-1- Prepare a Guest List
When Jordan Carter tells his family the story of how he met the love of his life, it will go a little something like this:
It’s a Tuesday evening in early June. Sunset brushes heavy strokes of pink against the pale blue sky. The Last Pour’s interior décor is all dim lighting and burnished wood. Roasted peaches and sweet smoke spice the restaurant’s air. Jazz music hums lowly under the soundtrack of wineglasses clinking, diners chattering over delicately plated food.
He reserved a corner table. Far from the cacophony of the kitchen. Close enough to the wall of windows that pour a halo of golden light over Jess, his date.
She’s gorgeous. Model-esque without ever having walked a runway. And smart. Ridiculously smart. She’s a genetics counselor at the Centers for Disease Control.
When he tells their story, he’ll mention how her backless, honey-yellow dress brings out the rose undertones in her dark brown skin. The approving look she gives his black-and-burgundy-striped Armani blazer. How her face lights up when he doesn’t order for her. Because he’s not That Guy. How she lets out a hiccupping laugh at all of his jokes, as if she already gets his sense of humor.
She watches him over a glass of cabernet. He lifts his highball of vodka soda for a toast.
“To a great night.”
“To a great night,” she echoes. There’s a sparkle in her sharp brown eyes.
It’s like the opening to one of those romance movies his cousin Denz is obsessed with.
This, Jordan can do. He’s an exceptional planner. Great with first impressions. First dates. Truthfully, Jordan’s great at a lot of things. Not in a braggy, egotistical way. More like a works-fucking-hard-to-never-disappoint way.
Part of it is because he’s from a large and successful extended family. A family that has always had high expectations. The other part? Well, he doesn’t have time to figure that out. Jess is talking.
Another thing Jordan prides himself on? Being an attentive listener.
“So,” Jess says, “your mom said you went to UCLA?”
Jordan grins tightly. If anyone asks, he’ll casually forget to mention the part about his mom setting them up.
Fuck, who’s he kidding? He’ll never get the chance.
At this very moment, Cheryl Carter is most likely in their infamous family group chat composing a new headline about him like a trash-surfing TMZ reporter.
EXCLUSIVE:
JORDAN GOES PUBLIC WITH HIS FUTURE WIFE!
There’s a reason his cousins affectionately refer to his mom as Auntie C.C.
Carter Confidential.
“I’m a Bruin all the way,” Jordan confirms. “I bleed gold and blue.”
Amusement creeps into Jess’s eyes.
“And you?”
“Howard,” she says proudly.
He already knew that. No, Jordan’s not some handsome, Penn Badgley–lite serial killer in a designer suit. Knowing key information about people is part of his job. Someone’s likes, their dislikes. Favorite flower and where they grew up. Small but significant details about their history.
Case in point:
Jessamine Walters, age twenty-seven. Likes wine and Italian fusion cuisine. Dislikes country music and line dancing. Naturally, her favorite flower is jessamine. She grew up in South Carolina, though she’s been all around the world because of her military mom, which has fueled Jess’s love for traveling as an adult.
All things he’s learned from rudimentary research and quick social media scrolling.
Jess sips her wine. “And you played basketball?”
A playful smirk flexes against Jordan’s mouth. “What else did my mom share?”
“Not much.”
Jordan doesn’t believe her, but he doesn’t let it show either. “Let me guess: The name of the first girl I kissed? My ATM PIN?” He drags a finger an inch above his left eyebrow. “How I got this scar?”
“No”—her smile widens—“but now I want to hear that story.”
“Thrown game controller,” Jordan admits nonchalantly.
“Bullshit.”
“Seriously.” He leans back. “Super Smash Bros. gets pretty brutal with my family.”
“You’d get along great with my grammy.”
“Is she a big Wii gamer?”
“Hell no. Sorry!”
Jordan arches his other eyebrow. “For what?”
She laughs, open and unguarded. Jordan likes that. He’s used to dates being too proper, wound too tight. Desperate to make a great impression. Especially because of who he is.
But Jess seems unbothered by that detail. “No, I meant Sorry! the board game,” she explains. “Grammy is a ruthless player.”
“Is she?”
“She once tried to kick me out after I beat her. I was six!”
Jordan fights off a snort.
“She rolled my Hello Kitty suitcase right out the closet,” Jess adds after another sip. “Told me to start packing.”
Her nose wrinkles with fondness. Jordan likes that too.
