And not by Astrid-fucking-Parker.
She made a mental note to close herself in her tiny bedroom tonight and spend some quality time with the contents of her bedside table. Which was trickier than one might think with her brother and grandmother always just a wall away in the cottage. But she’d figure it out. She had to—it’d been a while since she’d gotten off, her two-week-long couch fest after being fired quelling her libido, and now living with hergrandmother, for god’s sake, as much as Jordan adored her. Her situation didn’t really fan the flames of desire.
But watching Astrid breathing heavily, the sledgehammer still in her grip, her flame felt sufficiently fanned.
Astrid nodded. “That’s who I was picturing.”
“He’s a dick?”
The other woman sighed. “He’s... no. Well, yes, he is, but that’s not really why...”
There she went again, lowering her eyes, lashes for days. This time, she even bit her lower lip. Jordan needed to get out of here. Now. She glanced toward Natasha and Emery, Regina behind the camera, but they were all watching the interaction as though viewing an intriguing film, mouths parted, eyes widened just a little.
“Who do you picture?” Astrid asked.
She blinked and turned back. “What?”
“Who do you picture?” Astrid asked again, then nodded toward the sledgehammer still in her hands.
And just like that, sadness and anger fell over her like a curtain. So sheer she didn’t see it descending until it was too late. She never saw it coming, the grief. It was tricky like that, surreptitiously trailing her until it found the perfect moment to leap at her like a predator.
“It’s not a who,” she heard herself say.
“What is it then?” Astrid said, her eyes wide and curious. She even took a step forward, leaning in a little.
Jordan took a step back. Leaned away.
“Cancer,” she said quietly. “I picture cancer when I’m bashing the shit out of those cabinets.”
“And cut,” Emery said.
About goddamn time. Jordan exhaled, but Astrid’s eyes were still fixed on her, mouth open, her thick brows dipping low in concern. Shit. Jordan didn’t want to hear any more questions, and she damn sure didn’t want to hear the horrible and inevitable “I’m sorry.” She didn’t even know why she told Astrid the truth. Or half of the truth, at least. She’d gotten really great at never saying that horrible word out loud, at rolling around in her pathetic behavior all by her lonesome.
But now, here was Astrid, along with a fucking television crew who’d just captured every single moment of her patheticness on film.
Fucking great.
No way they were getting any more out of her right now, which was exactly why she turned and left out the back door before anyone could offer up any useless words.
NO ONE WASallowed in Jordan’s workshop, not even Natasha Rojas. Jordan had made that clear before demo officially began, claiming it was currently unsafe and she was still getting things in order for the job. Josh Foster had set up a tent in the backyard for his own employees to work in, complete with everything they’d need to hack, saw, and hammer, so they shouldn’t need access to the lead carpenter’s private workshop anyway.
Josh’s group had frowned at this, already sizing her up and grumbling about how she was technically in charge. Josh didn’t react, though. Well, he did, but he simply said, “Sounds like a plan,” and went on with work. Jordan expected a certain level of sexism on the work site—it was inevitable in her line of business, but so far, Josh had treated her with nothing but deference and respect. Not that he gota cookie for basic human decency, but still. She was thankful Josh didn’t question her privacy decree. In reality, the old shed behind her grandmother’s carriage house was in perfect shape as of last night, when Jordan finally finished working to get the space ready for what she had planned.
She just didn’t want anyone seeing what that plan was.
Now, she burst out the inn’s back door and hurried across the too-long grass toward the shed. She keyed in the combination to the padlock she’d placed on the door the day after she’d met Astrid Parker and let herself inside. The space was large, plenty big enough for a one-person workshop. It already smelled of aged wood from the several pieces of furniture Jordan had stored in one corner, including Alice’s wardrobe. Her workbench, the shining jewel of any workshop, sat in the middle of the room, an L-shaped wooden table with close access to the power saw at one end.
A corner kitchen cabinet, cut to Astrid’s design specifications, was already sitting on the surface.
Jordan unclipped her tool belt and let it thunk onto the cement floor. She walked to her workbench, braced her hands on the thick wooden surface. Breathed. It had been a year. She didn’t understand why losing Meredith could still feel so... fresh. So new.
And here she was, pining after her wife once again, very nearly with the same breath she’d just used to lust after Astrid Parker and her infernal sledgehammer-growl.
“Jesus,” she said out loud, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes.
It wasn’t that she felt guilty. After everything, she knew guilt didn’t factor into her and Meredith’s story at all. There was anger—as evidenced by how she’d pulverized one cabinet with only three swings of the sledgehammer—but mostly, there was fear.
Lots and lots of fear. Jordan had lived with it long enough to recognize it. She wasn’t deluded. She just didn’t know what to do about it.
