Ready to Run (I Do, I Don't 1)

“If I answer honestly, will you quit asking me to do this damn show?”

She nodded, and his eyes narrowed as he gave her the same thorough study she’d just given him. “Yes. I promise.”

“All right,” he finally said. “Ask your question.”

“Did you really walk away from those three women on your wedding days?”

He didn’t break eye contact. “Yes.”

Jordan felt her stomach drop in disappointment. She didn’t know why she’d so desperately wanted it to be a different answer, but she had.

“Okay,” she said quietly.

“So you’ll get out of town?”

Jordan pursed her lips. “Why would I do that?”

His eyes flared. “You promised, City.”

“To stop asking you about the show. I never promised to leave town.”

He straightened, visibly pissed. “You little—”

There was a thump, followed by Simon’s shout from upstairs. “Jordie! Where the fuck are your fucking towels? My balls are dripping water on this gorgeous flooring.”

She rubbed her forehead. “I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t bother,” Luke snarled, taking a last sip of his beer before setting the bottle on the counter and striding across the kitchen toward the front door. “I’m out of here.”

“Wait, Luke.”

He paused but didn’t turn around.

“You know I’m right about everyone wanting you to do this show. Why is that?”

His shoulders tensed even more than they already were.

But the only answer she got was the slam of her front door shutting behind him.

Chapter 8

“The pleasure I’m getting from this grilled cheese should be illegal,” Jordan said, taking another bite of the perfectly buttered, crispy concoction.

“Me having to watch you eat it should be illegal, and I’m not even straight,” Simon muttered around a reluctant bite of his own turkey club—he was still smarting over the lack of gluten-free bread options.

It was Simon’s last day in Lucky Hollow, and Jordan had taken him out for a farewell lunch at the Café, so named because it was apparently the only one in town.

From the outside, it hadn’t looked like much. More of a convenience store than a restaurant. Inside wasn’t that much better. A handful of uncomfortable-ish tables and chairs, one too many horse pictures on the pink-wallpapered wall, and a cash register that looked far older than Simon and Jordan combined. The girl behind the counter had been more interested in her cellphone than in her customers, much to the chagrin of the older woman in the kitchen, who kept hollering, “iPhones don’t make sandwiches.”

Once the sandwiches had been put in front of Jordan and Simon, however, none of the rest had mattered.

“What did they do to this?” Jordan asked, studying the perfect blend of cheese between the slices of bread.

“My theory? The bread’s from my boy’s bakery.”

“Oh yes, have we gotten any more info there?” Jordan asked, taking a sip of her Diet Coke.

“No, that’s going to be your job while I’m gone.” Simon reached across the table and stole one of her homemade chips, even though he refused to touch his own for calories’ sake.