“Your mom did send me some incriminating baby photos,” Jess notes. “The one of you in the bathtub? With the bubble beard like baby Santa? Very cute.”
Jordan sputters dramatically.
That picture doesn’t exist. However, there is one of him dressed as Captain Underpants for Halloween. And another one where he looks like a drunk ’80s rapper after letting Tevin cut his hair for Picture Day at school.
If his mom sent Jess either of those, he might really end up as a TMZ headline:
JORDAN CARTER SETS HIMSELF ON FIRE AFTER EMBARRASSING CHILDHOOD PHOTOS EMERGE!
He clears his throat. “Back to basketball. I played a little.”
“Why’d you stop?”
Because professional basketball players don’t fit the family archetype, he thinks to say.
Instead, he replies: “I had other priorities.”
She snorts into her glass. “So, basically, you weren’t good enough for the draft.”
Jordan lets out a surprised laugh. She’s not wrong. Most NBA teams aren’t putting a five-foot-nine point guard high on their drafting priorities. But Jordan doesn’t have to admit that out loud.
“Please. I was the next Chris Paul.”
“We love our short kings.” She winks at him.
Jordan’s brows raise. He thinks Jess is flirting. But maybe she’s just being extra playful? He’s not sure how to respond.
Thankfully, he doesn’t have to.
The waitstaff swoops in with their food. It’s a quick and efficient process.
Over a steaming bowl of pasta, Jordan watches Asa, the Last Pour’s sommelier, refill Jess’s glass. He takes another slow swig of his own drink, then says, “Are you an NBA fan?”
“Born and raised,” Jess says. “Who’s your favorite team?”
“Golden State.”
She frowns half-heartedly. “Oof. That’s a deal-breaker for me.”
“Don’t tell me you’re a Kings fan?”
“I wouldn’t dare! I’m a Chicago girl, all the way.” Jess leans over her plate. “What can I say? I like my Jordans.”
Her tongue glides slowly across shimmery pink lips. Jordan almost chokes. Vodka burns at the back of his throat.
He blinks away the sudden tears. “Who’s your, um … favorite WNBA team?”
“The Aces.”
“A woman of taste,” Jordan comments.
“I’d like to think so.” The toe of her beige heel skims the inside of his ankle.
Jordan nonchalantly shifts his feet the other way. “What about work?”
“Uh-oh.” She laughs again. “Are we at the ‘let’s talk about our jobs’ portion of the date?”
“Should we skip it?” Jordan offers. He has a catalogue of other topics memorized.
Jess shrugs. “Not unless you want to skip right to the ‘past relationships’ conversation.”
He’d prefer not to. His last—his only—full-blown relationship was in high school.
“Let’s save that for the second date,” he suggests, taking in the way one side of Jess’s mouth lifts approvingly at his boldness.
“My job’s pretty boring,” she tells him.
“I doubt that.”
“You’re right,” Jess says. As if she was testing him. As if she wanted to see if he was going to make tonight all about him.
Highly unlikely. Jordan’s a professional at first dates. After that?
Well …
“But I’m never in the news for what I do.” She points her fork at him. Pasta hangs off the end. “Or trending on social media.”
And there it is.
Jordan expected this. For most of his twenty-five years, at least one conversation he’s had with someone new has revolved around 24 Carter Gold, the luxe event-planning company he now works for. Specifically, who owns the company—his family.
Admittedly, he doesn’t have it as bad as his cousins. His uncle Kenneth is the one who founded the business. He’s been on more magazine covers, morning news shows, and red carpets than most B-list celebrities.
But who Jordan is still follows him everywhere.
Oh, you’re one of the Carters.
Oh, you’re related to …
Oh, I saw your uncle on TV—by the way, can you hook me up with your hot cousin.…
The topic is inevitable, which is why he manages to smile easily and say to Jess, “I’m just an event coordinator. My job’s pretty boring.”
Jess grins cleverly at the way he echoes her words from a second ago. “Just an event coordinator who hosted a birthday party for Dwayne Johnson two weeks ago.”
Technically, Kami, his older cousin and 24 Carter Gold’s CEO, did that. But he helped. A little.
Jordan watches the lime wedge bob around his somewhat watered-down drink. “The position has its perks.”
“Like reserving a table at an exclusive restaurant?”
He grins. “No. They’re just slower on weekdays.”
