Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Joan’s agitation pleases me. I have zero doubt that if Jordan hadn’t been here––had I been here alone with Maisie––she would’ve packed my stuff, put me out in the hall, and changed the locks.
“Thank you Clara. I’ll be happy to reimburse you for your trouble.”
“Jordan––”
“Riley is taking great care of Maisie,” he says, cutting her off. It’s about time someone did. “We have a routine and I’m not going to disrupt that. It’s not good for Maisie and it’s not good for us. Besides, Riley’s already living here and you know I hate having people in the house.”
I get the impression the last part was meant for Joan. Her green eyes narrow on him so it seems Joan got the same impression.
“Anything else?”
“You were always the difficult one. Your brother,” she scoffs, “he was easy. But you…you weren’t happy unless you broke my heart at least a half dozen times a year.”
“I apologize,” he says, looking mildly harassed and mostly resolute. “Now, if you don’t mind, we have a kid to take care of.”
“Duck, ducky, ducky,” Maisie singsongs, squeezing the life out of poor Mr. Ducky.
I’m in the middle of giving Maisie a bath before she goes to bed. It’s been a long day marked by too much drama. And drama is most definitely not my thing.
It makes me think about Jordan and how much of this he’s carrying around alone. A friend who dumps his problems, and child, without warning on his lap, another friend dead, a mother who’s constantly trying to manipulate and manage him. A business to run. Now I understand why he seems older than thirty-three. And he never complains, never makes it about him. My sympathy for him is growing exponentially. So is my respect.
“Can I help?” He’s standing in the doorway of the bathroom with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his pants, shirtsleeves rolled up exposing the corded muscles on his forearms.
He looks tired. And handsome, more handsome than one man should. But he also looks content, and content is a big deal, a huge step in the right direction from where he started. He’s been changing a little every day, shedding all that heavy armor along the way.
“Rough day, huh?”
Does anyone ever ask him how he’s doing. How his day went? I don’t think so. Must be lonely.
He nods slowly, his thoughts far away. As if he’s replaying the day’s events and finding them just as repulsive as the first time. After Joan left and the threat of her dumping Clara on us was neutralized, he went back to the office.
“Are you almost done?”
“Just started.”
He walks in and sits on the edge of the bathtub while I’m on the floor, arms in the water, T-shirt sticking to my chest because I’m already wet from all the splashing.
“You’re soaked,” he says, eyes crinkling happily.
He doesn’t know the half of it. My nightly sweat sessions have not abated.
“Yeah, well, she’s not happy unless I take a bath with her…Jordan…”
“Mmm.”
“Should we talk about potty training? How long is she going to be with us.”
He exhales tiredly. “I don’t know. Give me a few more weeks and we’ll make a plan.”
“Can you hold her while I get another bottle of baby soap? This one’s dead.” I shake the bottle and toss it in the trash can beside the sink.
Except…well, instead of taking the baby’s arms from me, they way I expect him to, he starts unbuttoning his shirt.
The heck is he doing unbuttoning his shirt?
But he is, that’s what he’s doing. Slowly, methodically. He’s performing what is essentially a striptease a foot away from me, and God have mercy on my soul but I can’t help watching. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen up close and in real person. And yes, it’s safe to assume nothing sexy ever happens to me. Not unless you count Fat Jesus lifting his shirt to scratch his chest hair.
I am at a loss for words, trapped by own out-of-control impulses for a man I should not have feeling for––carnal or otherwise.
He takes the shirt off and tosses it on the ground.
I freeze––this is my reaction to that. I don’t know what to say, or what to do. Where the heck am I supposed to put my eyes! Because they keep returning to his magnificent bare chest despite my brain’s objections.
On the sly, my attention darts to his dark tight nipples, the dusting of hair on his chest, the line of hair that starts at his navel and disappears under the waistline of his light wool pants. He’s a work of art. He really is gorgeous everywhere…everywhere I can see that is.
Then I think, is he doing this on purpose? Is Jordan a major tease?
But no, his full attention is on Maisie. He’s playing with her and that freaking duck. I’m the only one experiencing a crisis of mental focus. I’m the only one distracted. Very distracted. Not endangering a child distracted, but maybe endangering myself distracted.