Page 6 of Last First Kiss

He waves her off. “No worries. It was my fault. I was—It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he says, straightening his shoulders. “Thanks again, Mallory.”

She swipes up his soupy pasta, then disappears.

Jordan winces guiltily at Jess. “I’m so sorry.”

“It happens.” Jess’s expression warms. “Remind me to tell you about how I almost stabbed my ex while at a steakhouse.”

“Was it a freak accident?”

“Allegedly.” She smirks again.

His eyes trail to the tipped-over glass Mallory forgot. “I can get you a new one.”

As he’s about to signal for Asa to come back, Jess grabs his hand. “Don’t worry,” she insists. Her fingers play along the inside of his wrist. “I have an unopened bottle. Back at my place. We could share.”

There’s a clear suggestion in her tone. In the way her head tilts as she bites her lip. An invitation made bold by her stare.

Jordan swallows.

He knows this part. Knows the expected outcome. Knows what almost any other man would do in his position.

Which is why Jordan grins, then says, “I have an early morning tomorrow. First meeting with a new VIP client.”

Jess’s eyes grow smaller.

“I shouldn’t stay out too late,” he adds.

It’s not an excuse. Hedoeshave a big meeting in the morning. That doesn’t change the way Jess’s mouth pinches, her eyebrows draw inward.

“How… responsible,” she exhales.

“We should do this again though,” Jordan quickly offers. “You know, without the wine spilling.”

A quiet beat passes.

The change is almost instant. Jess hums anmm-hmm. She doesn’t make eye contact with him while scooting her chair back. She stands, tucking her phone into her purse.

Jordan tries to look hopeful, but he’s already mentally composing a brand-new version of this story for his family:

He’ll leave out the way Jess steps closer to him. How her hand rests on his dry shoulder. Her smooth lean in to press a peck to the corner of his mouth. Or how, at the very last second, Jordan tips his head away. Offers her his cheek instead, like some visiting European dignitary.

Jordan will skip over his stammered “I’ll t-text you.”

And Jess’s whispered “Well, this was tragic” as she walks past him.

Conveniently, Jordan will forget the part where he sulks at the table until the bill arrives. He’ll redact pausing at the bar on his way out. Getting an up-close view of the man who threw his entire game off. He’ll neglect to mention how, when said bartender with his broad shoulders and messy brown hair gives him a wolfish smile—just like the one Jess wore ten minutes ago—Jordan felt nothing.

Healwaysfeels nothing in moments like this.

Outside, Jordan checks his phone. No texts from his mom asking for updates. At least not yet. He considers calling Denz. Lamenting over another failed date as he walks to grab two scoops of brownie batter on a waffle cone from his favorite artisanal ice cream shop down the block.

But he can’t.

Call Denz, that is. It has nothing to do with the time zone difference. It’s only 6PMin California.