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It's Jordan.
Big Brother: Before you ignore me, this is important.
I ignore him anyway. He stood me up yesterday. I'm mad at him.
Big Brother: I'm serious, Half-Pint.
If him and Roman don't stop calling me that, I may kill them both. I swear, they think it's hilarious to make fun of me for being short. As if it's my fault they got the tall gene, and I didn't.
Me: You always say that.
Big Brother: I mean it this time.
I decide to hear him out, curious if he's going to confess to sleeping with Hollie. Surely he knows it was her. He has to know…right?
Me: Fine. What do you want?
Big Brother: Breakfast. Are you hungry?
I stare at his text for a long moment and then smile despite myself. Of course that's what he wants. He hates when I'm mad at him. It drives him crazy.
Me: Breakfast isn't important, Jordan.
Big Brother: It's the most important meal of the day, Half-Pint. Meet me at the diner in an hour.
Me: Fine. But I'm still mad at you.
Big Brother: I know.
By the time I get to the 5 th Avenue Diner, Jordan is already at our booth in the left corner. Why the place is called a diner, I don't know. It was recently remodeled and is seriously nice, like it was plucked straight from a bygone era. The burnished gold floor and plush red booths give it a luxurious vibe that's almost commonplace in this town.
Nothing here is ever simple. Everything is posh and elegant, designed to make the rich men who call this town home at ease.
Like usual, the place is packed full of men in suits, drinking coffee as they peruse Wall Street Journal or chat with associates over breakfast.
"I ordered your usual for you," Jordan murmurs, rising to his feet to meet me.
"With extra whipped cream?"
"Do I look like I want to die?" He smirks, dropping a kiss on my forehead. "Of course, I ordered extra whipped cream."
"Good. I guess I'll let you live."
He chuckles, waiting for me to slide into the booth before he sits opposite me, one arm thrown across the back of the bench. "So you're still mad?"
I hold my finger and thumb a fraction of an inch apart. "You and Roman both stood me up."
"Roman ditched your Come to Jesus too?"
"Ha! At least you admit you ditched."
He shrugs, unrepentant. "I had shit to do, Half-Pint."
"Like what?'
"Shit." He waves me off. "But I'm here now. So let's hear it."
"You can't work through Christmas this year. I forbid it," I say, crossing my arms to glare at him. "Roman either. We're having a traditional Christmas like a normal family, and you are both going to be there."
