Trouble(35)

“Used to?” I question.

I watch his fingers tap restlessly against the steering wheel. “I used to gamble a bit. I liked to play cards. After my mom died it, uh … it got a little worse.”

“Your mom died.” I press my hand to my chest. “God, I’m so sorry, Jordan.”

He bobs his head. “We’ve both lost a parent. Guess we have that in common.”

“Sucky thing to have in common,” I say.

Well, it’s not like I can tell him the day Oliver died was the best day of my life.

He would never understand.

“Yeah it is,” he says quietly.

“How did she die? If you don’t mind my asking?”

He shakes his head, eyes fixed ahead. “Lung cancer. Stage four. Never smoked a day in her life. I was away, traveling with some buddies out in South East Asia, when I got the call from Dad that she was sick. I came straight home. She had surgery … chemo … it didn’t work.”

His shoulders lift on a heavy sigh. “After she died I, uh … well, life got a little hard. Crazy, you know?”

A glance. I catch the sad in his eyes before he looks back ahead to the road. “Then I had a wakeup call, and I cleaned up my act. And here you see, the brand new, almost responsible me.” He sweeps a hand down himself, smiling, but I can tell it’s forced.

And that’s when I see the broken in him. Not broken the way I am, but there’s definitely something. He looks as if he’s carrying a heavy burden of guilt over his mom.

I twist in my seat so that I’m looking at him. “Well, I didn’t know the before you Jordan, but this Jordan is incredibly kind.”

He laughs, but it’s more of a scoff. Self-deprecating.

“Yeah, kind. That’s me.”

“I think you are. And well, uh, that counts. To me.” I pull on my lip, taking a deep breath.

He glances across at me again, and our eyes more than meet. They connect.

My skin flushes. My mouth dries. Heartbeat erratic.

I have the sudden and very pressing urge to lean over and kiss him.

Breaking his gaze, I turn face front and start picking at imaginary lint on my jeans. We don’t speak again until we pull up outside the diner.

I put my sunglasses on and get out of the car.

“I ate here last night,” I comment over my shoulder.

“I know.”

I whip around, and my muscles lock with tension. “How do you know that?” I know my voice is sharp, but I can’t help it.

He frowns a little. Resting his hand on the roof of the car, he says, “Beth, the waitress who served you last night, she’s a good friend of mine. She called ahead to let me know you were coming.”

“Oh, right.” Way to overreact Mia.

Running my hand through my hair, I laugh, but it sounds off. “Makes sense why she recommended your hotel then, being your friend an’ all. Of course she would. Not that it’s a trashy hotel or anything because it’s not. It’s great. The best hotel I’ve ever stayed in.”

Jesus Christ. Stop talking. Now.

I really need gagging while I’m around him.

Jordan chuckles. He makes his way around the car toward me, with what looks to be a plaid shirt in his hand.

“Thought you might want to wear this.” He nods toward my bare stomach.

God, I can’t believe I forgot that my t-shirt was all torn up. Not like me at all. I’m usually very aware of my state of dress. I had to be because of my father.

And Forbes.

I immediately cover my mid-riff with my arms. Then free one to take the shirt that he’s now holding out to me.

“Thanks,” I say, pulling the shirt on. It smells masculine. Woodsy. It smells of him. I don’t think I’ll ever want to take this shirt off again.

Stepping close, he pulls the shirt together and starts to do up the buttons. “I don’t want people to think I’ve mauled you,” he says low, with a smile.

I feel it in every single part of me.

I can’t move. I’m just staring at him, watching his eyes trace each button up as he does them, while reminding myself to breath.

Deftly, he soon reaches the top. His eyes lift to mine.

I try not to notice that his breathing has ratcheted up a little, like my own has. Or that his hand is lingering on the shirt, close to my chest, even though the buttons are all done.

I gulp. “Thanks,” I whisper, my voice breaking on the word.

With a nod, he steps back from me. “Come on, let’s get you fed.”

Pulse galloping, I follow Jordan into the diner. He doesn’t wait to be seated, just bypasses the empty hostess station, so I follow behind, still feeling a little off balance from the whole buttoning of the shirt.

He motions for me to sit first, so I slide into the booth. Jordan sits opposite me.