More Than Friends (Friends, #2)(42)

I need to ask him first.



I already asked Ryan and he’s totally up for it.



Man, she’s fast.

Chewing on my lower lip, I go to text Jordan.



Want to go to dinner with Ryan and Livvy?



No. I’d rather be alone with you.



We can’t always be alone, Jordan.



Why not? That’s the way I like you. R&L will be a distraction.

I want to be alone with you.



I’m seriously blushing right now, and no one’s around to see it, so this is stupid.



What if I got hungry?



I’d always feed you.



Thirsty?



I’d bring you whatever you want to drink.



You’re being silly.



The phone rings, startling me. It’s Jordan.

“Why are you calling?”

“I needed to hear your voice.”

Everything inside of me goes warm at his admission. “You really don’t want to go out with Ryan and Livvy tonight, huh.”

He sighs, the sound rough and slightly disappointed. “Can’t we do that next weekend?”

“Come on, Jordan. What’s the big deal?”

He’s quiet for a moment and I worry I might’ve made him mad. My phone is dinging in my ear with new text alerts and I know they’re all from Livvy, but I can’t answer her.

“I’d rather go out with them another time,” he says quietly “I just—I want to get to know you better, Amanda. I want to spend time with just you and no one else.”

“Okay.” My heart is turning to mush. How can I make him go on a double date when all he wants is to spend time with me?

I can’t.

“What time are you done with work again?”

“Not until six.” Realization dawns. “I don’t even have a ride to work.”

“I’ll take you.”

“What? No, you don’t have to do that.” Panic makes my heart race.

“I want to. I’ll pick you up at your house.”

“Jordan…”

“What?”

“My parents don’t know we’re—seeing each other.”

“Okay.”

“So they’ll be here.”

“Do you not want me to meet them?”

I don’t know how I feel about that. Mom freaked out when I mentioned Jordan and the party and all that craziness. Then he’s the boy who comes to pick me up to take me to work? Talk about awkward.

“They sort of freak out when I date guys.” That’s not too far from the truth. They weren’t thrilled when I started dating Thad. But I’m seventeen—I can’t live like a nun my entire life.

“I’ll probably scare the hell out of them,” he says with a warm chuckle.

“You probably would,” I agree.

“How about I just pick you up? You can call me a friend,” he suggests.

“You are my friend.”

“Really?” His voice deepens. “Is that all you think of me?”

“Oh, you’re definitely more than a friend,” I tease.

I hope he feels the same way.





“Whose car is that sitting out in front of our house?” Mom asks as she ducks and peers through the living room window.

I glance outside. Jordan’s black Range Rover is sitting there, idling by the curb. Within seconds of spotting him, my phone buzzes with a text.



I’m here. You ready?



“It’s my friend. He’s giving me a ride to work,” I say nervously as I type out my reply.



Give me a minute. I’ll meet you out there.



Mom, of course, picks up on my nerves. She studies me carefully, so carefully she freaks me out and I drop my phone on the hardwood floor with a loud clatter. “A male friend?”

I nod, scooping up my phone and checking it for damage. Thankfully, there isn’t any. “He’s in a few of my classes. We’re working on a project together. For English. It’s focused on great literary couples.”

Hitting her with boring stuff proves to be the distraction she needs. “English, hmmm? That’s nice, dear. His car looks very expensive.”

“I guess it is?” I know it is, but playing dumb sometimes works too.

“Very nice of him to drive you to work. I knew you could round some friends to help you.” And with that, she drifts out of the living room and heads to the kitchen. I nearly sag with relief.

But I don’t have time to sag or be relieved. Or be annoyed she basically said, “I told you so,” without saying those words at all. I can’t worry about that. Instead, I gotta go to work.

Grabbing the backpack I use for overnight stays—I packed clothes to change into after work—I sling it over my shoulder, calling out a, “Bye Mom, see you later!” before I slam the front door and dart down the walkway toward Jordan’s car.

“Where do you think you’re going, young lady?”

I skid to a stop and turn to see my dad approaching. He’s dressed in ratty, faded black cargo pants and a white T-shirt that’s seen better days. He’s been working in the yard all morning and he’s filthy. But he loves it. He’s why our yard looks so good.