Which is mostly true. It didn’t hurt that he had previously booked out the restaurant for a Georgia senator’s thirtieth wedding anniversary dinner. Eileen, the Last Pour’s manager, loves him. The staff does too, but that might have to do with how well Jordan tips.
Jess tilts her head. “Is that your subtle way of telling me you didn’t put any effort into wooing me tonight?”
Jordan freezes.
Shit, is that how he came off? Uncaring? Like he’s simply going through the motions? That this is all one, big elaborate scheme to get his mom to stop setting him up? Because she won’t be satisfied until Jordan finds the love of his life, gets married, and lives the happily-ever-after she almost missed out on when she was his age?
“N-no,” he stammers. “That’s not … I swear—”
Jess cackles. “I’m kidding!” She reaches across the table to touch the back of his hand. “Tonight’s great. So far.”
Jordan smiles, relieved.
He hasn’t completely fucked this up. They’re back on track.
From the window, streams of artificial light wash over them. Outside, Atlanta’s waking up. Neon eyes glowing. Early summer warmth fading. Endless people walk into the mouth of the city to taste its intoxicating vibe.
It’s the perfect backdrop. The perfect atmosphere. And, for exactly five more seconds, the perfect mood.
Until Jordan’s gaze strays to his right.
The long, sleek bar is jammed with friends and regulars and single diners poring over their phones while drinking. Two bartenders move around each other in a well-rehearsed dance. Jordan focuses on a third man.
His back is to everyone as he dries fresh glasses. The bar’s wall is a frosted mirror with rows of top-shelf alcohol. His face is hidden in the reflection. But Jordan knows those broad, muscled shoulders. The relaxed posture. A hint of tan skin peeking out of the collar of his white button-up. Deep brown hair falling in messy waves.
Reflexively, Jordan imagines the dark scruff lining a square jaw. He pictures white teeth biting a pink, plump lower lip. The wrinkles in his forehead as he overthinks everything and—
No, no, no.
There’s absolutely no fucking way that he works here.
Jordan would know. He’s met the Last Pour’s staff. Even when the restaurant outsources for the bigger events 24 Carter Gold hosts, Jordan’s made a conscious effort to memorize all the new helpers.
Fine. Maybe Jordan also maintains a running list of the places he bartends at. All the brunch spots, dive bars, and loud, noisy, generic restaurants to avoid around the city.
So they don’t run into each other.
So Jordan doesn’t experience a moment like this:
Where his face is blistering hot. Throat constricted so painfully he can’t swallow. His chest tight with a suffocating memory. It’s like being thrown into the deep end of a pool when you can’t swim.
Jordan is drowning.
And on the way down, he remembers this:
The cool snap of December air. Twilight settling purple in the sky. Notes of oak and amber body wash mixing with the heady sweetness from the cup of hot chocolate cradled between his hands. Their bodies so close. Breaths almost synced.
Jordan had spent far too long trying to name all the colors flecked in the other man’s light brown eyes. Too much time thinking about standing on his toes. Finally doing the thing that had run through his head for months and months—
Kissing him.
Jordan also remembers this:
The second he did lean up. The other man suddenly jolting backward. That sad, regretful look in his eyes.
His words like a sharp blade slipped right beneath Jordan’s ribs.
Maybe we shouldn’t. I don’t want to ruin our friendship. You’re still figuring yourself out and I—I don’t think I’m the right person for that. For you, while you’re on this journey.
Jordan remembers nodding. Laughing it off. Pretending he was okay.
Which he was. Is. Jordan’s fine.
He’s—
Jess clears her throat. “Jordan.”
He’s been staring at the bartender’s back so long he forgot about her.
Startled, Jordan twists to face her. But he’s too distracted to be coordinated. Too focused on the ghost behind the bar of the restaurant where he’s on a fucking date that he doesn’t pay attention to the little things.
Like the proximity of his flailing arm to Jess’s wineglass. How delicate and full it is. How easily it topples over when his hand makes contact.
“Shit!”
Jordan jumps up before anything splashes on him. But he’s still so rattled, he doesn’t see Asa walking by with a tray of drinks for a table of six nearby. Luckily, Asa’s reflexes are quick. They just barely find their balance. Though not before one of the shots spills onto the sleeve of Jordan’s blazer.
Fucking amazing.
Jordan’s pasta is swimming in a river of red wine. He stinks of Don Julio tequila. Jess’s eyebrows are high on her forehead as she stares up at him.
