Page 4 of Last First Kiss

But who Jordan is still follows him everywhere.

Oh, you’re one oftheCarters.

Oh, you’re related to…

Oh, I saw your uncle on TV—by the way, can you hook me up with your hot cousin.…

The topic is inevitable, which is why he manages to smile easily and say to Jess, “I’m just an event coordinator. My job’s pretty boring.”

Jess grins cleverly at the way he echoes her words from a second ago. “Just an event coordinator who hosted a birthday party for Dwayne Johnson two weeks ago.”

Technically,Kami, his older cousin and 24 Carter Gold’s CEO, did that. But he helped. A little.

Jordan watches the lime wedge bob around his somewhat watered-down drink. “The position has its perks.”

“Like reserving a table at an exclusive restaurant?”

He grins. “No. They’re just slower on weekdays.”

Which is mostly true. It didn’t hurt that he had previously booked out the restaurant for a Georgia senator’s thirtieth wedding anniversary dinner. Eileen, the Last Pour’s manager, loves him. The staff does too, but that might have to do with how well Jordan tips.

Jess tilts her head. “Is that your subtle way of telling me you didn’t put any effort into wooing me tonight?”

Jordan freezes.

Shit, is that how he came off? Uncaring? Like he’s simply going through the motions? That this is all one, big elaborate scheme to get his mom to stop setting him up? Because she won’t be satisfied until Jordan finds the love of his life, gets married, andlives the happily-ever-after she almost missed out on when she was his age?

“N-no,” he stammers. “That’s not… I swear—”

Jess cackles. “I’m kidding!” She reaches across the table to touch the back of his hand. “Tonight’s great. So far.”

Jordan smiles, relieved.

He hasn’t completely fucked this up. They’re back on track.

From the window, streams of artificial light wash over them. Outside, Atlanta’s waking up. Neon eyes glowing. Early summer warmth fading. Endless people walk into the mouth of the city to taste its intoxicating vibe.

It’s the perfect backdrop. The perfect atmosphere. And, for exactly five more seconds, the perfect mood.

Until Jordan’s gaze strays to his right.

The long, sleek bar is jammed with friends and regulars and single diners poring over their phones while drinking. Two bartenders move around each other in a well-rehearsed dance. Jordan focuses on a third man.

His back is to everyone as he dries fresh glasses. The bar’s wall is a frosted mirror with rows of top-shelf alcohol. His face is hidden in the reflection. But Jordan knows those broad, muscled shoulders. The relaxed posture. A hint of tan skin peeking out of the collar of his white button-up. Deep brown hair falling in messy waves.

Reflexively, Jordan imagines the dark scruff lining a square jaw. He pictures white teeth biting a pink, plump lower lip. The wrinkles in his forehead as he overthinks everything and—

No, no, no.

There’s absolutely no fucking way thatheworks here.

Jordan would know. He’s met the Last Pour’s staff. Even when the restaurant outsources for the bigger events 24 Carter Gold hosts, Jordan’s made a conscious effort to memorize all the new helpers.

Fine. Maybe Jordan also maintains a running list of the placeshebartends at. All the brunch spots, dive bars, and loud, noisy, generic restaurants to avoid around the city.

So they don’t run into each other.

So Jordan doesn’t experience a moment like this: