Astrid’s outburst flitted through Jordan’s mind on repeat, all this anger and sadness mingled together, and Jordan had no clue what to do about any of it. She had no idea how to help Astrid, except to simply hold her and wait.
Soon, Astrid’s breathing regulated. She pulled back and Jordan let her go. Astrid’s eyes were red and puffy, her hair a complete disaster by Astrid’s normal standards. But even like this, she was still beautiful. She still made Jordan’s insides feel soft and light, gauzy like a fairy’s wings.
And just like that, Jordan knew. She knew like she knew Simon was her brother, or the moon’s gravity pulled at the sea.
She was in love with Astrid Parker. She was one hundred percent, wildly, make-stupid-ass-decisions in love with her.
“I think I owe you a love song,” she said gently, everything in her body shaking. Still, she held out her hand.
Astrid’s shoulders slumped, her still-glistening eyes going soft, fresh tears spilling. She took Jordan’s hand and Jordan pulled her close, slipping one arm around her bare waist, using her other to press Astrid’s palm to her heart. Then she started dancing, swaying in slow circles as the first love song that popped into her head flowed out of her mouth, Elton John’s “Your Song.”
Astrid smiled against Jordan’s neck. “You sound just like Ewan McGregor inMoulin Rouge!”
“Damn right I do.”
“You really can sing.”
“Shh,” Jordan said, spinning them around, her mouth pressed to Astrid’s jaw. “I’m singing to my girl.”
Chapter Thirty
FOR THE NEXTweek, Astrid worked.
She worked like she’d never worked in her life.
Every morning at seven a.m., she’d arrive at the inn, deal with paperwork and orders. Then, once the crew arrived, she’d film. She filmed the kitchen appliances going in; she filmed painting a delicate flower on the slanted ceiling in the downstairs guest room; and she filmed a grim conversation with Josh and Jordan about how the back porch, half of which they were transforming into a solarium, had major foundational problems and they’d have to build the thing up from scratch.
She did it all with her smile in place—except for when she was expected to frown—and her breath perfectly calm and even in her chest.
She filmed, and she lied.
I need this mantel to work, Josh.
I think these flowers will create an English garden feel guests will love.
I know you doubted this bronzed nickel tub, Natasha, but I was right, wasn’t I?
Lie. Smile. Lie some more.
Of course, she and Jordan had been lying for weeks now, playing a part on camera, and a very different role after hours. But now, after their weekend together and Isabel’s visit, everything going on with the inn felt fraught. Every word, every decision, every planned-out frown.
Astrid told herself she and Jordan were doing this together. She told herself that she was lying for Jordan, for the Everwood’s success, as much as she was lying for herself. But each day—when she wandered the house as it transformed under her eyes into something she never could’ve imagined, when she caught Jordan gazing at her laptop screen, fiddling with the design, a wistful expression on her face that vanished as soon as Astrid made her presence known—this too started to feel like a lie.
So she worked.
She worked, and when work was done, she worked some more.
At five p.m., she’d find Jordan and kiss her rosebud mouth. She’d breathe the other woman in, desperate to stay there, but she had so much work to do. She’d go to her office and draft newsletters to send out to current and prospective clients. She scoured the Internet for projects on the horizon, prepared pitches, made list after list of people to call, to email, to pursue.
Finally, she’d make it home around ten, where she’d shower and try not to think about Jordan, think about what Astrid was doing to her, taking from her, and she’d try not to call her just to hear her voice.
She usually failed.
And as soon as she called, Jordan would hear how small her voice was—because Astrid had spent the last eighteen hours trying to hide that tiny, desperate sound, and she just couldn’t do it anymore,not with Jordan’s soft, gentle, trusting words in her ear—and Jordan would come over and take her to bed, and Astrid would finally get her first real breath of the day.
“You’re working too hard,” Jordan said that Thursday night, smoothing her hand over Astrid’s hair as they lay tucked under Astrid’s white duvet. Ten minutes before, Jordan had come in the house and found Astrid sitting in her shower, totally asleep. Now, dried and dressed in a plain white tee, Astrid could barely keep her eyes open to respond.
“I’m fine,” she said.
