Page 5 of Last First Kiss

Where his face is blistering hot. Throat constricted so painfully he can’t swallow. His chest tight with a suffocating memory. It’s like being thrown into the deep end of a pool when you can’t swim.

Jordan is drowning.

And on the way down, he remembers this:

The cool snap of December air. Twilight settling purple in the sky. Notes of oak and amber body wash mixing with the heady sweetness from the cup of hot chocolate cradled between his hands. Their bodies so close. Breaths almost synced.

Jordan had spent far too long trying to name all the colors flecked in the other man’s light brown eyes. Too much time thinking about standing on his toes. Finally doing the thing that had run through his head for months and months—

Kissing him.

Jordan also remembers this:

The second hedidlean up. The other man suddenly jolting backward. That sad, regretful look in his eyes.

His words like a sharp blade slipped right beneath Jordan’s ribs.

Maybe we shouldn’t. I don’t want to ruin our friendship. You’re still figuring yourself out and I—I don’t think I’m the right person for that. For you, while you’re on this journey.

Jordan remembers nodding. Laughing it off. Pretending he was okay.

Which he was.Is. Jordan’s fine.

He’s—

Jess clears her throat. “Jordan.”

He’s been staring at the bartender’s back so long he forgot about her.

Startled, Jordan twists to face her. But he’s too distracted tobe coordinated. Too focused on the ghost behind the bar of the restaurant where he’s on a fuckingdatethat he doesn’t pay attention to the little things.

Like the proximity of his flailing arm to Jess’s wineglass. How delicate andfullit is. How easily it topples over when his hand makes contact.

“Shit!”

Jordan jumps up before anything splashes on him. But he’s still so rattled, he doesn’t see Asa walking by with a tray of drinks for a table of six nearby. Luckily, Asa’s reflexes are quick. They just barely find their balance. Though not before one of the shots spills onto the sleeve of Jordan’s blazer.

Fucking amazing.

Jordan’s pasta is swimming in a river of red wine. He stinks of Don Julio tequila. Jess’s eyebrows are high on her forehead as she stares up at him.

She’s not the only one.

Everyone at the bar is watching him too.

Including the shaggy-haired bartender. Who has very…greeneyes, not brown. And one of those hipster beards. The kind you see on a white guy competing on a cutthroat Food Network cooking show. The kind no one likes but pretends to.

He looks nothing like the man Jordan was thinking of.

Nothing like Jamie Peters.

Eventually, the chatter starts up again. The music slips into something classical. The Not-Jamie bartender turns away to polish more glasses.

In a panic, Mallory, the ginger-haired waitress Jordan remembers from a black-tie party months ago, rushes over. She hands him a new linen napkin with a mortified expression.

“Thanks,” Jordan says coolly, hiding his embarrassment.

“I’ll get you a fresh bowl!” Mallory proposes.