Page 2 of Last First Kiss

A playful smirk flexes against Jordan’s mouth. “What else did my mom share?”

“Not much.”

Jordan doesn’t believe her, but he doesn’t let it show either. “Let me guess: The name of the first girl I kissed? My ATM PIN?” He drags a finger an inch above his left eyebrow. “How I got this scar?”

“No”—her smile widens—“but now I want to hearthatstory.”

“Thrown game controller,” Jordan admits nonchalantly.

“Bullshit.”

“Seriously.” He leans back. “Super Smash Bros. gets pretty brutal with my family.”

“You’d get along great with my grammy.”

“Is she a big Wii gamer?”

“Hell no. Sorry!”

Jordan arches his other eyebrow. “For what?”

She laughs, open and unguarded. Jordan likes that. He’s used to dates being too proper, wound too tight. Desperate to make a great impression. Especially because of who he is.

But Jess seems unbothered by that detail. “No, I meant Sorry! the board game,” she explains. “Grammy is a ruthless player.”

“Is she?”

“She once tried to kick me out after I beat her. I was six!”

Jordan fights off a snort.

“She rolled my Hello Kitty suitcase right out the closet,” Jess adds after another sip. “Told me to start packing.”

Her nose wrinkles with fondness. Jordan likes that too.

“Your momdidsend me some incriminating baby photos,”Jess notes. “The one of you in the bathtub? With the bubble beard like baby Santa? Very cute.”

Jordan sputters dramatically.

That picture doesn’t exist. However, thereisone of him dressed as Captain Underpants for Halloween. And another one where he looks like a drunk ’80s rapper after letting Tevin cut his hair for Picture Day at school.

If his mom sent Jess either of those, he might really end up as a TMZ headline:

JORDAN CARTER SETS HIMSELF ON FIRE AFTER EMBARRASSING CHILDHOOD PHOTOS EMERGE!

He clears his throat. “Back to basketball. I played a little.”

“Why’d you stop?”

Because professional basketball players don’t fit the family archetype, he thinks to say.

Instead, he replies: “I had other priorities.”

She snorts into her glass. “So, basically, you weren’t good enough for the draft.”

Jordan lets out a surprised laugh. She’s not wrong. Most NBA teams aren’t putting a five-foot-nine point guard high on their drafting priorities. But Jordan doesn’t have to admit that out loud.

“Please. I was the next Chris Paul.”