Page 27 of Crossing the Brooklyn Briggs
“Just grab whatever,” I say, my words stuttering. “Anything hanging in my closet is fine, and just whatever, uh, underwear is on top.” Really, I should have just put my pajamas back on once I realized I forgot to grab a change of clothes. It wouldn’t have mattered that much.
“I’ll be right back,” Jordan says, and he glances back at me for half a second before disappearing into my room.
He takes way longer than I’d like to come back with a pile of clothes, complete with a bra and panty neatly folded on top. Honestly, I expected him to rummage through my drawer and find the sexiest thing I own—a black lace set that I only have because one of my stepsisters gave it to me years ago—but he picked out my comfiest bra even though it’s plain and beige and does nothing but hold everything in place.
I must be making a face because he chuckles. “Don’t think I wasn’t tempted,” he says, which could mean anything.
Jordan picked out a pair of black leggings and an oversized long-sleeved shirt—again a surprise—so when I finally open the door, fully dressed in one of my comfiest outfits, I have no idea what to expect from this guy. It’s like he was designed to know exactly what women really want. There’s no way he’s this perfect.
Then again, Jordan has always operated by the mantra that life is meant to be lived. He has never hidden who he is or what he wants, which has always been both inspiring and irritating. He makes it look so easy, like being known isn’t the most terrifying thing in the world. So unless that part of him has changed, this thoughtfulness is just who he is.
When he hears the door squeak open, Jordan gingerly pokes his head around the corner and then smiles when he sees me fully clothed. “How did I do?” he asks as he lifts me into his arms.
“I hope you’re not planning on taking me somewhere fancy dressed like this.”
He laughs. “Oh, it’ll be fancy. You need proper tutoring. But I figured you might as well be comfortable while you’re still in training wheels.”
Confirmed. Jordan is too good to be true.
“I’m going to take a quick shower,” he says as he sets me on the couch and hands me a bag of ice. “Make sure you keep the ice on your ankle until I get back, or we’re never going to get you walking again.”
Though I roll my eyes, he’s probably right. Even if it hurts, I dutifully press the ice to my ankle and raise my eyebrows at him. “Are you going to shower, or what? I’m not going anywhere with you if you smell like that.”
He laughs. “Nice to see you coming back into your old self, Queens.” And then he’s gone.
I frown. What does he mean by that? I know I was fairly quiet (and embarrassing) yesterday, but I don’t feel like I’m acting all that different today. I’m still just me, the same boring Brooklyn Briggs who can’t use a smartphone to save her life.
Speaking of phones, I notice Jordan has moved mine from my room to the coffee table, where he plugged it in to a charging cord that is definitely not mine. The man is even charging my phone for me? I doubt he knows how often I accidentally let it die because I don’t pay attention to the battery until it’s too late. But the fact that he even thought to check has my heart swelling in my chest all Grinch-like.
I should be nicer to him. He may be good at teasing, but he’s also been incredibly helpful to me and is giving up his whole weekend just because my brother asked him to. I’m looking for a catch to his do-gooder routine, but I can’t seem to find one.
What is he hoping to get out of this weekend?
He showers quickly and returns to my living room in jeans and a Henley, looking way too comfortable in my space as he tucks his sweats into his duffel bag and slips on a pair of canvas sneakers. I’ve been good and kept the ice on my ankle the whole time, but I am more than happy to hand it over to him and let him dump the bag out in the sink.
When he comes back to my side and holds out his arms, I cringe.
He laughs at the look on my face. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. You’re the one who refused to go to the hospital.”
A shudder runs through me. Yeah, I refused, and unless I’m bleeding, missing a limb, or about to have a baby, I’ll probably keep avoiding the hospital. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell myself that doctors are good and important; they’re always going to remind me of my mom.
Shaking away the gloom that starts to settle over me from thinking about the day she died, I fold my arms. There’s no reason for me to be stubborn, but I can’t help it. Jordan makes me want to be stubborn. Always has. “It’s humiliating enough letting you carry me around the house where no one can see me. I don’t think I’ll survive you carrying me around town.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “You know I’m not going to give you a choice, right? You can’t spend your Saturday locked up in this dungeon and expect Matthew to think you’re interesting.”
I know he’s saying Mark’s name wrong on purpose, and I know I should just ignore him. But that’s easier said than done. Especially today when I’m fully lucid. “His name is Mark,” I snap.
“And you know I’m right,” he argues back. “You gotta get out there and live a little.”
He may be right—I hate how much he’s right—but that doesn’t make this easier. “I don’t want you carrying me around in your arms, Jordan.”
“How about piggy back?” He spins, crouching down and showing off his backside. Of course I find Mark attractive, but I have never once admired Mark’s body. He’s slim and trim, probably spending more time indoors with books and documentaries than physical movement. It’s one of the reasons I like him. But Jordan?
Jordan is the definition of fit and strong. And hot fudge, does he look good.
“I’m waiting,” he says, looking over his shoulder at me.
I sigh. He’s really not going to let me fight him on this. “Fine,” I grumble, and then I hop forward and awkwardly climb onto his back with my arms wrapped over his collarbone.
