Page 37 of Crossing the Brooklyn Briggs
That is something I need to see, but I should probably stay focused. I point to the form he showed me. “I definitely wouldn’t have found that form. The fewer clicks I have to make, the less likely I am to mess something up.”
He switches to his email and starts typing in a half-drafted email, outlining the need for a quote request on the home page. I have to lean closer to read what he’s typing, which means my shoulder presses against his more firmly. He clenches his jaw, his breathing becoming a little more measured. I may not be good at reading people, but even I know my nearness is affecting him. I just don’t know if it’s good or bad.
“Has it been hard, starting your own company?”
He shrugs, rubbing his shoulder along mine with the movement. He has the space to move away, but he doesn’t. “Depends on which day you ask me. I started off a lot more excited than I am now, so it was more fun than it was work back then.”
“Why aren’t you excited now?”
“I am. Some days. Other days I get focused on how I don’t have enough clients to make much of a profit, so I feel like I’m letting a lot of people down.”
“Like Houston?” I doubt my brother could ever be disappointed by his best friend. They’ve stuck together even though they barely ever saw each other for years.
“Yeah. And other people.”
I wonder if he still gives money to his ex-wife, but I’m too much of a coward to ask. Just thinking that brings back the jealous feelings I got this morning, which is really starting to bug me. I shouldn’t like Jordan. Ican’tlike Jordan. Even if we didn’t have a rocky history, our relationships with Houston are too important to make things complicated.
I don’t have enough luck with men and dating to risk ruining one of the few good relationships my brother has in his life. Even if I wanted to date Jordan, there’s no way it would last. He’s way too good for me.
Suddenly realizing how close we are, I clear my throat and scoot back to my side of the couch. I expect Jordan to relax, but instead his shoulders rise a little higher and his fingers curl into a fist. What doesthatmean?
“Hey, Jordan?”
He doesn’t look at me. “Hmm?”
“I hate to ask, but…” I shouldn’t do this, knowing it will probably torture us both, but I need more facts if I’m going to have a decent conclusion to my experiment. “Would you mind massaging my foot again? It felt so good the last time.”
His eyes jump to my feet, but not before a look of panic crosses his face. That could either mean he really doesn’t want to, or it could mean he wants to but knows that proximity is dangerous. Which it is. Maybe not for him, but it’s certainly dangerous for me.
Setting his computer on the floor, Jordan holds out his hand and mumbles something I don’t quite catch, though it sounds a lot like, “I taught you too well.” The instant my feet are in his lap, he relaxes, and his hands start working their magic.
Conclusion: Jordan wants to be close to me.
Now I just have to figure out what that means.
Chapter Thirteen
Jordan
“But it doesn’t make anysense!”
The only thing stopping me from dying of laughter is an enormous sense of self-control. Brooklyn looks ready to fall apart as she sits on her countertop and scowls at the ingredients I’ve laid out for dinner. I’m still working with limited ingredients because I got too caught up with work to remember I wanted to hit up the grocery store today and get her some proper food, so I’ve had to get creative with tonight’s meal.
Brooklyn doesn’t seem to appreciate my creativity. “You can’t tell me to ‘chop some onion’ but not how much. ‘Some’ isn’t a measurement, Jordan.”
I fold my arms, leaning against the stove. I’ve already peeled and chopped the sad, wrinkly potatoes she had in her pantry and put them in the oven, and the frying pan is hot, oiled, and ready to go as soon as she gets the onions diced.
“We just need a handful,” I tell her.
She points her knife at me. “Do you have any idea how imprecise that is? Your handful is way different from my handful. Have you even measured what a handful should be?”
“No, because there’s no point in measuring.”
“Jordan!” She looks ready to cry, and I hope it’s because she started slicing the onion before asking how much we needed.
“Like I said when we started,” I say, trying to sound soothing, “I never measure things when I cook. It’s fine.”
Groaning, she sets the knife on the counter—I appreciate that so much after the way she was waving it around—and pulls her hair up off of her neck as if this argument has her overheating. “What about when you’re following a recipe?”
