“And onion. I call it an omelet that should be a quiche. I make this for Harper once a week.”
A man holding a spatula in one hand and a frying pan in the other shouldn’t look so damn tantalizing at eight in the morning. I guess that man does when his name is Jordan Hammond. In my defense, he’s shirtless and has that mouth-watering V thing going on and a happy trail of soft, brown-blond hair lancing down the middle of his chiseled stomach.
“Douglass.”
I jump. “Yeah?”
“I asked if you wanted coffee?”
Mortified at being caught eye-fucking him like a horny teenager, I quickly turning to the coffee maker.
I need a lobotomy, but a cup of coffee will have to suffice.
“I’ll make a fresh pot,” I offer, needing something to distract me.
His gaze drops to my arm, his mouth thinning into a hard line of worry.
“I’m good,” I assure him.
Where Amelia clawed me didn’t look too bad when I took the bandage off, so I applied some antibiotic ointment and decided not to cover it back up. Doing so would undoubtedly draw attention to it, and I’m not in the mood to get into an argument with Natalie this morning over it. Hopefully, she won’t notice.
Jordan studies me for a moment as he absentmindedly plates the food. “What are your plans for today?”
I dump the old coffee into the sink and get a fresh pot going. I’m very particular about my coffee. It has to be freshly brewed and scalding hot or else I won’t drink it. I’ll never understand how Harper can drink iced coffee. Stuff is nasty, in my opinion.
“I’m meeting up with someone.”
“Harper?”
“Um, no.”
“Then who?”
Well, shit. Rock meet hard place.
“Don’t get mad.”
He puts the two plates he just picked up back down. “Why would I get mad?”
Just say it. Get it out in the open and over with. Jordan can’t dictate who I’m friends with.
“Chase.”
“That son of a bitch.” He pulls me to him, his expression dead serious. “Cancel.”
“Why?”
Okay, dumb question. I’m two for two today.
He kisses the tip of my nose. “Because I want to spend the day with you.”
And there goes the belly swoop. God, this man. How am I going to be able to resist him when he’s like this? It’s not fair how easily he keeps slipping under my defenses.
“You can see me tomorrow,” I tell him.
I have no time to prepare for the twirl and dip he executes with me in his arms. He spins us in an impromptu dance around the small kitchen. The silliness and the sweetness of it has me laughing and dizzy.
One of his hands grabs me under my right knee while his right arm braces my back, and he gracefully deep dips me like a ballerina. Jordan holds us in that position for a beat as my mind screamskiss me. Pulling me up to stand, he steps back, bends at the waist in a genteel bow, and kisses my hand. Not the kind of kiss I was wanting, but one that still makes me tingle where his lips touched.
