so easily charmed girls.
Jordan Torres could tell a guy that he had the emotional range of a cowbell, and the guy would probably thank him for the compliment.
“What is your craziest client story?” I ask, too curious not to.
He spends the next ten minutes regaling me with ridiculous shenanigans that I can’t believe he managed to sweep under the rug, like when a popular music artist got caught climbing the rafters of a Costco warehouse and Jordan convinced the company that the singer songwriter was actually promoting the product on the shelves. Apparently sales of that product tripled after a video of the incident went viral.
When our food arrives, I catch a whiff of Jordan’s biscuits and gravy first, and it smells heavenly. My omelet…not so much. I don’t especially like fish to begin with, and it’s so early in the day that my brain is fixated on breakfast food. Salmon is not that. Still, if I were here with Mark, I couldn’t just not eat my breakfast and then ask him to stop at McDonald’s on the way home. That would do the opposite of impressing him.
So I cut into the omelet and take a bite, telling myself over and over that this is going to be delicious.
It’s not. It’s not even close to delicious.
Right as I consider flagging Kinley down and ordering something else, Jordan grabs my plate and pulls it toward him, simultaneously pushing his own food in my direction.
My heart beats hard in my chest when he doesn’t even look up before taking a bite of the omelet and nodding like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Though I should suck it up and deal with my own choice, I take a tiny bite of the biscuits and gravy, nearly moaning with pleasure because it’s so good.
“You really don’t have to do that,” I murmur, desperately hoping he argues.
He grins at me before taking another bite. “I like salmon,” he says, as if switching meals is totally normal. “Besides, I do this all the time with my wife.”
His face falls at the same time I choke on a piece of sausage, and then we stare at each other in the most awkward silence of my life.
Chapter Eleven
Jordan
“Ex-wife.” I say thatso quickly that it comes out in a breath, but it doesn’t really change the way Brooklyn stares at me like I’m suddenly a stranger.
I hadn’t meant to bring up Natalie. She’s the kind of thing you bring up on an actual date, but, like, the third or fourth date. Not on a mock date after a decade apart, in which you’re trying to build her up for some other guy who probably doesn’t deserve her. I don’t often get angry, but I’m angry with myself for letting that slip because whatever casual energy Brooklyn and I had between us is now gone.
Swallowing, I stab my fork into my food a few times as I search for the best explanation about Natalie. Brooklyn won’t ask—she’s too good of a person to be nosy—but I know she wants to. “We got divorced about a year ago,” I mutter. Will she let me leave it at that?
Brooklyn tilts her head and takes another bite of my biscuits, and though her eyes nearly roll into the back of her head with pleasure, she keeps her focus on me. She’s full of unasked questions, most of which I would prefer not to answer.
“Natalie would come with me to client meetings sometimes,” I say, sitting back. Suddenly I’m not all that hungry, even if the salmon omelet is good. “She liked to order whatever sounded fanciest to help impress the clients, but most of the time she didn’t enjoy whatever she got. So I got in the habit of ordering something she would eat and swapping with her because I’m not as picky.”
I know she is probably dying with curiosity, but Brooklyn slowly takes a sip of water and seems to be telling herself not to ask me anything. Her lips pucker, and she sends a glare to her glass.
