You Promised Me Forever (Forever Yours #1)(20)

“Felt bad that we didn’t get a chance to talk much.” He hesitates. I can see doubt flicker in his gaze for the briefest moment. “Your boyfriend seems nice.”

“I already told you he’s not my boyfriend.”

“He was very possessive of you, Mandy.” Jordan’s voice goes a little deeper and I swear I can feel it vibrating in the pit of my stomach.

I know exactly what moment Jordan’s referring to. “That’s because you offered to take me home and we went to the game together. I think you intimidated him.”

“I was just trying to be nice.”

Please. That innocent look on his face doesn’t fool me. “You’re my ex-boyfriend. You intimidated him,” I say again.

“Whatever. I think he was star struck. He probably wished I was taking him home.” There’s that ghost of a smile again. Seeing it makes me smile a little too.

“He probably did,” I agree.

“So he’s definitely not your boyfriend?” Jordan raises his brows.

I want to shout at him, why do you care? But I don’t. I guess he’s just curious. This is what happens when you reconnect with an ex, right? We’re curious about each other’s lives, including romantic entanglements we’re not involved in…

“Cade isn’t my boyfriend,” I say firmly. “We went out on one date.” Well, two.

“Two if you count tonight,” Jordan says like he’s living in my head, which he sort of is.

“Right. Two,” I say weakly, leaning back against my pillows. He has to know I’m in bed. Where’s he at? He appears freshly showered, his dark hair damp, and he’s wearing a gray T-shirt that stretches tight across his shoulders and chest.

Too bad he’s not shirtless. I remember Jordan always had great abs. I bet they’re even better now.

“You in bed?” he asks, again residing in my head.

How does he make those three words sound so freaking suggestive? “Um, yes.”

He takes a deep breath. Runs a hand through his thick, dark hair, messing it up perfectly. Hardens his jaw so he now looks extra sexy. Stares off into the distance for a moment like some sort of model in a photoshoot. “I won’t make the first move,” he finally says.

I’m confused. “What are you talking about?”

“You. Me. I refuse to make the first move. I’ve done that time and again over the years, and you still ended up destroying me.” He takes another deep breath, like that was a lot for him to say. I suppose it was.

But I want him to say more.

He doesn’t. He just watches me in that infuriatingly Jordan Tuttle way of his. Where I’m supposed to be able to figure out his moods and what he wants from me. I thought I was the only one who really knew him, yet I’ve wondered over the years if I only knew the person he presented to me. Did I ever really understand him, ever?

I’m not sure.

“Do you—want me to make the first move?” I am an idiot for asking. What if this is his one shot to turn me down? Humiliate me on the spot? He could’ve been wanting revenge for years, and now he’s finally going to get it.

My heart is whoosh-whooshing in my ears as I wait for him to say something. Anything. It’s almost painful, how long he takes to speak. My breath keeps getting caught in my throat and I wonder if I’ll pass out from lack of oxygen.

“What do you think?” He sounds stubborn as hell. Defiant, even.

“I think that technically you made the first move by inviting me to your game tonight,” I say tentatively.

“And I think you technically made the very first move by following me on Instagram and sending me a message.” He sounds pleased that I did that.

“You’re the one who said on national television that you missed the one who got away,” I point out.

“Are you assuming you’re the one who got away?” He raises a brow.

My heart stops. I’m gaping at him, closing and opening my mouth like a dying fish.

He actually laughs for all of two seconds before he turns into serious mode once again. “Of course I was talking about you.”

My heart resumes beating, only now it’s doing double time. “You’re mean.”

“So are you.”

“How am I mean?” I rest my hand on my chest, then drop it. I don’t want him staring at my braless breasts.

“You’re the one who broke up with me all those years ago.”

I say nothing. I don’t know how to argue that point.

“Did you actually want to break up with me?” He peers in close, his face completely filling my phone screen. “Or did someone make you?”

“Who would make me?” I ask incredulously. No one forced my hand. I made that stupid decision all on my own.

“I don’t know. Your parents. A new boyfriend.” He leans back and I see those broad shoulders shrug.

“I didn’t have someone waiting in the wings when we broke up, Jordan,” I say irritably. “There was no backup plan.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“I thought it was the right thing to do!” I cannot believe we’re having this discussion over FaceTime. So embarrassing. “You were so busy, off living your life in college, and there were so many opportunities being thrown at you. I didn’t want to hold you back.”