What the fuck am I doing?
“I can stay a little longer,” Cade interjects, slipping his arm around Amanda’s shoulders like he owns her, the prick. “I’ll drive Amanda home.”
“Cool,” I say with a nod, but deep inside I’m seething. I don’t like how he took control of the situation. I don’t like how he’s touching Amanda possessively.
More than anything, I don’t like the way seeing her after all this time is making me feel.
This is, after all, the girl who held my nineteen-year-old heart in her hands.
And crushed it.
Wincing, I brace myself just before I splash cold water on my cheeks, then reach blindly for a paper towel. I pat my face dry, careful not to smudge mascara beneath my eyes, and blink once, twice, staring at my reflection in the mirror in the suite bathroom, where I made my escape a few minutes ago.
I look awful. There’s no mascara smudges because it’s all gone. There’s not a lick of makeup left on my face. My skin is pale, though the icy water brought a little color to my cheeks. There are dark circles under my eyes and my hair is a total disaster. I drop the paper towel into the trash and then finger comb the messy strands, trying to calm them down, make them look better, but it’s hopeless.
I am hopeless.
Knowing I can open the bathroom door and Jordan will be in the next room makes my heart want to gallop straight out of my chest. It was downright exhilarating to see him again after so long. Despite what happened to us in our past, despite my breaking up with him like the stupid teenaged girl I was, he’s perfectly polite. Sweet, even.
Okay, fine, I can’t e
xactly call our encounter sweet. Hugging him had been like that first snort of cocaine after being clean and sober for years. An addict finding her long-lost fix. I might’ve held him too long, though at least I was the one who shoved away first.
He had been a little growly, a little moody. I know it’s because he didn’t feel good about that game. Throwing that interception must’ve infuriated him.
And then there’s the fact I tried to shake his hand like a dork.
I mean, seriously. I’ve had sex with him. Multiple times. He was my first. I was his first. I see him six years later and the first thing I want to do is shake his hand? What the hell was I thinking?
Dumb. He makes me dumb. Staring into his blue eyes and seeing him like that, all big and gorgeous and masculine and beautiful and handsome and oh my God, I sound like an idiot even in my thoughts.
With fumbling fingers, I find my favorite pinky-nude lipstick in my tiny purse and slick it on my lips, rubbing them together, pleased with the results. That’s about as pulled together as I’m going to get, and yet again I hate that I’m wearing my work polo. I don’t look half as beautiful as the women who are still hanging out in the suite. Their eyes lit up when Jordan and Cannon first entered the room. I just knew they all wanted a piece of them, and seeing the women’s reactions filled me with an old, familiar and ugly emotion.
Jealousy.
Lame. I’m also super-duper lame.
Resting my hands on either side of the sink, I look myself in the eyes and tell my reflection, “Don’t be stupid.”
I drop the lipstick back in my purse and go to the door, throwing it open with firm determination.
Only to find Jordan standing there in the tiny hall, like he was—oh, I don’t know—waiting for me?
No. Way. Just a coincidence. It has to be.
“Hi.” I come to a stop, the bathroom door almost hitting me in the backside.
“Hey.” He sounds grim. Looks uncomfortable. He hasn’t smiled, not once since we locked eyes, and I remember how stingy he used to be with those smiles. How I felt like I unlocked a treasure chest of unlimited riches when he started smiling more. Only for me.
There were a lot of things he did only for me.
“Are you mad?” When he frowns, I further explain myself. “About the game. About the interception.”
He nods, his perfect lips twisting to the side. “It wasn’t a good game for me.”
“I thought you looked great.”
“I played like shit. Disappointed my team.”