The photos.
Immediately I bring up a new browser, Google Jordan’s name and then click images. The photos from last night pop up, one after the other, and while yes, there are quite a few of me and Jordan—though you can barely see my face thank goodness—there are even more of Cannon and Susanna.
The headlines are all about Lady Susanna this and Lady Susanna that. One of the tabloids calls her Lady Sus, and for some weird reason, it sounds kind of lewd. As I read one of the articles, I realize she’s a bit of a minor noble celebrity here in Great Britain. And to think she played it off yesterday like she was no one important, but clearly she was being modest.
It’s almost like everyone in London—everyone in the United Kingdom—knows exactly who Lady Susanna Sumner is.
But I can’t be distracted by the Lady Susanna and American Footballer scandal for too long. My paranoia kicking in big time, I finally give in and send Jordan a text.
Are you almost done? Everything okay?
He takes a few minutes before he finally responds and I work on destroying my thumbnail with my teeth while I wait.
Everything’s fine, he finally says. See you in a few.
I set my phone on the bedside table with a sigh and glance around the empty room. Well. I can’t sit around and let the morning slip by. I’ll make myself crazy. So I climb out of bed and take a long, hot shower. Ponder my outfit before I finally get dressed. Blow dry my hair till it’s nice and smooth. Curl the ends. Carefully apply my makeup—because hello, now every day in London is going to possibly turn into a photo op.
After all that, Jordan still isn’t back yet.
In fact, it takes another thirty minutes for him to finally return. I’m seated on the edge of the bed, eating the breakfast I ordered from room service because I was starving, when he opens the door and strides inside our room, his steps hurried, his expression…grim.
“Hey. Sorry to keep you waiting,” he says, his gaze flicking to mine for the briefest second before he heads straight into the bathroom and closes the door.
He could barely look at me.
What gives?
I shove my worry aside and continue eating, though it feels like I’m chewing cardboard. My stomach is twisted in knots, my hunger evaporating with every bite and I feel like crap for not finishing such an expensive yet basic meal, but I can’t do it.
I just…I can’t.
Is he mad at me? Did Harvey fill his head with lies? I’d hope to God he’d believe me before he ever believed Harvey, but who knows? Jordan’s image is very important. He doesn’t just make his money playing football. He also has extremely lucrative endorsement deals. One wrong step and he could lose out on millions.
But what’s wrong with having a steady girlfriend? Especially if the steady girlfriend is someone from his past who’s loved him for years? Seriously, what’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with me?
Jordan’s in the bathroom only a few minutes, and when he finally emerges, I’m already on my feet, pacing back and forth in front of the window that overlooks the city. I come to a stop when he blocks my way, a solid wall of sexy muscle that doesn’t so much as budge.
“Hey.” He grabs hold of my sh
oulders and gives me a little shake, but I keep my head bent. I know I’m being ridiculous, but it’s like I’m almost too scared to face him. “Mandy. Look at me.”
I lift my head, my gaze meeting his, and I see nothing but kindness there. He’s so completely open with me—he has been since the moment we reentered each other’s lives. And that’s such a difference from our previous time together. Young Jordan was full of mystery. Turbulent. Brooding. Sometimes even…heartless. He drove me crazy, especially in the beginning of our relationship. He ran so hot and cold. When I was with him, I never knew what I was going to get, or who I was dealing with.
“I talked with Harvey,” he says firmly. “I set him straight.”
“Set him straight how?” My voice is weak. A little shaky. I know I’m overreacting when I shouldn’t.
“I asked him about the conversation yesterday between you two and he said he was just looking out for me. That he was protecting my best interests,” Jordan explains.
I’m sure Harvey believed that. I’d go as far to say that I believe it too. Jordan Tuttle’s image is very important to the franchise.
“But I told him more like he was protecting the team’s best interests, and what you and I are doing, doesn’t affect the team whatsoever.” His expression turns thunderous. “And I also warned him that he couldn’t bully or insult you. That if he has a problem with anything, he should take it up with me, since we’re together.” When I remain quiet for a beat too long, his eyes narrow. “Amanda. We are together, aren’t we?”
“Is that what you want?”
His hands fall away from my shoulders and he takes a step backwards, as if he needs the distance. “Isn’t that what you want?”
“I—but we promised to take this slow.” God, why did I just say that? I sound like I’m backtracking.