by C. C. Wood
“My cooking isn’t that bad, y’all,” I defended myself.
“If you believe that, I think you’ve ruined your taste buds,” Chelsea stated baldly.
I sighed. “Fine, Jordan will cook.”
Their doubtful looks didn’t disappear.
“He’s better in the kitchen than I am,” I continued.
“That wouldn’t be hard to do,” Yancy murmured beneath her breath.
“Hey!”
She shrugged and looked sheepish. “Sorry.”
“No, really. He’s a very good cook and he’s teaching me a few things.”
They all looked at each other in silence.
“Do you want to meet him or not?” I asked, annoyance seeping into my tone.
“When?” Grier asked.
“Saturday night. Seven o’clock.”
“We’ll be there,” Yancy responded.
“I’ll bring pizza money,” Chelsea offered.
I scowled at her.
“Just in case!” she exclaimed. “It’s better to be safe than sorry, you know.”
“I’ll bring wine,” Grier volunteered. “I have a feeling Jordan will need it.”
Chapter Seventeen
I didn’t have a chance to tell Jordan about the upcoming dinner part with my friends until Thursday as we got ready to go to my father’s. Though Jordan had made good on his offer to clear space for me in his closet and bathroom, he still spent more time at my townhouse. Probably because I actually had furniture in my living room.
Whenever I mentioned the lack of furniture in his home, he merely shrugged and said he wasn’t sure he wanted to stay in that house so he was waiting.
While it looked like too much house for a bachelor, I had to admit to myself that it was perfect for a family. I couldn’t dwell on it for very long though because it freaked me out. I would begin imagining Jordan living in that house with his family. But not any family—our family.
And I wanted it. I wanted it badly. Which scared the shit out of me.
So, I refused to think about it and focused on enjoying my time with Jordan in my home.
As I changed out of my work clothes and slipped on a pair of jeans and one of the luxuriously soft and outrageously expensive sweaters I’d purchased the week before, I glanced over at Jordan.
“I’m having my girlfriends over for dinner on Saturday,” I mentioned casually.
“That’s nice. Should I plan to spend the night home alone?”
Nervously, I licked my lips. “Well, they would like to meet you, so I’d like it if you joined us.”
I didn’t know why I was nervous. Considering he’d been the one to arrange brunch with my father, it was unlikely he would turn down my invitation.
Jordan unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it in the hamper in the corner of the closet. “I’d like to meet them.”
I hesitated before I continued. “That’s good because I might have volunteered you to make the dinner.”
He twisted toward me, his brows lifted in surprise. “Really?”
I nodded. “My cooking skills, or lack thereof, are well-known in the group. But if you don’t feel up to it, I can order delivery. That’s what we usually do when I host girls’ night in.”
Jordan grinned at me, his blue eyes warming and twinkling. “I’m fine with cooking dinner for your friends. Maybe I can bribe them with food.”
Laughing, I moved to the bed and sat down on the end to slip on my black ankle boots. “That would definitely work with this group. We like to eat.”
“I’ll remember that,” he replied, shucking his pants.
As I sat on the end of the bed, I watched the lean muscles in his back and shoulders flex as he selected a pair of faded jeans from a hanger in the closet and tugged them on. Then he grabbed a thick, cable knit navy sweater from a shelf and pulled it over his head.
Watching him do mundane things like dressing or undressing always entranced me. I would catch myself studying his hands as he cooked or drove or examining the hollows and curves of his face when he read. There was something about him that was endlessly fascinating to me.
After he put on his shoes, we left the house and drove to my father’s. As soon as we walked in, I realized that Dad was making this a special occasion. The formal dining room was to the left of the foyer and the table was already set. There were squat candles arranged around a small bouquet of flowers, my parents’ wedding china, and crystal stemware. The mouthwatering scent of roast beef and vegetables told me that my father wasn’t making dinner, which meant it was his housekeeper, Mrs. Marshall, in the kitchen. This guaranteed an excellent meal.
Dad emerged from his study, which was to the right of the entryway, looking distracted.
“Oh, hello, Tanya, Jordan. I was just finishing up a call. Why don’t we go into the living room for a drink before dinner?” he offered.
Once we were settled on the matching sofas, glasses of wine in hand, Mrs. Marshall appeared in the living room with a tray of crudité and some sort of creamy dip that tasted of garlic and lemons. She wore her brown hair in a soft bob that brushed her shoulders, a small gray streak near her face that hadn’t been there a few years ago. Her figure was trim from spending so much time on her feet and in the garden, and she wore a plain black shirt over her faded jeans. Somehow she made the ensemble look chic and sophisticated.
I knew then that the table was her handiwork. My father must have told her it was a special night and she had gone all out.
I smiled at her and introduced her to Jordan after she set the tray on the coffee table.
“Mrs. Marshall, this is Jordan Hawke. Jordan, this is the woman who keeps my father’s house from burning down, Mrs. Marshall.”
