I cock my head at him, not understanding what’s going on right now or why he’s in Natalie’s kitchen cooking breakfast.
The gears inside my fuzzy brain finally begin to turn, and reality comes crashing in.
Jordanhadbeen in my room. It wasn’t a dream.
Oh my god, Jordan saw me in my underwear. Myveryembarrassing superhero underwear.
Before I can go into a total panic, I’m distracted by the incessant clicking of the toaster. Jordan pushes down on the lever, and the bread springs right back up. He tries again. And again.
Watching him reminds me of the famous quote from Albert Einstein aboutinsanity being defined as doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.
I can’t take it anymore when he does it yet again. I shove in front of him and take over.
“The trick is, you have to push the lever down and to the right to get it to engage,” I elucidate, then want to smack myself. Why am I explaining anything to him? He shouldn’t be here.
I’m about to demand an explanation for his presence when two tanned, muscled arms brace on either side of me on the counter, and Jordan’s hard chest molds to my back. My throat goes Sahara dry, and I freeze in place.
“What are you doing?” My question comes out sounding breathy.
“Making eggs and toast.”
The toast pops up, and without thought, I flip the pieces over and pop them back down.
“Not what I meant. What are you doinghere?” I emphasize.
His warmth presses in closer, the breath from his lips gliding over my cheek as he whispers in my ear. “I’m here for you.”
There are a million different connotations to that statement. So many ways I could decipher its meaning. My conflicted heart latches on to the literal translation, while my common sense and self-preservation reject it.
The pressure against my back eases, as does the tight constriction squeezing my chest, when Jordan moves beside me and begins plating the food.
“I’ve already made coffee. Shall we?” he asks, carrying a plate in each hand and waiting for me to follow him out onto the back patio.
Whatever daze I was in dissipates and I snap back to the present. “Have you seen Natalie?”
“She left a half hour ago,” he says as he walks outside.
I finally get my legs to move and chase after him. “Wait! Where did she go? Jordan!”
A cup of coffee is shoved at me as soon as I dash onto the patio.
“Caffeinate first, then we’ll talk.”
“We have nothing left to talk about,” I insist and put the coffee down none to gently. “Did Natalie say where she was going?”
She didn’t have any doctors’ appointments today, and I need her car to drive to the grocery store.
“Said she’d be at church with her ladies’ group. Something about a knitting circle, brunch, and going over the itinerary for their trip.”
Jordan grabs me by the shoulders and manhandles me into the nearest rocking chair, then slides Natalie’s rocker over and sits down, facing me.
Like with the coffee, he forces the plate of food in my lap and instantly I’m nauseous. I can’t eat in front of him. Years of self-loathing and weight issues have screwed me up mentally when it comes to food. Yesterday with Chase was the first time I’d eaten anything in front of someone who wasn’t Natalie, Harper, or Mason. Jordan is an entire world of food mind-fuck altogether. It would crush me, more so than he already has, to have him judge every bite of food I take.
I let the plate sit in my lap and make no move to touch it. Jordan, however, is already tucking in.
“Please explain to me what the hell is going on.”
He shovels a forkful of fluffy eggs into his mouth and swallows. “Dropped off the Jeep for you. I’ll need a ride home though.”
