Page 122 of Last First Kiss

Finally, Jordan relaxes. “I need a favor. For the wedding.”

Javi raises an eyebrow in atell me morefashion.

“I have to go… take care of something,” Jordan says, barely making eye contact as heat spreads throughout his face. “I need you to contact the caterer.”

“Me?”

Jordan unequivocallyhateswhat he says next: “I need you to use yourJavier Velasco charmto convince them to reschedule the menu tasting without ending all future relationships with the company.”

Javi smiles wickedly. “So, you agree I’m great at what I do?”

“Being a cocky shit who overestimates his abilities? Yes, I agree.”

“I’m leaving.” Javi starts to turn.

“Please,” Jordan says, sincere.

“Fine. I’ll work my magic.”

“Again, embellishing your skills,” Jordan says while walking toward the elevator. Javi’s full-bellied guffaw stays with him even after the doors close.

Jordan arrives at Jamie’s apartment with two canvas tote bags full of groceries and his clothes covered in a light layer of mist.

He’d just climbed out of his car when the rain started. Atlanta’s unpredictable weather strikes again. He’s not mad about it. Another rainstorm suits the mood he’s been in for the last few days.

Gray and irritable.

That last part might have to do with how he’s been standing in the apartment building’s lushly decorated top-floor hallway forever. Jamie hasn’t answered the door. As he knocks again, louder this time, at least two neighbors pop their heads out to scowl at him.

Jordan ignores them.

“Jamie Noah Peters, stop crying on the bathroom floor and—”

The door swings open.

Jordan’s unprepared for the sight of Jamie: erratic hair. Glassy eyes, heavy shadows underneath. He’s pale and red-nosed, like Jordan imagined, but also unshaven and his posture’s saggy, as if one good wind could knock him over. He scratches the fine dusting of hair on his belly. That’s when Jordan notices he’s wearing nothing but two mismatched socks, a pair of threadbare plaid boxers, and the world’s ugliest robe.

Jordan has seen fancier items on a Target clearance rack.

“Why am I crying on the bathroom floor?” Jamie asks, voice scratchy.

“Never mind.”

Jordan eases past him to get inside. He stops cold, mouth open.

He’s visited the apartment a handful of times since Denz moved. Not that he’s ever telling his cousin that. And while everything in Jordan’s own apartment has a specific place—he swears he’s not type A, even though it mightlookthat way—Jamie prefers to live like a teenaged boy with a no-limit credit card and eleven hundred square feet to play in. It’s disorganized and dysfunctional. Yet it works.

But this? This is pure anarchy.

Clothing tossed haphazardly on the sparse living room furniture. The coffee table layered in used Kleenex and weddinginvitation samples and DVDs of what Jordan can only assume are Julia Roberts’s greatest rom-com hits. Old takeout boxes in the kitchen. Discarded candy wrappers accumulating on the green sofa. Jordan half expects a raccoon to pop out from around a corner with a half-eaten sandwich at any minute.

Paused on the wall-mounted flat screen is a man holding up a giant cue card that says,TO ME, YOU ARE PERFECT.

Horrified, Jordan spins around. “Tell me you’re not watchingLove Actually.”

It’s worse than he thought.

Jamie sniffs. “What’re you doing here?”