Page 24 of The Incredible Ordinary

“You do have that classy vibe about you.” He shakes his head, putting on a grim look. “This does not bode well for our relationship.”

I can’t help it when the grin on my face widens. “I’ve got a classy vibe? Did you get high sometime in the last ten minutes? Look at me.”

I gesture at my body, ratty jeans, stained shirt, and all. I’m pretty sure no sane person would agree with him on that.

“It’s the lack of fucks given. It’s usually a dead giveaway.”

“Of class?”

He nods. I wait for him to explain, but he doesn’t.

“Thank you?” I say. “I’m not sure your logic applies, though. I’d wager most people would consider lack of fucks given as something veering toward rude.”

“It’s the degree of the lack of fucks given that matters. Yours is subtle. There’s also the manners, the good vocabulary, the perfect posture—little things like those. I recognize it. My brother-in-law has it, too.”

“My mother will be delighted to hear all her hard work has paid off.”

He laughs and starts to walk again.

“Aside from being an extremely competent person with no discernible sense of direction, what doyoudo?” I ask when I catch up to him.

He groans. “Don’t ask me that. You just told me you’re an athlete, and I have a legitimately boring job.”

“Which is?”

He makes a face. “I design kitchens.”

I don’t know what I expected, but that’s nowhere near as dramatically bad as Jordan’s tone implied.

“That doesn’t sound boring. It sounds creative.”

“I was hoping you’d drop it after hearing that. The fact that you didn’t is disappointing and it’s also going to be embarrassing. I might’ve exaggerated by a lot when I said I design kitchens. It’s more that people come to me with the measurements of their wall, and I show them what sizes and styles of cabinets we have available, and then use the design program to put those cabinets in the order the client wants them. No custom solutions.”

I nod. “I’m going to take a swing and say that based on your tone, this isn’t your dream career?”

“No. This is just something I sort of fell into by necessity.”

We stop at the door of the art supply store, and Jordan takes a contemplative look at the large window display. I get the feeling there are things he leaves unsaid, but I also don’t think it’s my place to dig if he doesn’t want to divulge every last detail of his personal life to somebody he only just met.

He pulls the door open and motions for me to go inside.

I look around from the doorway. There’s a woman behind the counter, but she’s in deep conversation with a customer, and there are three more waiting in line, so I turn to Jordan instead.

“We’re here. What’s that solution you promised me?”

“Hold on a sec.” He pulls out his phone. I hear on the dial tone for a bit and then Jordan frowns. “Where’s Wren?”

“It’s so nice when people greet me like that,” somebody says dryly.

Jordan turns so we can both see the screen.

“Milàn, this is Sutton. Sutton, Milàn,” he says.

There’s a guy on the screen. A guy with dirty blond hair, dark brown eyes, and the kind of expression I can only describe as haughty.

“Cool,” he says. “Hey, Jordan? Who’s Milàn, and why is he on my phone?”

In order for us both to see the screen, I’m standing as close to Jordan as possible. I’ve always been an avid proponent of personal space, but right now, I find I don’t mind sharing. Not in the least. In fact, he can have a standing invitation.