Chapter Eighteen
Jordan all butcharmed 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.
