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It’s been four days since I’ve returned from Vegas. A lot of that time has been spent at the arena and weight room, but it’s recovery day, so I get to relax. It’s been a weird few days. Bryan is pissed. I don’t have to worry about any more wedding festivities interrupting my schedule. At least, I assume the wedding is off, based on the way she left Vegas without even getting her stuff from the hotel. That was some heavy shit that went down.
I can’t imagine what Jordana—Jordan—is feeling. I’ve received more accusatory texts from Bryan, trying to blame me for how his dick found its way into Veronica. Sometimes they’re threatening, but Bryan’s all talk. And I haven’t admitted to anything. He deserves to be in the hot seat for a while. I’m no saint, but that was a fucked-up thing to do. I don’t regret telling Jordan. Ever since the night at the lodge, I’ve been suspicious.
I take another sip of my large black coffee at my favorite hole-in-the-wall coffee shop, Uncommon Grounds, and the simple act of bringing the mug to my lips makes my overworked muscles ache. I should have stretched this morning,but I had to get here early so I could get my hands on two jumbo pumpkin muffins before they were gone.
This place makes killer fucking muffins, and I wait all goddamn year for the pumpkin ones. Call me a basic white boy, I don’t give a fuck. You’d do the same if you knew how good they tasted. The owners already had them set aside; they know me well. This place is mostly frequented by an artsier crowd. I’ve learned over the years the majority of them aren’t concerned with NHL standings or anything hockey-related, so I get to live in anonymity and enjoy my coffee like everybody else. This place is my best kept secret.
A woman reads the newspaper at the table next to mine, and I lean over and clear my throat. “Mind if I steal the sports section?” She smiles and separates the pages for me, handing them over.
“Thanks.”
She nods, and we both go about our reading.God, I love it here.
A few more customers trickle in, and the ambient noise of steaming milk and cups clinking have blurred into the background. The article I’m reading criticizes the Lakes for choosing such a young captain to take over Lee Sullivan’s spot. As I’m peeling the second muffin from the paper liner, the barista calls out a name that cuts through the haze.
“Jordan. Small iced mocha with heavy cream.”
My gaze instantly snaps up to the counter, and there she is.
No fucking way. It’s creepy seeing someone right after thinking about them. And here, of all places. What are the odds? I would have taken her for a Starbucks girl. She drops a few dollars in the tip jar and smiles at the man behind the counter before finding a table on the other side of the café. I dip my eyes back to the article,but it’s impossible to focus on the words. Peeking up again, I give her a once-over. Not a stitch of makeup, her hair likely hasn’t seen a hairbrush today and is piled on top of her head in a messy bun. She looks so different, but no doubt, it’s Jordan Landry.
I never noticed the freckles over the bridge of her nose. She must cover them up, because there’s no way I’d forget those. I have a thing for freckles. Her tight leggings show off her figure, but the rest of her is swimming in an old college sweatshirt with a stain on the sleeve.
It’s fascinating to see this version of her, knowing how much money she comes from. The Landrys run in some of the same circles as my family. The top one percent are very aware of each other and their business dealings. In my family, appearance is important. Prestige is everything.
I suppose that’s the difference between old money and new money. Old money knows they’re rich, they don’t need to show it off. New money has something to prove. Jordan is definitely the former. She doesn’t show off labels or flaunt designer purses, she’s always dressed conservatively... but never slouchy. Which is why her current ensemble captures my interest.
Am I supposed to say something? Shit. Give her my condolences? I don’t want to be some shoulder for her to cry on. The only body part I want on my shoulders are legs. Besides, she’s better off this way. But damn, she’s been betrayed in the worst way possible—ugh. Fuck. Before I realize it, I’m already picking up my things.
She catches me striding across the room and cocks her head to the side.
“Hey.” Her eyes are tired, but she greets me with a lopsided smile. “What are you doing here?”
I smile back. “This is my place.”
“Your place? I’ve been coming here for years. They know me by name,” she chirps.
“Do you think that makes you special or something? They know me by name too.”
She holds up a white paper bag.Why is she still wearing her engagement ring?“They had my bakery order ready. I’mveryspecial. So, suck it.” Her bright, clean perfume wafts toward me when she sets the bag down.
I present my matching bag as I pull out the chair across from her and sit down. “Checkmate,” I counter.
“Oh, would you like to join me?” she asks, rolling her eyes.
I smirk at her. She takes a sip of her coffee and leans back in her chair, regarding me in silence. I don’t like how exposed I feel. The air between us wanes. “So... how are things?” I ask, equally sarcastic.
“Can’t smile wide enough.” We’re on the same wavelength. Glad she’s not going into more depth, I’m not in the mood to listen to a sob story. I sip my coffee and open the sports section again.
“I’m sorry, but...” She looks around. “Why are you here?”
“Pumpkin muffins. Why areyouhere?”
“I mean, why are you sitting at my table?”
My lips curve into a half smile. She really doesn’t give a shit. It’s intriguing. “Answer my question first.” I fold the newspaper and set it down.
She taps her chin and narrows her eyes. “Well, let’s see. My ex-fiancé hasn’t stopped calling or texting since a few days ago when my mother picked me up from the airport after I left my own bachelorette party because he slept with the maid of honor of our wedding. Before we even got to my condo to pick up some clothes, my mother informed me thatsometimes ‘accidents happen’”—she uses air quotes—“and he’s probably trying to sow his wild oats before the wedding. So I’ve spent the last however-many days being told I’m overreacting. Like, fuck me for expecting my fiancé to not sleep with my best friend, right?” She throws an arm out. “Oh, and I really like the apple-cinnamon scones, so I’ve been stuffing my face to pass the time.”
