Page 151 of Last First Kiss

Jordan chews on the inside of his cheek. His hands tremble. He’s barely holding on to his iPad. Barely holding in the anger and hurt coagulating in his throat.

“Is that how you really feel?” he says.

Jamie swallows but never speaks.

“And what you said the other day? When you were sick? Did you mean that?”

Another beat of silence.

Jamie cracks his knuckles. Then tugs at his shirt collar. He does everything to avoid the unwavering look Jordan gives him.

Defeated, he says, “I told you: I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to ruin our friendship. I’m not right—”

“What does thatmean, Jamie?”

All Jordan’s rage, his frustration, is crammed into those five words.

“It means—” Jamie sniffs, eyes downcast. “We need space, Jordan. I have family shit. You have a life to live. We just need to… figure it out.”

That’s the thing: Jordanwasfiguring it out.

After December, he had his career. His priorities. Jordan was doing a spectacular job at working tirelessly, living off adrenaline and goals, and avoiding everything in between. Like that weird ache behind his ribs. The confusion suffocating his breaths.

Then this stupid wedding happened.

Jamie happened. Again.

He welcomed Jamie right back into that comfortable corner of his chest where Jordan feels like he’s enough. Where he feels safe.Wanted.

Jamie blinks at him. “I’m sorry.”

Jordan doesn’t believe him. Not a single fucking word. But he doesn’t get a choice in this decision. Just like the last time. All he gets to do is pretend it’s okay when Jamie walks sadly back to the tent.

Actually, Jordandoeshave a choice.

He can’t stop Jamie from leaving him behind. But he sure as hell doesn’t have to stand around and cry about it.

Technically, he can’t. He’s still working. There are speeches to be made. Toasts to have. Tonight’s about Amy and Sam and the start of their happily-ever-after.

It’s Jordan’s job to ensure that happens.

Or find someone capable of filling in for him.

He fixes his shirtsleeves. Straightens his tie. After a couple of calm, even breaths, Jordan forces his face into the happiest, most put-together expression possible. He can survive tonight. Of course he can.

He’s Jordan fucking Carter.

Inside the tent, the guests mill around. They gladly drink away their boredom. Sam looks fidgety next to his parents. No sign of Amy. Before the McClintocks spot him, Jordan turns on his heels to search the crowd.

He skips over the corner where Jeff and Liz are holding court with their small group of yes-people. Jamie is nowhere in sight. But a pretty, emerald-eyed, sun-kissed woman walks determinedly in Jordan’s direction.

Nope. Jordan has no time for Sloane and whatever awful names she probably wants to call him. He ducks around a middle-aged couple and legs it to the back of the tent where he finally finds who he’s looking for.

“I am so sorry,” Javi sputters, hands raised like he’s afraid Jordan might punch him.

He’s considered it. Maybe later.

“Shut up, Javi,” Jordan bites out, maintaining a wide grin for any of the servers who pass by.