Page 96 of Last First Kiss

That’s happened more frequently. These little details on Jamie that Jordan can’t look away from. Like he’s trying to memorize every feature each time they meet up.

Like their hangouts might stop at some point. It hasn’t happened yet.

Not even now that Denz knows. Well, Denzthinkshe knows. He thinks there’s something more between his best friend and his cousin than them casually spending time with each other. Alone. Quite often.

But there isn’t.

Jordan just enjoys being around Jamie. And Jamie keeps texting or calling, asking Jordan to show up places.

Like tonight.

Jordan waves a hand around. “Is this what you invited me here for? Pop Culture Trivia Night?”

Diamonds & Spades Tavern is plopped on the corner of a newly refurbished neighborhood downtown. Approximately five blocks fromanotherbar Jamie works at.

It has a vintage vibe. All wood and brick and fire engine red–leather booths, giant flat screens. Vines of fairy lights hang from the ceiling, bathing the interior in gold. The circular high-top tables are shoved around the stage, crowded with several loud and tipsy teams competing for tonight’s grand prize: a $300 gift card to a local bookstore.

Jordan’s tempted to enter just for that.

“No,” Jamie says, “I didn’t invite you here to play trivia.” His mouth curves up. “But we’d so win.”

“Would we?” Jordan asks skeptically.

There are at least two teams of four who look like their actual career might be studying all things pop culture. Scouring BuzzFeed. Tracking trends and memes and knowing every detail of Taylor Swift’s cats’ dietary restrictions.

“Obviously,” Jamie says. “You know sports. Entertainment shit because of your job.”

Jordan sighs. “My job is way more complex than ‘entertainment shit.’” Most of it, anyway.

Jamie keeps going: “I know rom-coms. Tropes. Cars—”

“You knownothingabout cars,” Jordan protests.

The bar’s lighting throws amber into the pool of ivy and rich earth in Jamie’s eyes. “I’ll have you know,” he starts, “I’ve seen everyFast and Furiousmovie.”

“Why, do you hate yourself?”

Laughter springs out of Jamie. A raucous noise that causes more than one head to crane around and glare.

Blush reddens Jamie’s cheeks. He flicks the back of Jordan’s hand. After, he lets it stay there. On the bar. His fingers millimeters from Jordan’s knuckles.

“That franchise is full of cool cars and hot people,” Jamie tells him. “Michelle Rodriguez? Hot. Jordana Brewster? Hot. Tyrese Gibson? Hot. Paul Walker, rest his soul? Hot. Charlize Theron? So hot. Ludacris—”

“Let me guess,” Jordan interrupts. “Hot?”

“Extremely hot!”

Jamie smacks his palm on the sticky bar’s surface for emphasis. Luckily, the trivia teams are too wound up over the “Is it Madonna or Lady Gaga?” category to care.

At the other end of the bar, two men in flannel shirts signal for fresh beers.

Jamie obliges, then quickly returns. “Point is,” he says, leaning in Jordan’s direction, “Iknowcars.”

“You didn’t mention a single car, Jamie.”

Jamiepffts. The angle of his body pulls his black T-shirt’s sleeves high up on his biceps. It’s a sight that would look intentional on anyone else. A look Jordan wouldn’t care about. But on Jamie, it’s…

Interesting.