More Than Friends (Friends, #2)(3)

“I never said you were weird.” His gaze lingers on my lips for a beat too long, and I wonder if he’s thinking about kissing me. I know I’m thinking about kissing him. So much that my lips are tingling. “Most everyone I know has shitty parents.”

He’s right. Most everyone I know has bad parents too. “Guess I lucked out?”

Jordan nods, his gaze meeting mine once more. “Guess so.”

I change the subject and we talk about school. Homecoming is happening this week and king and queen nominations are tomorrow. Nominees will be announced Tuesday morning and lots of activities are held throughout the week, including way too many pep rallies, a parade and finally the big game Friday night, followed by the annual homecoming dance.

“You’ll be nominated,” I say with all the assurance I feel, because come on. It’s Jordan.

He makes a face. “I don’t want to be.”

“Please.” He has to be full of crap. “You love it.”

“Not really.” He waves a dismissive hand as if he can make the subject magically disappear. “Are you playing in the powder puff game?”

It’s my turn to make a face. “Um, I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” He tilts his head to the side, appearing thoroughly confused. And thoroughly adorable. “You should.”

“No thanks.” Only the popular girls play. It’s the female version of the big homecoming game, and all the girls wear the football players’ jerseys, paint their faces and basically run around on the field like idiots trying to catch a ball. All while the football players wear the cheerleaders’ uniforms and too much makeup, jumping up and down while risking junk exposure. “It’s totally sexist.”

“You really think so?” He hesitates, his gaze dropping to the table before he blows out a breath. “And to think I was going to let you wear my jersey.”

I’m gaping. I can feel my mouth hanging open and I’m sure I look ridiculous, so I do my best to force it shut. “You were not.”

“I totally would. All you have to do is ask.”

I sort of hate how he throws it into my court. Shouldn’t he offer? Why do I have to ask?

“You never let a girl wear your jersey,” I whisper, not knowing if that’s really true but guessing it must be. My chest suddenly feels heavy, and it’s like I can’t breathe. He puts too much on me, too much importance on this—thing between us. And it is so equally terrifying and wonderful all at once, I’m tempted to pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.

“Yeah, well, I’ve never found someone worthy before.” He drains his coffee, crumples the cup between his fingers and turns around, tossing it into a trashcan with ease.

“And I’m worthy.” My voice is full of sarcasm.

“Amanda, you’ve been worthy for months. You’ve just been fighting it.” His gaze meets mine, deep blue and deadly serious.

I can’t think of anything else to say, sooo… “I should go home.”

“No way I can convince you to come back to my house?” His expression is completely neutral, but I see a faint glimmer in his gaze—and it reminds me of hopefulness.

Surely I must be seeing things.

“I can’t,” I say regretfully. “But maybe you should come with me to my house. Have dinner with my family.” Mom would be mad that I’m bringing an unexpected guest, but she’d get over it. I would love for my parents to meet Jordan. He’s so good-looking and smart and rich and…

My stomach sinks. He’s too smart. And too rich. He’d take one look at our shabby house with the ratty old couch and the walls that need paint and the kitchen that needs updating and he’d know.

He’d know I’m really not worthy of him. And then he’d leave me in the dust.

Jordan makes a face as he stands, reaching across the table to grab my empty cup. “No thanks. I’m not the bring-home-to-family-dinner type.”

I say nothing as he tosses my cup in the trash. Instead, I follow beside him quietly, letting him guide me out of the shop with his hand pressed against my lower back. No way can I react to his touch or his closeness. He makes me feel vulnerable and unsure and I constantly second guess myself in his presence. In fact, the entire ride back to my house we remain quiet, the music playing softly, and I wish it could drown out my thoughts.

But it doesn’t. Instead I keep sneaking looks at Jordan while telling myself what we’re doing together is nothing. We’re nothing. I sit up straighter and think of the many ways I can tell him that whatever the heck we’re doing, it’s never going to work.

Maybe if I keep coming up with excuses, I’ll eventually believe them.

The moment he stops the Range Rover in front of my house, I open my mouth, ready to throw some lame this-won’t-work line at him. But he doesn’t even give me a chance. Instead, he’s eagerly reaching for me, like he knows I’m about to drop some it’s-not-you-it’s-me bomb. He pulls me into his muscular arms and presses his mouth to mine, silencing any and all protests I was about to unleash on him.

I lose approximately two hundred brain cells in the ninety seconds he thoroughly kisses me, and when he finally pulls away from my lips, I open my eyes and stare at him as if in a daze. His lips are damp and his hair is a mess—I think I might’ve done that, I have no clue—and his eyes are extra bright as he watches me. He even nods, like he’s pleased with his kissing results, and his smile is soft as he slowly releases his hold on me.