I value my friendship with Dee too much to continue the charade. I pour myself a glass of wine even though it’s only eleven o’clock. Who made up the no-drinking-before-noon rule anyway? Obviously, someone who hadn’t met a man like Stiles.
I take a gulp and confess. “I ran into Stiles at Royal’s the week before. I offered myself up, and he shut me down cold. So, when I saw him in the elevator the evening I came to your condo for dinner, I gave him a piece of my mind. And he kissed me.”
“He kissed you?” I can picture her amber eyes widening in shock.
“Yep. He did it out of anger, but it was still one hell of a kiss. And today, it happened again. But each time, he pulled away afterward as if he couldn’t bear to want me.”
“Whoa. I’m still processing two kisses and the fact that you didn’t tell me about the pub.”
“I wanted to, but I know how much you like him. He saved your lives and deserves a medal. I’ve got nothing but mad respect for that. But he and I are like oil and water. We just don’t mix. I provoke him, and maybe that’s some kind of turn-on. But I’m sick of being insulted and rejected. He’s been a total jerkass, and I knew if I told you, you’d be angry with him on my account.”
“Ah,” she says, getting it. “I appreciate that you wanted to protect my relationship with Stiles. But I can still hold him in high regard as a security advisor and want to smack him as a man. Where does he get off treating you that way?”
I knew Dee would have my back. “To be fair, I did accuse him of having erectile dysfunction the first time, and today, I taunted him with my near-bare ass.”
“Oh, my God,” she laughs. “You are too much. You probably scare the hell out of him.”
“I doubt it. He just drives me crazy.”
“Sounds like you drive him crazy too.”
“The difference is, he’s better at resisting me than I am at resisting him. One kiss, and I’m ready to rip off his clothes. But as soon as it gets hot and heavy, he stops and walks away. Something screwed him up for sure, and I’m not into saving or fixing men. I like mine over easy. And Stiles is anything but.”
* * *
With a bottle of Chardonnay in one hand, I enter through the side gate, following the flagstones to the sprawling backyard where my father first introduced me to soccer.
Dad used to play pro for the USLC, a Division II league. But he gave up his soccer career to become a contractor in order to be at home with his family. He says it wasn’t a sacrifice; it was a privilege.
“Hey, Peanut,” his booming voice calls out from behind the grill, his smile a delighted beam across his handsome, freckled face. “Come give your old man a hug.”
I set the white wine down on the patio table that’s casually set and go over to him. “Hi, Dad.”
“How are you?” He envelopes me in a warm embrace, and I breathe in the scent of his aftershave.
“I’m good.”
“Kicking ass and taking names.”
“Always.”
“That’s my girl.” He bastes the ribs glistening with the BBQ sauce he’s perfected over the years. My stomach growls in anticipation. The hint of jerk spice gives it that extra punch of heat and flavor he adopted from my Jamaican grandmother.
I never had the chance to meet her. But I’d gotten my middle name, Clara, from her, and my parents have always said I am a lot like she was. That’s an honor, considering I’ve heard so much about her strength and courage in immigrating to the US to study medicine. She met my grandfather through a mutual acquaintance. Interracial couples were a rarity then and faced discrimination, but despite the hate they encountered, it wasn’t stronger than their love. They married within a year and stayed together until my mother lost them both to a driver speeding through a pedestrian crossing.
My dad comes from a proud Irish family and is the sixth of eight children. I love our visits to Ireland, learning about my roots, and being a part of something so big. But in Chicago, my immediate family is small and close-knit. There are only the four of us—well, five now, including my sister-in-law, Mara.
“Hey, Ma!” I wave as she exits the French doors that open onto the patio. Simone Allen-Sinclair is as beautiful at sixty-two as she was when she married my dad at twenty-six. She is plump and soft with dark curls framing tawny skin that doesn’t seem to age. But it’s her smile and warmth that puts everyone who meets her at ease.
“Jordie.” She sets down the bowl of potato salad and, catching my hands, holds me at arm’s length as her brown eyes give me a once-over. “Let me get a good look at you.”
“Ma,” I laugh. “I look the same as when you saw me a week ago.”
“Too long.” She pulls me in for a tight hug. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
We catch up over glasses of homemade sangria and prawn cocktail cups served on lettuce leaves—a delicious recipe she’s trying out for her catering business that she started after I began school full-time.
