Page 36 of Old Fashioned
It was that rush of heat that kicked my brain into gear, and I realized with freezing cold awareness what I was doing.
I was kissing Jordan Becker.
I was kissing Jordan Becker — myboss.
I was kissing someone.
Period.
I broke away as if his kiss was a knife in the gut rather than the sweetest ecstasy. Before he could even frown, I was already out of his grasp, backing away with my hands over my mouth, eyes wide.
When he registered what he was seeing, his eyes went wide, too.
“Shit,” he muttered, holding up his hands and taking a step toward me. I backed away just as much. “Sydney, I’m sorry. I—”
“It’s late,” I interrupted, turning away from him and bolting toward my dining room table as I cleared my throat. I immediately picked up our glasses, dumping what was left inside them into my sink and tossing the garnishes in the trash. I kept my eyes on my hands as I washed the glasses, as if I couldn’t have tossed them into the dishwasher, instead.
“Sydney,” Jordan tried from behind me.
“Thank you for today,” I said, heart racing, mind blurring. I didn’t know why it was happening, and Ihatedit, but in that moment?
All I thought of was Randy.
All I thought of was that Jordan and I couldn’t happen, that Randy would neverletit happen, and that perhaps more than anything, I wasn’t ready for it to happen.
“I’m pretty tired,” I continued, still washing. “I think we both better get some sleep.”
The water was scalding hot on my hands but I didn’t move to change it. I just scrubbed and scrubbed until the soap was a frothy foam of bubbles on the sponge and the glass in my hand was clean enough for the Queen herself to drink from.
I could still sense Jordan in my home, hear his breaths, feel the mixture of longing and regret swirling inside him the same way they moved in me. But slowly, without another attempt to speak to me, he gathered his belongings, and with one last look in my direction that I didn’t return, he let himself out my front door.
And I fell to the floor, the water still running as I backed myself into the cabinet and squeezed my eyes shut, running my hands through my hair.
What have we done?
Jordan
Was it possible for a hangover to last forty-eight hours?
If anyone would have asked me on Monday afternoon thirty minutes before football practice, I would have responded with a resoundingyes.
My head still pounded, gut churning like I was in danger of forfeiting what little I’d been able to eat at any given moment. I knew there were bags under my eyes and that I was in rough shape as I ran over my plans for the day’s practice.
And I also knew thatnoneof it had anything to do with the alcohol I’d consumed.
I hadn’t been drunk — not at Sydney’s, not in the car on my way home, and not the next morning. If anything, I’d nursed those drinks to make them — and the conversation with Sydney — last.
I wasn’t hungover from the whiskey.
I was hungover from her kiss.
I’d been in that state of absolute worthlessness since I left Sydney’s house on Saturday night, spending the rest of the weekend ruminating on my actions, and even more on herreaction.
I’d kissed her.
Like a damn fool, I’d kissed her.
And she’d torn away from me like I was the devil himself.
