“What are the fucking odds…”
“Tell me about it.”
Jett looks fucking good, too. Who would’ve thought I’d find a guy hot? Here I am, admiring him in his loose-fitting dark wash jeans, dark brown boots, and beige linen shirt, open to a white tank top. His ears pop with small gold hoops, and a thin gold chain glints around his neck.
“Fuck…” I whisper.
He scans the bar until his eyes land on mine. I wave him over, and he sexily saunters our way.
“I’m not into guys, but I can admit when someone is hot,” Justin says close to my ear.
“Right?”
When Jett reaches us, I gently fist his shirt and look up at him. “You look hot. Can I kiss you?”
He smiles awkwardly and glances around before his eyes are back on mine. Instead of answering, he gives me a quick nod.
Jett has to lean down a little so I don’t have to stand on my toes. I’m enveloped in his delicious vanilla scent, mixed with that amber and almond… I take a deep breath of him before my lips land on his. Our kiss is soft and doesn’t linger.
He leans close to my ear and says, “Always wear blue.”
“You got it.”
I pull away and introduce him to Justin.
“Can I get you a beer?”
“Yeah, something amber. You pick.”
I leave Justin and Jett to talk about stats, of all things. Not sports stats, but crime stats, which I know zero about. I beam at how quickly they’re talking, bonding over numbers, while I order a beer for Jett.
After a few more drinks and playing some darts, we head home now that happy hour is over.
As we walk back to our building, I slide my hand into his. “Is this okay?”
He looks down and nods. “Ah, yeah. Your friend seems cool.”
“He’s kind of quiet until you get to know him. I’m glad you guys hit it off.”
We step into the lobby of our building and head to the elevator. My finger hovers over the numbers, my stomach tight with anticipation. “Your place or mine?”
He frowns, then licks his lips. “Uhm, I don’t know.”
I wink at him. “Let’s see how the famous Jett Cordier lives. I barely glimpsed your place last time. I got a little…distracted.”
“I’m hardly famous.”
“Tsh, you are to me.”
Jett fingers his gold chain, watching the numbers climb. My little Whiplash is unusually nervous or shy.
When we reach the 12th floor, I yank on his hand again and walk toward his apartment.
He lets me enter first. I step inside and look around at the simple, yet comfortable furniture. Actually, there’s hardly any furniture. He’s got a sofa, a table with a TV on it, one lamp, and one stool at the kitchen counter. Like mine, the walls are bare.
“Do you own your place?” he asks, dropping his keys on the kitchen counter.
“Yeah, I bought it this summer.”