She’s not the only one.
Everyone at the bar is watching him too.
Including the shaggy-haired bartender. Who has very … green eyes, not brown. And one of those hipster beards. The kind you see on a white guy competing on a cutthroat Food Network cooking show. The kind no one likes but pretends to.
He looks nothing like the man Jordan was thinking of.
Nothing like Jamie Peters.
Eventually, the chatter starts up again. The music slips into something classical. The Not-Jamie bartender turns away to polish more glasses.
In a panic, Mallory, the ginger-haired waitress Jordan remembers from a black-tie party months ago, rushes over. She hands him a new linen napkin with a mortified expression.
“Thanks,” Jordan says coolly, hiding his embarrassment.
“I’ll get you a fresh bowl!” Mallory proposes.
He waves her off. “No worries. It was my fault. I was—It’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” he says, straightening his shoulders. “Thanks again, Mallory.”
She swipes up his soupy pasta, then disappears.
Jordan winces guiltily at Jess. “I’m so sorry.”
“It happens.” Jess’s expression warms. “Remind me to tell you about how I almost stabbed my ex while at a steakhouse.”
“Was it a freak accident?”
“Allegedly.” She smirks again.
His eyes trail to the tipped-over glass Mallory forgot. “I can get you a new one.”
As he’s about to signal for Asa to come back, Jess grabs his hand. “Don’t worry,” she insists. Her fingers play along the inside of his wrist. “I have an unopened bottle. Back at my place. We could share.”
There’s a clear suggestion in her tone. In the way her head tilts as she bites her lip. An invitation made bold by her stare.
Jordan swallows.
He knows this part. Knows the expected outcome. Knows what almost any other man would do in his position.
Which is why Jordan grins, then says, “I have an early morning tomorrow. First meeting with a new VIP client.”
Jess’s eyes grow smaller.
“I shouldn’t stay out too late,” he adds.
It’s not an excuse. He does have a big meeting in the morning. That doesn’t change the way Jess’s mouth pinches, her eyebrows draw inward.
“How … responsible,” she exhales.
“We should do this again though,” Jordan quickly offers. “You know, without the wine spilling.”
A quiet beat passes.
The change is almost instant. Jess hums an mm-hmm. She doesn’t make eye contact with him while scooting her chair back. She stands, tucking her phone into her purse.
Jordan tries to look hopeful, but he’s already mentally composing a brand-new version of this story for his family:
He’ll leave out the way Jess steps closer to him. How her hand rests on his dry shoulder. Her smooth lean in to press a peck to the corner of his mouth. Or how, at the very last second, Jordan tips his head away. Offers her his cheek instead, like some visiting European dignitary.
Jordan will skip over his stammered “I’ll t-text you.”
And Jess’s whispered “Well, this was tragic” as she walks past him.
Conveniently, Jordan will forget the part where he sulks at the table until the bill arrives. He’ll redact pausing at the bar on his way out. Getting an up-close view of the man who threw his entire game off. He’ll neglect to mention how, when said bartender with his broad shoulders and messy brown hair gives him a wolfish smile—just like the one Jess wore ten minutes ago—Jordan felt nothing.
He always feels nothing in moments like this.
Outside, Jordan checks his phone. No texts from his mom asking for updates. At least not yet. He considers calling Denz. Lamenting over another failed date as he walks to grab two scoops of brownie batter on a waffle cone from his favorite artisanal ice cream shop down the block.
But he can’t.
Call Denz, that is. It has nothing to do with the time zone difference. It’s only 6 PM in California.
Truth is, Denz has no clue what happened between Jordan and Jamie last December. Jordan doesn’t want to tell him. Embarrassment aside, he knows how uncomfortable that conversation will be.
Because Jamie Peters is his cousin’s best friend.
Overhead, thunder growls. Fat, cool drops of rain come shortly afterward. Now, tonight truly is perfect.
A perfect fucking mess.
When he talks to his family, Jordan plans to leave this part out too:
Running to his car in a summer storm. Tripping on someone’s discarded Starbucks cup. Ending his evening by almost twisting his ankle and falling into a bush.
He won’t tell anyone how, after exactly fifty-eight minutes, his impeccable love story crashed and burned. Because of a bartender. Because Jordan couldn’t stop thinking about the night he almost kissed another guy.
And it wouldn’t have been the first time.
Copyright © 2025 by Julian Winters