3. Trudy
CHAPTER 3
Trudy
I cover my mouth with the back of my flour-spattered hand and look down at the batch of almond and white chocolate butter cookies waiting to be moved on the baking sheet.
I feel like crap this morning, and I can't seem to be able to fully wake up, even if I've already pretty much overdosed myself with strong coffee. It's barely five a.m., and all I want is to call it a day already, drag myself to my cute shoebox house, and fall into bed for a nice hugging session with my pillow as I drown my sorrow between layers of fluffy blankets.
I spent last night tossing and turning while I combatted the niggling thoughts in my head. Thoughts of how things went with my asshole ex. Thoughts on not being enough to keep a man happy if he had to go look other places, or of my maybe having too many less-than characteristics that made me deserving of such treatment at his hands. Thoughts of always ending up alone one way or the other. Thoughts of being too naive when it comes to men. Thoughts of having too much baggage to even think of becoming free of it someday.
Mean, negative thoughts that are the furthest thing from my natural sunny disposition but that kept whispering in my mind that I've been a fool in thinking that a man like Jordan Arrow would ever go for someone like me. My heart kept breaking into a million pieces every time I told myself that these feelings that I can't deny might be one-sided.
A part of me, the hopeful part, kept playing back our first meeting and the way Jordan kept coming back day after day to chat me up at the counter while devouring my sweet concoctions, all the while staring at me with what I thought was a very transparent hunger for something other than my cakes and cookies. The heat in his eyes making me burn from the inside out until I could feel a hot blush spreading over my cheeks.
How could that have been all in my head?
How can I get two-timed by the universe in such a way and in short succession? First the cheating from the hoity-toity bastard and then the unrequited love with Mr. Hunkalicious? How could that be when even our last names go so perfectly well together? Is this some type of cosmic joke I'm not getting or something?
After that first electric meeting between us when I knew I was all the way gone for this man in under two minutes, and there was no rationalizing my way out of it, things progressed daily, hourly even, since there were days when Jordan came to plunge that arrow of his through my heart more than once.
First, it was only smiling and small talk, then we got down to what Kayla described as eye-fucking each other while doing epic flirt sessions, and then there were the not-so-cryptic compliments and all the little accidental touches. It was as if the space between us kept reducing itself, and if my counter had not been standing there, we could have ended up glued to each other. I've never felt such an attraction in my life. It made me understand that phrase –magnetic pull– that you read in romance books sometimes and scoff at.
Then, a couple of days ago, the conflagration happened. Out of the blue, after he paid for his slice of triple-chocolate hazelnut cake, he reached out to tuck one of my little curls behind my ear. Three of his long, thick fingers brushed at the side of my cheek and tickled the point where my ear met my face. I felt the scratch of his rough pads not just over the place he was touching but against both my nipples and down between my legs.
That easily, the man was able to send my clit to thumping away in unison with the mad beat of my heart. I felt like my legs had turned to jelly, and I had to grip the counter, both to keep myself up and to stop myself from jumping over it and into his arms. The feelings in me were almost… ferocious , and I can say with accuracy that they were, up until then, utterly alien to me.
Never in my life with any boy I liked or even with the douche I loved enough to picture a marriage with –a life with– had I ever felt that way. And yet Jordan could bring all that passion out of me with a simple touch. And it's not even just plain old lust playing a number on me by itself, no… it's more than that.
Sure, he is ridiculously handsome, but there is more to him. I've been through so much crap and dealt with so many shitty human beings that were barely deserving of that title while I was in the system, but I’ve never let it sour me toward life and new people and perhaps I’m too much of an optimist to pick the evil ones out at first sight, but all the same, I know when the person standing in front of me happens to be good, and he is.
I have no doubt Jordan is nice down to his very core. I mean, for one thing, he is the size of a football player and towers over me by more than a foot, and yet I've never felt intimidated around him. If anything, his size makes me feel protected somehow, like he could –and would– stand between me and danger in a heartbeat.
He looks like he has no business wearing a bespoke suit and yet manages to do wonders for those things, even though I have to say I much prefer him in jeans and flannel because he looks more relaxed and at ease wearing them. It's like he's shedding a uniform and just being more himself in simpler clothing. But if I had to pick a reason why I’m so sure I’m almost one-hundred percent in love and not simply in lust with the man, it would be the way I feel when there is no heat at all in his beautiful sky-blue eyes. It has not happened many times, to be honest, but on a couple of his visits Jordan has been smiling down at me with such a softness in his countenance and barely-there little lines crinkling at the corners of his baby blues. In those occasions I’ve felt this warm, fuzzy feeling unfurling from my heart to my stomach. It’s a feeling of tenderness that makes me immediately want to smile back at him while at the same time, it makes tears sting my eyes. And I’m not talking about sad tears, here. No… the feeling is not an unpleasant one at all. It’s a feeling that makes me think of shining things. A pure glow filled with a future, with hope, dreams, and joy. It makes me feel safe, comfy and happy inside. It’s basically the heart-equivalent of taking a nap in the afternoon sun while you lie in the most perfect spot on a wonderful pristine beach and you know that nothing bad can touch you. It’s a feeling of forever.
