Chapter Seventeen
Ididn’t havea 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.”
