More Than Friends (Friends, #2)(57)

Makes me worry I’m going to get hurt, just like with Thad.

Only worse. What I felt for Thad doesn’t even come close to what I feel for Jordan.

My phone buzzes and I grab it to find a text message from Livvy.



Are you okay? Ryan said he would come pick you up if you don’t want to stay the night at Tuttle’s or if you’re uncomfortable. We’re both worried about you.



Aw. Just when I think those two are completely wrapped up in each other and don’t care about anyone else, they go and do something like this. I’m touched.



I’m good so far. But I hope the offer stands for the next few hours? Just in case…



You got it babe. Text anytime. xoxo



I send her some x’s and o’s back along with some kissy faced emojis and then start scrolling through my phone. Instagram—boring. Facebook—I don’t even bother checking because, what? I’ll see photos from my mom’s friends and video recipes and crap? No thanks. I open up Snapchat to check out people’s stories and see Brianne Brown posted endless photos of her and Dustin kissing. I swear I see shiny pink tongues in a few of the shots. Gross. Hope Liv steers clear of Snapchat tonight.

Somehow I am still following Lauren Mancini and she’s following me. It was all innocent good fun when we first became friends on Snapchat. I did it because I know her brother Sam. He was in band with me and is generally a nice person—unlike his older sister. I liked seeing all of her photos. Her life seemed so glamorous and far-reaching to me. As in, I could never reach it.

The photo I see that she’s included as part of her story sets my heart to pounding—and not in a good way either.

It’s her and Jordan in their homecoming court regalia. Her sparkling tiara on her head, his cheap ass crown tilted to the side on his. They’re dancing. Someone else took the photo and must’ve sent it to her. The caption on the photo is completely ridiculous.



#tbt but not Thursday so maybe just #tb? King & Queen never looked so good. #bestnighteverrrrr #homecoming #seniors #jordanandlauren

She is freaking unbelievable.

It’s the Jordan and Lauren hashtag that makes me want to tear her hair out like a jealous wench. Worse, though? I have zero reason to be jealous. Who’s the one spending so much time with Jordan these last few weeks? Who’s the one who’s lying on Jordan’s bed at this very moment?

Me.

I sit up and glance around, trying to find something obvious, that will clue people into the fact that I’m in Jordan’s bedroom. He doesn’t have many personal items in his room. In fact, it’s pretty bare and impersonal, which as always, makes me sad. The two photos on his dresser are actually lying facedown and I wonder when he did that.

It’s a total invasion of privacy, but I end up wandering around his room. I peek in drawers and immediately shut them because it’s wrong, what I’m doing. I enter his closet and am overwhelmed by the sheer size of it. How much clothing does a guy need? I guess Jordan Tuttle needs a lot. When I find some of his jerseys hanging on the bottom rung, I pull one off the hanger and hold it up in front of me.

It’s huge.

Going on pure instinct, I kick off my sandals and then shuck off my dress, pulling the navy-and-white jersey over my head, not surprised when the hem falls to the top of my thighs. An idea is brewing in my head. A bad one, but I want to go through with it. I’m feeling vindictive and rotten and evil. What I’m doing is ridiculous, and Jordan might not like it at all.

But I don’t care.

I cut through his bedroom, swipe my phone off the bed where I left it, and head into the bathroom. Standing in front of the mirror, I run my fingers through my hair until it’s a tousled and possibly sexy mess, and then I pose, snapping a photo with the camera.

Looking at the photo, I realize it’s not good enough. The message isn’t quite clear.

So I take a few more, then turn around so my back is to the camera. Tuttle is emblazoned across my shoulders, the number eight covering almost my entire back. Tuttle’s number. I’m looking over my shoulder, see that my butt is almost showing, and I realize right then, this is the photo I need to capture.

I open up Snapchat and take at least twenty selfies, deleting every single one of them until I finally settle on the one that works the best. Before I lose my nerve, I caption it quickly:

How I’m spending my Saturday night. #seniors #8isgreat #propertyof #CuddlewithTuttle



And then send to all of my friends.

He’s probably going to kill me.





“Mandy.” Someone shakes my shoulder. “Hey. Come on. Wake up.”

I sit up straight, blinking my eyes open to find Jordan perched on the edge of the bed, an indescribable look on his too gorgeous face. His eyes are still dark and he looks tired. There’s this dangerous air around him, like he’s simmering just below the surface and about to blow.

I push my hair out of my face and rub my eyes with my fists before remembering I still have lots of makeup on.

Great. Now I probably look like a raccoon.

“What time is it?” I ask groggily.

“Almost eleven. Sorry that took so long.” He doesn’t look sorry, though. He still looks angry. Maybe even angrier than before.

Unease trickles down my spine. “Should I go?”