On your Buccan-head!
Totally cringe worthy.
“Uh huh. We’re going to Florida,” Jordan comes to a stop at a red light and glances over at me. “Doing anything this weekend?”
“Laundry,” I tell him jokingly. “Need to clean my apartment too.”
He chuckles. “What does that take? Ten minutes?”
“Are you mocking my fun-sized apartment?”
“Definitely.” He shakes his head. “It’s so small, Mandy.”
“It works for me.” I don’t like how defensive his words make me feel, or how what he said is almost like an accusation. I’ve never had the money or the privilege that comes with being Jordan Tuttle. I had a taste of it when I was his girlfriend, but I always felt like I didn’t belong in his world. That I was just pretending.
He hated that. He hated it so much, he’d get mad at me when I said stuff like that. He knew it was a huge insecurity, my Achilles’ heel, yet he never understood why I felt like that. He worried he was the one making me feel that way, but it was never him.
That was my personal complex.
I’m starting to feel it now, as we head toward the upscale Santana Row, with its expensive, trendy restaurants and the even more expensive, mostly designer stores. Growing up, we didn’t have a lot of money. Our house was small—and my parents still live there. They will die there, I’m sure of it. We’re a simple family. We didn’t have a lot of extras or fancy vacations. We went to the beach. We went to the mountains. And only because we were so centrally located that the drive to the beach or the mountains didn’t take long. I knew from a young age that I had to find a career that would make me actual money, because my parents weren’t going to support me forever.
And I did find a career that I not only love, but I make good money doing it too. I’d live like a freaking queen if I lived anywhere else but the Bay Area. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished these last few years. Yet I still have that tiny bit of uncertainty nestled deep within me. That insecurity rears its ugly head whenever I feel less than. When I think I don’t measure up.
Being with Jordan the first time around made that insecurity rise more often than I like to admit. I really don’t want to deal with it again. I’m older now. More confident. More capable of dealing with negative feelings and turning them around.
At least, I hope I’m more capable.
“I wasn’t making fun of your place,” he tells me once the light turns green and he starts driving again. “It just shocked me, how small it was.”
“No surprise. I’d bet your bedroom is bigger than my entire apartment.” I’m joking, yet I’m also fairly certain that I speak the truth.
“Yeah. For sure,” he says, hesitating for a moment. I realize we’re both being cautious around each other. “Don’t you want something bigger?”
“I can afford where I’m living now without stretching my income too thin,” I explain. “I don’t want to live above my means. That’s something my parents taught me from a young age, and it’s always stuck with me.”
“Smart move,” Jordan says. “Debt sucks.”
Like he knows anything about being in debt.
I keep my mouth shut. No way do I want to argue with Jordan on our first date as bona fide adults.
Funny, though, how all those old worries and insecurities pop up when you’re with someone from your past. Maybe trying to resurrect an old relationship isn’t a smart move.
But when I catch him smiling at me, his appreciative gaze dropping and lingering on my exposed thighs, knowing I’m not wearing any panties, I can’t help but think going out with Jordan again is the most fantastic idea I’ve ever had.
I’m trying to impress Amanda by bringing her here, to the place where I live, to one of my favorite restaurants. Santana Row has a small, hip downtown neighborhood vibe, with plenty of shops and restaurants and bars. I’ve hung out here plenty of times, mainly with my teammates, sometimes out for a drink or a quick dinner with Mia, though I honestly can’t remember the last time I took her out. Most everyone leaves us athletes alone when we mingle here, because they know more than a few of us live here too.
I like my house in Sonoma better. It’s huge and private, but I don’t spend much time there during football season. So my townhouse in the city will have to do.
Amanda and I walk to the restaurant side by side, making idle chitchat. I’m tempted to grab hold of her hand, but I don’t. Probably moving too soon. She looks adorable in that floral print dress with the denim jacket over it, and those stiletto sandals make her legs look impossibly long.
Impossibly sexy.
She oohs and aahs over the stores as we pass them by, slowing her pace when we walk by Sephora or one of the many clothing stores. She practically presses her face against the window of the bakery, her eyes wide as she takes in the colorful rows of cupcakes.
“I want one of those,” she tells me after I drag her away from the window. “Maybe after dinner?”
“Sure,” I say easily. She’s the only woman I know who’ll readily indulge her love of sweets—of food in general. Every other woman I’ve been with watched their weight, watched what they ate carefully. Almost like they didn’t want to slip in front of me, or somehow make a mistake.