She held her hand out. “Will has told me some wonderful things about you, Jordan. And, please, call me Beverly. I can’t get this one,” she gestured toward me, “To do it, but I prefer my first name.”
I shrugged when Jordan looked at me. “She started working here when I was eight and told me to call her Mrs. Marshall. By the time I was twenty-two, it was too late to change.”
He grinned at me and turned back to Mrs. Marshall. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Beverly. Whatever you’re making smells delicious.”
“Thank you, Jordan. Now, I need to get back into the kitchen before the food burns.”
She bustled out and disappeared down the hallway. We snacked on the tray of vegetables she’d carefully arranged and shared stories about our day.
To my surprise, it didn’t feel different from any other Thursday, even with Jordan there and all the effort Mrs. Marshall had gone to. Somehow, he slid seamlessly into my life. He fit perfectly as if he had always been there.
When Mrs. Marshall announced that the meal was ready, we moved into the dining room and my father turned the conversation to Jordan, asking him questions about his life and his childhood.
Though Jordan didn’t hide his past from me, he still rarely spoke of it, as though he didn’t think about it at all. I listened raptly as he answered my father’s questions. I probably should have intervened in the third degree, but I was as curious as Dad when it came to Jordan. I just never asked because I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable.
Jordan seemed unfazed by my father’s nosiness, answering his questions without hesitation or embarrassment.
“So what brought you and your family to America?” Dad asked, blithely unaware that he had just asked a difficult question.
“Well, Aunt Joyce was born here. She is my father’s half-sister. When my mother and father died, their will stated that they wished for her to take me in.”
My father looked slightly embarrassed. “I’m sorry, son. I didn’t realize…”
Jordan shook his head. “Don’t worry about it, Will. It happened a long time ago. I’ve moved on from the grief.”
I studied him closely, wondering if that were true. My mother had died over twenty years ago and there were times when the grief would strike me as sharp and fresh
as if it had been yesterday. I’d come to realize that would always be the case. There would be times I would miss her beyond reason or logic. Her absence would be more acute and the pain of her loss new once again.
My father changed the topic of conversation to lighter subjects with practiced ease, but I spent the rest of the evening watching Jordan, wondering how he could be so detached from the loss of both his parents at the same time.
If my father had died with my mother, I wasn’t sure I would have been able to deal with it. Especially if I were an only child as Jordan was.
Even though I still had my father after mom died, he seemed so detached, lost in a fog of his own grief. He struggled to connect with us, to remain in the moment. More often than not, Tessa had been the one to comfort me when I cried.
It had taken nearly a month for my father to snap out of his trance and refocus on our family again, but Tessa had made that time bearable.
When dinner and dessert were devoured and coffee drunk, I found myself on the couch, yawning.
Dad saw me even though I tried to hide it behind my hand and glanced at the clock. “Well, it’s getting late. I think it’s time you took my daughter home,” he said to Jordan as he stood.
Jordan got to his feet as well, offering Dad his hand. “Thank you for having me here for dinner. It was delicious.”
Dad took his hand and shook it firmly. “I’ll be sure to share that with Beverly. She’ll be pleased you enjoyed it.”
I got up and gave my father a hug and kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for dinner, Dad.”
“Anytime, sweetheart.” He squeezed me tightly. “Bring Jordan with you from now on, okay?”
I grinned. “I take it you like him.”
“As much as I can like any man who’s going to take my baby away.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not exactly a baby anymore, Dad.”
“You’ll always be my baby,” he replied. “Now, get home and get some rest. I can tell you’re nearly asleep on your feet.”
“Yes, sir.”
He just shook his head at my snappy retort and released me.
As Jordan and I drove home, I stared out the car window, my mind on what he said about his parents at dinner. About being over the grief.
“What’s on your mind, Tanya?” Jordan asked, reaching over to take my hand.
I turned my head toward him, studying his profile in the dim interior of the car. His thumb moved in a slow caress over the back of my hand. “Are you really over losing your parents?” I questioned quietly.
He didn’t answer right away, his hand tightening slightly on mine. Finally, he said, “I didn’t have what you do.”
“What do you mean?”
“My parents…they were never demonstrative or affectionate. I know they loved me but in a distant way. They were the same with each other. They were a team, but also living their own lives. They never held hands when riding together in the car or cuddled on the couch to watch television. It just wasn’t a part of who they were.”
Jordan’s reserve, his shield, suddenly made more sense. It wasn’t a defense mechanism, but what he knew.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured.
Jordan shrugged one shoulder. “Aunt Joyce gave me plenty of affection when she saw me. She’s nothing like my father in personality, even though they looked a great deal alike. She’s affectionate, exuberant, and fun. I used to love it when she would visit us in the summer or when we would come here for Christmas or winter break.”
I squeezed his hand. “I’m glad you had that.”
“Me too,” he replied. “Me too.”
Even after his explanation, my heart still hurt for him. Not only had he lost his parents, he’d never had much of them to begin with. I wondered if his childhood was when he learned to mask his emotions so completely, if his aloof demeanor was his way of trying to win his parents’ approval.
