Amanda hesitates at the foot of the stairs, her hand on the railing as she stares up at me with wide brown eyes. “Your bedroom is up here?”
I nod.
“Is it huge?”
“You know it,” I boast. “I could fit your entire studio apartment up in there.” Exactly what I told her earlier.
“Ha, don’t remind me.” She starts up the stairs and I follow after her, my gaze locked on her ass since it’s pretty much in my face, and yet again I remember she has no panties on under that dress.
I know I shouldn’t rush things. As in, I shouldn’t rush her into my bed. But my body isn’t listening to my logical head tonight. All it can think about is fucking. Fucking Amanda on my bed. Fucking Amanda against a wall. Fucking Amanda up on the rooftop deck…
“Oh, your bedroom is gigantic!” she exclaims, pushing me out of my dirty thoughts. She points at my bed. “What the hell size is that?”
“Custom.” I’m tall and I wanted a big ass bed. So I had it made for me.
“Holy crap.” She walks all the way around it, her fingers trailing across my pale gray comforter. “I bet you could fit ten women into this bed.” Her cheeks go red the moment she says it, and she sends me a horrified look. “Not that you’ve ever had ten women in this bed. Well, maybe you have, but not all at once. Or maybe not at all? God, please tell me to shut up before I make this worse.”
I approach her hesitantly, like one might approach a scared animal, and once I’m standing in front of her, I grab both of her hands in mine. “You seem nervous.”
“I am,” she admits readily. “This is—weird, being in your house with you.”
“Why?” I tilt my head, contemplating her. I’m nervous too, but it has nothing to do with Amanda being here and everything to do with the idea of getting her completely naked.
I’m nervous with anticipation. I’ve done this before, specifically with Amanda, plenty of times. But it all feels new and different.
Maybe because we’re such different people than we were six years ago.
“You’re such a grown up, Jordan.” She smiles tremulously. “You have your own house—two houses—and another fancy Range Rover in your two-car garage. You’re a responsible adult, and it’s hard for me to wrap my head around that fact. Plus, you’re famous. Everyone knows who you are and they probably all want a piece of you too. It’s…it’s so mind blowing that you’ve come this far, that you’ve done so much.”
“Is that why you’re here with me tonight?” I ask, the doubt sweeping through me slowly, like the thick gray fog that rolls into the San Francisco Bay. “Because of what I do and the fame that comes with it?”
“Of course not,” she
says without hesitation. “I knew you before you were the Jordan Tuttle, you know. Back when you were short and a little chubby, with zits all over your face. Remember that?”
I wince. Yeah, I remember when I was shorter than her and hadn’t quite shed the baby fat yet. My mom wanted to send me to a weight loss camp the summer after seventh grade, but thank Christ I grew like six inches in a matter of a few months. The diet lectures and camp mentions disappeared. “Why you gotta bring up the bad times?”
She laughs and squeezes my hands. “I’m just saying I’ve known you for a long time. And while we haven’t been in each other’s lives for over six years, I don’t think that matters. I still know who you are, Jordan. And I don’t care about the money or the fame.”
I want to believe her. I also want to trust her. I do.
But she broke up with me. She gave up on me first. I can’t forget that. No matter how hard I try, the doubt is still there, reminding me I shouldn’t trust her. Not completely.
Not yet.
He takes me up to the rooftop deck, where a breathtaking view of the city lights greets me. We’re so high up, there’s a strong breeze, causing me to wrap my arms around myself to ward off the chill.
“This view is great,” I tell him as I lean against the railing, tipping my head down so I can see the traffic below. Not that there are many cars out at this time of night, but there are just enough to keep my interest.
Well, that and I’m avoiding looking at him. I’m on edge, unsure. What’s going to happen next? He hasn’t even tried to kiss me, or touch me beyond holding my hands. My body is demanding more, more, more, but it’s almost like he’s—withholding his affection on purpose, maybe?
I sincerely hope not.
“I never come up here,” he says as he stops to stand right beside me, resting his arms on the railing.
I turn to look at him, surprised by his admission. “Really?”
“Yeah. Don’t have time.”