More Than Friends (Friends, #2)(45)

“Let’s do it.” He pauses. “One.”

My stomach twists and I take a deep breath.

“Two.”

What am I going to say? What should I say?

“Three,” Jordan says, pauses, then blurts out, “Girlfriend.”

Right when I blurt out, “Dating.”

We both go silent.

“Did you just call me your girlfriend?” I’m incredulous.

“Did you just say we’re only dating?”

“Well…” My voice drifts. “I didn’t want to push.”

We’re quiet for a moment before he finally speaks again.

“Are you scared of me, Mandy?”

“It’s too early in the morning to have this serious of a conversation,” I tell him, trying to make a joke out of it. Even though it really is too early to have a serious conversation. It’s barely ten on a Sunday.

“Are you?”

I sigh. “No.” Ha. “Maybe.” Be honest. “Okay, yes. Just a little, though.”

It’s his turn to sigh. “I don’t want to scare you.”

“You don’t. Not really.”

“I’m coming for dinner tonight,” he says firmly, like he just made up his mind right then. “What time should I be there?”

“Oh, uh, we usually eat Sunday dinner around six.”

“Do I need to bring anything? Dress a certain way?”

“Just bring yourself. And dress how you usually dress to—school.”

“You want me to wear sweats and an old hoodie?” Now he’s the one who’s teasing.

“You don’t always dress like that.”

“When it gets colder in the mornings I do.”

“Dress nice,” I tell him. “But not too nice.”

“I can probably manage that.”

“You should probably come around five-thirty.”

“This is an event, huh.”

“It’s a nice way for us to be together and talk about stuff. Otherwise, we rarely all sit down to eat dinner together.”

“I hope they don’t hate me,” he says, sounding the tiniest bit nervous.

I hope they don’t either.”





I’m trying to decide between a dress or a sweater and jeans combo when my little brother knocks on my door.

“Your boyfriend is here,” Trent sing-songs.

My stomach plummets and I check my phone. It’s not even five-thirty. He’s early.

“Aren’t you gonna come kiss him hello?” Trent asks when I don’t answer.

“Go away!” I shout at the door like I’m twelve. Screw the dress. I don’t have time to primp. Instead I slip on my favorite jeans, the ones that make my butt look curvy, and then I pull on my new sweater. It’s cream-colored, made out of a thin material, and it splits in the back, exposing my lower back.

Hmmm. I should probably wear a tank with it. Mom will probably throw a fit. Ask me to change.

After putting on a white tank, I go to the full length mirror hanging on the back of my closet door and check myself out. I look good. I’m having a good hair day and I’m wearing a good bra. I look almost as good as Miss Perfect, AKA Lauren Mancini.

Seriously, I need to stop comparing myself to Lauren Mancini.

“Amanda! Your guest is here!”

Ugh, my mom could shout down the rooftop, she yells so loud. “Coming!” I yell back, tucking my hair behind my ears. Yeah, that doesn’t look good, so I untuck it, spritz on some body spray and then calmly walk out to greet Jordan.

I stop in my tracks when I spot him in the living room. He’s talking with my dad as they stand in front of the TV, most likely about football. Jordan’s wearing dark rinse jeans, a blue plaid shirt and black Vans, and ohmigod, he looks adorable. Like, I want to run and tackle him adorable, but I’m guessing my parents won’t appreciate that.

So I calm myself, take a deep breath and make my presence known.

“Jordan, hi.”

He turns his appreciative gaze on me, and those beautiful eyes somehow warm even more when he takes me in. “Hey. Amanda. You look…pretty.” I wonder if he’s almost afraid to give me a compliment in front of my dad.

“Thanks. You look good too.” I go toward him and give him a hug, feel his lips briefly press against my forehead. He wraps his arms around my waist and his hand presses flat against my bare lower back. I wonder if that surprised him. “I’m glad you made it,” I murmur against his chest before I pull away.

Dad clears his throat and I glance his way, not missing the amused look on his face. “Glad you could join us, Amanda.”

I make a face at him and look around the room. “Where’s Mom?”

“In the kitchen finding a vase for the flowers Jordan brought her,” Dad says.

I turn to look at Jordan. “You brought my mom flowers?”

He shrugs, looking embarrassed. I notice he’s wearing a white T-shirt beneath the plaid shirt, and that just makes him look even cuter. “My mom always taught me you should bring your host a gift. Sorry I didn’t get you anything, Mr. Winters.”

“Making my wife happy is gift enough,” Dad assures him.

I’m still stuck on the casual way Jordan mentioned his mom. He never talks about his parents. Ever. It’s like they don’t even exist, though I know they do, because otherwise he wouldn’t exist. But still. He does not bring them up in normal conversation.