More Than Friends (Friends, #2)(55)

Though what will that get us? Get her? Pain? Unhappiness? I don’t believe in love, not really. So why would I torture her—and myself?

I tell myself I don’t need her. But the more time we spend together, the more I’m starting to believe that’s not true.

They draw closer and I watch Mandy walk, her hips swaying gently. The dress she wears clings to her like a second skin, turning her body into long lines and subtle curves. I remember the times I’ve touched that body. How responsive she always is. The sounds she makes.

I need to quit reminiscing or I’ll be sporting a major boner soon. But I can’t stop thinking about her, about having her in my house, my room, my bed...

Makes me want to keep doing it. Keep her. Which is ridiculous. That sort of thing is what fucks up your life. Falling for someone, needing someone—you’ll only end up getting hurt.

I’ll be hurt. She will be too. This won’t end well.

Yet I can’t stop it.

She settles into the chair next to mine and I can smell her fragrance, delicate and sweet and infinitely Amanda. She smiles at me, her eyes full of fear, and I know I’ve acted like an asshole since I heard my father is here, but I can’t help myself. I won’t be able to ease the edge until I see him.

Or the edge will get sharper. More painful.

“Try the appetizer,” I tell Amanda when she just keeps staring at me with those big brown eyes. She looks like she wants to either comfort me or run screaming from the building.

I’d advise her to do the latter, but I’m selfish. I want to keep her near me.

“Is it good?” She sounds, looks unsure.

I take a thin cracker from the plate and dip it into the goat cheese and jalapeno jelly mix, then hold the cracker in front of her lush mouth. “Try it.”

Her lips slowly part and I feed her the cracker. She chews thoughtfully, the tension slowly leaving her expressive face just before she swallows. “That was delicious.”

“Told you.” I turn away from her and point at the appetizer, saying to Ryan and Livvy, “Eat up.”

They do as I ask like puppets on a string. But I can tell they’re enjoying the food. And they only jumped at my command because they know I’m a pissed off ball of rage.

“Jordan.” Amanda’s soft whisper curls through my blood, settles in my balls because as mad as I am, I still want her. “Are you all right?”

“Never better.” I give her the best smile I can muster, but it’s more like a baring of teeth. “Why would anything be wrong with me?”

“You can be honest with me.” She rests her hand on my thigh and her touch burns in the best way possible. “If you need to talk…”

“I’m good.” I settle my hand over hers and give it a squeeze, then remove mine. She frowns, like she wanted me to keep holding her hand, but I can’t. Looking happy with my father nearby would be a sign of weakness. He’ll see it and drive a stake right into my heart.

Or Amanda’s. And I refuse to let that happen.

“Are you sure?” She moves her hand from my leg and I immediately miss her touch.

“I said I was fine.” My voice is clipped and the hurt on her face is undeniable.

To anyone else—to Amanda—I look like I’m overacting. So what if my father is here tonight? Who cares?

But I care. I have my sneaking suspicions, and if he makes an appearance, if he comes out of that private back room I know he requests so he can dine in private and bring his special dinner “guests”—mistresses, sluts, whores, whatever you want to call them—I might take all of my rage out on him. Let him know exactly how I feel.

You’d think the old man would already know, but I’m not too sure about that. I think Mom has hidden my animosity toward my father for a long time as a way to—what? Protect him?

Whatever. That guy doesn’t deserve any protection.

Minutes later our salads are brought out and I pick at mine. I quietly offer the waiter two hundred bucks to bring all of us mixed drinks, preferably heavy on the whiskey, but he wavers too long so I snatch the offer back. Screw this guy if he can’t meet a simple request.

“Son. What are you doing here this evening?”

I slowly lift my head to find him standing by our table, with a hot blonde who doesn’t look much older than us hanging on his arm.

Emerson Tuttle, in the flesh. An older version of me, which I hate. I look just like him. When I’m older I will be his mirror image. I will have the same dignified silver at my temples and the broad shoulders, and I will wear an expensive designer suit because I’m a Tuttle and we’re expected to do no less.

“Who’s your friend, Dad?” My voice is falsely cheerful and he knows it.

The smile on his face is tight, though his eyes are cold as ice. Eyes the same color as mine, though I swear his are colder.

“I could ask the same of you, Jordan.”

Huh. I’m surprised he even remembers my name.

“I asked first.”

“She’s a co-worker,” he starts but I laugh. The sound is unpleasant, harsh in the silence that has taken over our table. I quiet immediately, sending him a disbelieving look.

“Give me a break, Dad. We know what’s going on here,” I say bitterly.

His smile cracks. Fades into nothingness. “Don’t disrespect me in public.”