Page 6 of Crossing the Brooklyn Briggs
“That’s low.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“I know.”
“Brook, I know you don’t like him, but let him help. I gotta go win this game really quick.” Houston hangs up, leaving a heavy silence in my room as Jordan and I refuse to look at each other.
This is so Houston. Acting like he can order me around just because he’s a famous pitcher or whatever. Except, he’s never ordered me around, not really, and he technically didn’t tell me to do anything. He told Jordan, who looks like he might throw up as he glares at his phone.
“You don’t have to stay,” I tell him, though I don’t want him to move right now because I’ll definitely fall over if he does.
He exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Pretty sure I do.”
“What did Houston mean about funding?”
“He was my main investor when I started my landscaping company.”
“You own it?”
Finally he moves, looking down at me with a smirk on his lips. “I’m not sure how I feel about your tone of surprise, Queens.”
“That isn’t what I—”
“I know. I’m kidding. Houston and I own it together, technically.”
Huh. I knew Houston invested in our stepsister’s bookstore last year, but I didn’t know there were any other companies. He certainly has the money—my brother gets paid an obscene amount to pitch because he’s, well, obscenely good at it—but I never took him for being business-minded.
“How’s your foot?” Jordan asks.
We glance down in unison, and even in the dim light I can tell it’s pretty swollen. A thick purple bruise has begun spreading across my skin. “Not great,” I admit.
“Can I check your head?”
I nod, preparing to feel him touch the tender spot on the back of my head. What I was not prepared for is the gentle way his fingers move through my hair and make me want to curl up against him while he caresses my scalp.
It’s been a hot minute since my last relationship, and clearly I am feeling a little touch-starved if even Jordan Torres makes me feel something. He was the bane of my existence once upon a time.
“You don’t seem to be bleeding, so that’s good.” I’m not sure why Jordan keeps brushing his hands through my hair while he says this, but I don’t really care. It feels so nice. “I do think you have a concussion, though. Do you feel dizzy? Nauseous? Confused?”
Very confused, but I don’t think that’s from hitting my head. “Can I sit down?” I ask instead of answering his question.
I expect him to let go of me so I can hobble to my bed, but instead he scoops me up into his arms. “Bed or couch?”
“Um, bed?”
“Better make a confident decision unless you want me to pick you up again when you change your mind,” he says with a wink.
I didn’t think anyone could wink without it looking creepy, but Jordan manages it. Maybe it’s because he’s always been solidly attractive so he is able to cross the unfortunate line that separates cute from creepy, but I think it’s more because something about him feels incredibly genuine. He’s always been that way, and as much as I disliked him in high school, he’s always been entirely himself. I used to be a bit jealous of him for that, which generally fueled my dislike.
The things that come easily for Jordan—interacting with people, mainly—have never come easily for me.
I realize I’ve been staring at him, so I clear my throat and nod toward the door. “Actually, the couch would be great.”
“Couch it is.”
As he gently places me on the couch out in the living room and then crouches down to be at my level, we seem to search each other for something, though I have no idea what I’m looking for. Maybe I just want to figure out why I woke up this morning with a migraine and now find myself with the most handsome babysitter I’ve ever had.
It’s too bad he’s also the guy who made my high school years a lot more difficult than they ever needed to be.
