And now my head is spinning for an entirely different reason. I close my mouth and our eyes meet. "See anything awful?"
"No." He slowly shakes his head. "A tiny cut, but nothing major."
I don't know what to say. How to act. So I hold the ice against my eye once more instead. "I feel better now."
Jordan frowns. "Are you sure? You want fresh ice? Ibuprofen?"
"No, I'm fine. Really." I smile and make to get off the bed so I can stand on my own two feet like a normal person, but he grabs hold of my ankle, stopping me.
"Rest for a few minutes longer. You don't want to move too fast and make it worse," he says, his voice low, his gaze roaming over me hungrily, like he wants to eat me up.
My skin goes tight and I'm tingling. I should not be-turned on by the way he's looking at me. My eye is throbbing. I feel like I've been beat up. I have been beat up.
So why am I wishing he would just lean over and kiss me?
I must be crazy. Something was knocked loose when he hit me with his elbow.
"Why did you come to the party?" I ask him.
He appears startled for a moment, but then that smooth, Jordan Tuttle mask appears, and I can't get a good read on him. "Cannon invited me."
"Right. And you always come to parties when someone else throws them." I raise a brow. "Were you looking for someone?"
"Yeah," he says slowly. "I was, actually."
Not the answer I expected. And if he says Lauren Mancini, I will lose my mind.
"Well, maybe you should get back out there and keep looking," I suggest. Then I remember his offer to take me home and how I agreed to it. "I'll be fine by myself for a few minutes. I just want to rest."
"But I don't need to look anymore. I already found her." He's watching me like I've completely lost my mind, which yeah, is probably true. I'm torturing myself by trying to figure out who he's trying to hook up with tonight.
Did he come here tonight to find someone to hook up with? Did I get in his way? I know he said he wanted to talk to me, but that's nothing. Maybe he was just going to tell me to stay out of his way. Stay out of his business.
Not that I care. Not really.
Okay fine, I care a lot. But I can fake it with the best of them when I need to.
"Well, what are you waiting for? Go back out there and talk to her. Or whatever it is that you do to work your sexual magic on her." I wave at him like I'm shooing away a fly.
Jordan frowns, his dark brows furrowing. "Are you really feeling okay? You're not acting right."
I heave out a big sigh and pull my leg out of his grip, which makes my skirt ride up way too far on my thighs. I tug on it, not wanting to flash him my panties, and of course his gaze drops right there. Like he's trying to figure out what color my panties are.
In case anyone's curious, they're black. Like Jordan Tuttle's soul.
"I'm fine. Stop asking," I tell him before I drop my head and fixate on the tops of my thighs. It's easier than looking at Jordan. I don't know what's going on between us, and I hate how natural this feels when he is so clearly still fighting what's happening between us.
"When I said I found her, I was talking about you, Amanda." I lift my head, our gazes clashing. His face is so serious, so handsome and earnest. I try to glare, to pretend he has no effect on me, but I can feel my resolve melting when I see the tenderness in his gaze.
Why does he have to look at me like that?
"Are you saying this to make me feel better? Because you're afraid I have a concussion or whatever? Or you feel guilty because you gave me a black eye?" I reach out and rest my hand on his knee, unable to stop myself from touching him. "Be real with me. Be honest."
His gaze drops to where my hand rests on his knee and stays there for long, quiet seconds, allowing me to get lost in the moment. Pretending that we're together and he's totally into me and I'm totally into him. When he lifts his head, he's staring at me in the same way, like he can't believe we're here together and it's-nice. His gaze does a lazy perusal of me, starting from the top of my head and ending at the tips of my toes, lingering on what he'd probably consider the good bits.
Like my (nonexistent) boobs. My waist, my hips.
He's such a typical boy.
"Jordan." My voice is wobbly and I clear my throat. "Are you going to say something?"
His gorgeous blue eyes flicker with unmistakable pleasure. "You said my name."
Is that all he can focus on? Figures. "Is that it?"
He frowns. "No. I don't know. It's like I get near you, and I don't know what to say next. I can't help it, Mandy."
"Don't call me that," I snap, and he rears his head back, clearly startled at my show of anger.