Page 17 of Heated
“You don’t really believe that shit, do you? I’ve seen you juggle more women than a Venice Beach mime.”
His hand freezes over his plate; then he slowly straightens in his chair, a serious expression that I rarely glimpse on him crossing his face.
“First, I don’t ‘juggle’ women. Do I date and fuck my fair share? Yeah. But never at the same time. I’m not that guy. I’m always straight up about who I am and what I’m looking for and how it ain’t them. Second, hell yeah, I believe inthat shit. I may not have seen much of it growing up—as in not at fucking all—but it exists. And not just in fucking fairy tales. I see it with Coach and Pam. Just from the little bit you’ve told me about your parents, you saw it with them. So yeah, I believe in it, and what’s more, I want it. And I’m not settling until I have it.”
“I’m ... not really sure what to do with that.”
Because of all the things I expected to come out of this inked, bad-boy ballplayer’s mouth, it wasn’t some romantic shit likethat.
Jordan flashes his trademark “I don’t give a damn” smile, then dives back into his food.
“Not yours to do anything with. But for you, I predict one of three things.” He looks up from sawing into his fried chicken to deliver his prophecy. I choose to ignore the shiver of foreboding that ripples down my spine. “You’re going to end up in a miserable, loveless marriage that you’ll stay in out of pure stubbornness and some misguided sense of loyalty. Or you’re going to end up a lonely old man with your job as your everything. Or you’re going to eventually fall in love, and if you don’t pull your head out of your ass, you’re in for a world of hurt. Which is fine if it’d only be you. But you’re going to take her down with you.”
“The hell, Jordan?” I bark out a hard crack of laughter. “You would be shit as a fortune-teller. That was macabre as hell. Do I get any good news?”
He lifts a shoulder in a half shrug. “You’re not giving me a lot to work with. I only call it as I see it. ‘I look like Miss fucking Cleo to you?”
What the fuck?
But apparently, he’s done grilling me about my relationship status and the grim future of my love life.
“So what’s this endorsement contract looking like? Is it as shitty as I think?”
For the next forty minutes, we finish reviewing the contract, and I cross out the exclusivity obligations clause; advise him on negotiating compensation and the trademark and intellectual property rights; and, because this is Jordan, fine-tune and specify the morality clause. There are a few other items we discuss, but by the time we step out in the early-afternoon sunshine, Jordan has given me the go-ahead to open dialogue with the athletic-compression-clothing company.
“I’ll give their attorneys a call as soon as I return to the office,” I say, striding toward my car. “I can’t see this dragging on since they seem to wa—you’vegotto be kidding me.”
“What?” Jordan draws to an abrupt halt next to me, his gaze scanning the parking lot. Within seconds he spots what—or ratherwho—had me scowling and staring. “Who’s that?”
“No one.”
“No one, huh?” The corners of his mouth kick up, and a gleam I recognize only too damn well enters his eyes. “So you don’t mind if I head on over and introduce myself tono one...”
“Don’t even fucking think about it.”
His low chuckle grates against my ears. Yeah, I’ve been played, but I’m still not rescinding that order.
“Which one?” he muses, cocking his head to the side and scratching his dark-blond scruff. “The blonde with the hips and ass? Or the dark-haired one with tits and ass? Hmm ...” A moment later, he shifts his attention from the women carrying bags with the Bacon Social House logo on them to me. “I’m going with the dark-haired one. Just ’cause she’s the exact opposite of Val. And because I saw that muscle jump in your jaw when I mentioned her tits and ass.”
Another of those diabolical laughs rolls out of him. Probably because of the involuntary growl that just escaped me.
Goddammit. And him.
“So are we going to say hi to no one or not?” he presses, that gleam back in his eyes.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to order him to get in his fucking Range Rover and drive away, but that would be like waving chum in front of a starving shark. And assigning more importance to this woman than she warrants.
Why can’t I just say hi and then move on?
To avoid her means I’m running scared. Or there’s something about her that stirs fear in me.
And that’s untrue. She’s like any other woman. If anything, she’ll probably lose her mind and her panties at the sight of Jordan.
Yeah, not feeling any irritation at that thought. At all.
“Let’s go,” I grind out.
Grinning, Jordan falls into step beside me as I stalk across the parking lot. She notices us first, and she pauses at the bumper of the dark-blue Acura.