We were both silent the rest of the way back to my townhouse, our clasped hands resting on my thigh the entire time.
Chapter Eighteen
Jordan all but charmed the pants off my friends Saturday night.
True to his word, he cooked dinner. He roasted Cornish game hens in the oven, mashed potatoes, and put together a green salad with a dressing made from scratch. He also wouldn’t allow me to help, insisting that I sit on the counter, drink wine, and keep him company.
He made it look so easy as he peeled and washed potatoes before putting them in a pot of water on the stove.
“Where did you learn to cook?” I asked him.
“Joyce,” he replied. “She was single when I came to live with her, and she insisted that every man should know how to cook, clean, and do his own laundry. Something about a woman should be your partner, not your servant.”
I laughed because I could almost hear Joyce saying something like that. She was spunky and hilarious. “Yet another reason why I like her,” I joked, lifting my glass in a mock toast. “I now have a man to cook for me so I don’t have to eat take out every night.”
“Why didn’t you learn how to cook?” he asked as he washed the salad greens.
I hesitated, staring down into my glass of wine. “Well, Mom died before she could really start teaching me. Mrs. Marshall tried, but I just kept imagining Mom there, seeing her moving around as she made dinner, making it look effortless. Mrs. Marshall had been with us for several years by the time Mom died, but Mom still liked to cook dinner as often as she could.” I shrugged, taking a sip of wine. “It just never felt right after she was gone.”
Jordan’s arms came around my waist and his hips moved between my legs. Yelping, I moved my arms out and around him before he could squish my wineglass against my chest. He hugged me, my face tucked against his neck.
“I’m sorry I asked,” he murmured.
“Really, don’t worry about it,” I stated. “I don’t mind the questions. It’s just…there are some things that seem to hurt more than the others.”
I felt him nod against my temple. “I understand.”
He stood in front of me, holding me, until the hiss of water hitting a hot burner caught our attention.
“I think the potatoes are boiling over,” I commented. “If you scorch them, you’ll never hear the end of it. Trust me.”
He released me, his hand coming up to my chin and tilting my head back so that he could see my face. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I reassured him.
He studied my expression for a few more moments, clearly trying to decide if I was telling the truth. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him, because he let me go and moved over to the stove.
As he dealt with the potatoes, the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” I stated, waving him back toward the stove when he moved to answer. “You’re cooking.”
I hopped off the counter and went to the front door, just a few feet away when the bell rang again.
“I’m coming!” I called.
“Hurry up! It’s freezing out here!” Lucy urged.
I unlocked the door and opened it to find her shivering on my steps, her coat clutched tightly around her body and the wind whipping through her long, dark hair.
“Wow, it did get cold out here,” I commented as I let her inside.
“Tell me about it,” she complained, making a beeline toward the fireplace. “I’m so glad you have a fire going.” She inched closer to the fire, sighing in contentment. “That feels great.”
“Do you want a glass of wine?”
“That sounds good.”
“Red or white?” I asked.
“Whatever you’re having,” she replied with a wave of her hand. “In fact, I’ll come with you to get it.” She removed her coat and tossed it over the back of the overstuffed chair in the corner.
Clearly, she was eager to meet Jordan. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”
“Don’t be so grouchy,” she admonished. “You’d be just as curious.”
She had an excellent point, so
I said nothing else as I led her into the kitchen. Jordan looked up from chopping tomatoes when we entered.
“Oh my God, he really is cooking,” Lucy murmured.
“I told the girls he would,” I whispered back.
“I know, but I thought that was code for he would go buy the dinner and bring it here.”
“Seriously?” I hissed.
“What?”
“Never mind. Just let me introduce you.”
When I looked back at Jordan, he was grinning at us as he wiped his hands on a towel. Obviously he’d heard our whispered conversation.
“I’m Jordan Hawke,” he stated, coming over to us.
“Lucy Daniels,” she replied, holding out her hand for him to shake.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Lucy. Tanya has said a lot of nice things about you.”
Lucy giggled, actually giggled, at his words. “It’s nice to meet you as well. I love your accent. Tanya didn’t tell me you were from England.”
I barely refrained from rolling my eyes as I went about my business of pouring Lucy a glass of the chardonnay I’d opened earlier.
“I haven’t lived there since I was a child,” he replied. “I got my citizenship many years ago.”
“So what brought your family to America?” she asked.
“My parents passed away and I came to live with my aunt.”
Lucy glanced at me with a stricken expression. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
Jordan shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. It’s a reasonable question.”
I handed Lucy her glass of wine, but looked at Jordan when I asked, “Do you want us to stay in here and keep you company while you cook?”
“That’s okay. You and Lucy go enjoy the fire and your wine. The other ladies will probably be arriving soon, won’t they?”
I nodded.
“I’ll finish up the salad and join you in a few minutes,” he stated.
Lucy and I carried our wine into the living room and she waited until we were seated on the couch before she whispered, “You should have warned me about his parents dying when he was young.”
