“Hope everyone is in the mood for French toast,” Jordan says as he heads for the fridge.
“That sounds wonderful,” Mom says. “You’re absolutely spoiling us this week.”
He smiles. “It’s my pleasure.” I can see how pleased Jordan is that we’re all together this morning.
If nothing else, knowing Jordan and Leo are happy this Christmas will have to be a satisfactory enough gift to myself.
Five minutes later, Jordan’s finally convinced Mom he doesn’t need any help and my parents both have coffee. So the four of us sit at the table while Jordan cooks breakfast for us and I can see my Sir is beyond happy about this.
Maybe Leo’s early arrival is more a Christmas gift for Jordan than for me, in that way. A family holiday to help Jordan remember the good years he had with his Mimi and her friends while he lived with her.
Even if I can’t reveal to my parents the full truth about who we are to each other.
* * *
We’re sittingdown for dinner that evening when Mom looks at my father. “Do you think we should try calling Stella? I mean, since we haven’t heard anything from her?”
I tense.
“No,” Dad gruffly huffs, surprising me. “If she can’t be bothered to call us or her brother on Christmas then she can have her little temper tantrum with her husband and his family.” He snorts. “Let Ellis deal with her. God knows we’ve dealt with her all these years. Time for someone else to knuckle under for a change.”
Jordan and I exchange a glance. I could have called Stella, sure. But no way in hell am I begging my sister to do any damned thing.
Fuck that noise.
Especially when I know she’d most likely turn around and say no anyway just to have the pleasure of “denying” me of her presence.
I’m desperate to divert the conversation to a less volatile topic. “I hope you enjoy the church service tonight.”
Dad actually smiles a little as his gaze meets mine but it’s Mom who speaks up.
“Oh, I’m looking forward to it, sweetie.”
Dad gives me a little nod but doesn’t add anything.
I’ll count that as a win.
Especially when, on either side of me, Jordan and Leo both gently nudge my legs with their feet, nearly at the same time and indicating I did good.
Our—my—bedroom is directly across the hall from the dining room. Jordan’s “official” bedroom and private bath is the West Bedroom, across the Center Hall from my private living room, but only his clothes reside there. Every night while my parents are here he religiously rumples the bed once we’re alone.
From where I’m sitting at the table I can look out onto my bedroom door, the one no one’s allowed to knock on except Jordan, Casey-Marie, or Leo. Not even the Secret Service is allowed to knock, unless it’s an emergency. They have to try to call me first.
The residence is my inner sanctum. If I’ve requested all staff vacate, like this weekend, they do. Secret Service is stationed at all entrances to this floor, at the stairs and elevators leading to it. But once I’m sealed in for the night, except under extraordinary emergencies, no one else is allowed in until I’m up and on the move the next morning without me authorizing it first.
Except Leo, Jordan, and Casey-Marie.
Not even my valet, who normally would help with many of the things Jordan does for me every morning, is allowed into the residence before it’s okayed. The man is relegated to taking care of our laundry, coordinating our luggage handling after Jordan’s told him what to pack for us for trips, making sure groceries are purchased after Jordan makes a list, and similar tasks.
It’s Jordan who chooses and lays out my clothes every morning. We shower together, he shaves me, helps me with Duck, puts my socks and shoes on me, and ties my tie.
He takes care of me.
It’s one of the few constant routines we have and it helps quiet my mind because his hands roam all over me throughout the process as he buttons my shirt and zips my trousers and snaps my creases.
Some would say that’s a submissive thing on his part but I don’t see it like that at all. Damn sure doesn’tfeellike it the way he does it. He’s ensuring his boy is properly attired to his specifications, verifying not a hair’s out of place.
How do I know this?
