Starving, but I shake my head. “I’m good.”
“Okay.” He starts walking up to the house, the muscles in his back moving with each step. “See you later, Jordan.”
He doesn’t even seem cold. I bet he runs hot; when he held my wrist the other day to look at the scratch, his skin was warm. I bet he’s like a furnace at night.
I wonder if he sleeps naked.
And withthat,I give myself a shake. It doesn’t matter if he sleeps naked, because that is not what this is.
CHAPTER 19
JORDAN
“There’s been a mistake.”
My things just arrived, packed neatly in new boxes but still damaged from the rain. The furniture was ruined and taken to the dump, the first set of movers told me.
There’s a second set of people bringing racks with garment bags and piles of shoe boxes and shopping bags, though.Holt Renfrewis printed on one magenta paper bag.
“This isn’t mine,” I tell them. “Take it back.”
The delivery guy looks at his tablet. “Jordan Hathaway?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Sign here.” He shoves the tablet in front of me, and when I hesitate, he gives me an urgent look. “We have another delivery after this, and if you don’t sign, it’s going to be a whole thing. Here’s the sender’s info.”
He shows me the screen. Some personal stylist.
They load the rest of the bags and one more rack into the guesthouse, and then they’re gone, and I’m left standing here, gawking.
Inside one of the garment bags hangs a floor-length wine-red dress, the smoothest, softest fabric. I tuck my bottom lip between my teeth. I love this color, and I would look amazing in it.
But this isn’t mine.
I’m still staring at all the things, sharp-looking suiting pieces and cashmere sweaters and soft leather boots and matching belts,when Tate appears in the doorway. I didn’t even realize it was still open.
“Good, it’s here.” He doesn’t seem surprised. The cat waltzes back into the guesthouse after following Bea this morning. “There’s a booklet of outfit ideas that the stylist put together, somewhere around here. Anything that doesn’t fit or you don’t like, I’ll arrange to have sent back. If you want something in a new size, make a note and I’ll take care of it.”
There are those words again.I’ll take care of it. An unfamiliar sense of comfort rolls through me and I rub my sternum.
“I can’t afford this. Any of it.”
And I hate the idea of him doing something like this for me.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s on the team.”
I stare at him, my eyes narrowing. I would never accept money from my father—I shredded all the checks that came in the mail over the years—but is this technically accepting money from him?
“The Storm has a budget for things like this. When people move, we relocate them. If those items were damaged in transit, the team would cover it.”
My eyes narrow more. He doesn’t meet them.
“And I notice you don’t have much of a professional wardrobe.”
Ah. So there it is. I’m a bartender dirtbag who wears jeans and sneakers and jackets with frayed cuffs, and I’m an embarrassment to the team. No wonder he bought me a coat.
“I would do this for any employee in your situation,” he says, hands on his hips. “You aren’t special.”