I keep coming back to it, to this certainty. This idea of a forever together between us, and yet… there is so much I don’t know, so many questions without answers, so many ifs and buts .
Like, if he really had a thing for me, especially the same kind of major life-changing thing I feel for him, wouldn’t things have moved along by now, seeing that he doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who would take this slow?
And here I am, yet again, torturing myself and going back and forth from one what-if to the other in my head.
Ugh.
A harried sigh leaves my lips as I start to delicately transfer the large cookies to the sheet.
How could I have been so wrong about the whole situation?
Even Kayla and the two girls I’ve got working the counter and waitressing have all made comments about the way he looked at me.
It’s impossible to misunderstand a guy who’s clearly flirting, especially one as bold and blunt as Jordan seems to be, even for someone like me who isn’t exactly an expert at it. In what other way could him saying to me that my face has fast become one of his favorite things to see first in the morning be interpreted if not as flirting?
Or that I smell as heavenly as my muffins, and he’s sure I’d taste even better?
Is this the type of stuff someone who isn’t interested in a woman would say?
Could he have been joking or just plain trying to be nice and flatter me about my pastries?
I can’t think that.
And yet, in almost two weeks, he hasn’t asked me out or even for my phone number.
Maybe he is just one of those guys who love to flirt with clueless girls and not go any further. Maybe he is the type of man who goes into every shop, diner, or office in our little town and just flirts away with every skirt in sight.
My tummy starts to hurt at the thought, and I shake my head. No, he is not one of those smarmy assholes with a silver tongue and a courting smile for everyone that can do something for them. He doesn’t seem to me like the kind of man who would need to use such underhanded techniques for anything.
In fact, it looks like he’s anything but. All the girls who work for me have mentioned how rare an occasion it has been to see him coming into town for days in a row when he normally only comes down once or twice for the duration of his stay in his cabin up the mountain.
He is so… commanding, so strong, and direct. He doesn’t seem like the type that would say anything but what he thinks. He’s too honest for games, but if that’s the case, why is he playing one with me?
I shake myself out of my thoughts. This is pointless. I can’t come up with a convincing reason for his behavior one way or the other; I simply don’t have all the facts needed to come to some type of conclusion, so this whole brain ping-pong that I’ve been playing with myself for days is just ridiculous.
Either I go for it the next time I see the man and just find out the truth once and for all, or I leave the first move to him and just wait. Door number two would mean torturing myself even more, and who knows for how long, so door number one will have to do. Moxie or not moxie, the next time I see Jordan, I’m going to be the one to ask him out and see where the chips fall.
With this resolution in place and my heart fluttering madly in my chest, I put my batch of cookies in the oven and grab my iPad to read through the rest of my GYST list for the day and stop acting like a mooning little girl.
Almost two hours later, I’ve got four apple and custard pies, two peach cobblers, one batch of dark chocolate and cherry jam cupcakes, and two trays of cookies cooling with three more trays of lemon biscuits baking in the oven.
I look around and see that Kayla has finished rolling the dough of my Italian paste di mandorla into tiny balls, just waiting to be given their unique curled shapes, and is now working on the batter for our Vietnamese steam-cooked rainbow-colored cupcakes.
I look over at my notes on my iPad and nod to myself.
I've only got the croissants to fill up with the various creams and all the ganaches that I've got ready in a row of bowls in the fridge, and then I’ve got to get to the minion red velvet mini cakes that need a final garnish of red berries. After that, we'll be ready for the first rush of customers of the day, coming in to eat their breakfast or take it to-go before they head into work.
I smile. I’m surprised I pulled it off today, considering how distracted I was while working at first, but maybe settling on the idea that I’m going to clear the air with Jordan once and for all myself helped.
My heart picks up speed.
Time’s up.
Jordan is always one of my first –if not the first– patrons to show up every day.
So, unless whatever happened to him yesterday is something that extends to today, I should be seeing him soon and then… show time.
I huff out another dejected breath, my focus on the tiny crumbs and smears on the round mirrored surface of one of the little breakfast tables I’ve got scattered in the small seating area of my bakery. It seems I’ve done little but sighing, huffing and grumbling for over twenty-four hours.
As it turns out, show time never came because, for the second day in a row, Jordan hasn’t been my first customer of the day, nor the last. In fact, I’m about to close up shop again, and I’ve seen no hide nor hair of him.
Kayla and the girls left about five minutes ago after they finished cleaning in the back, tidying up and organizing the packaging station and the server one and sweeping the floors. Everything is clean and ready for tomorrow; we’ve added all the items to the master grocery list we’ll be sending out to replenish our pantry on Friday, and the cash register is closed for the day, so there’s no reason for me to stay any longer.
It’s half past six p.m. and is already dark outside, while flurries of snow have already started coming down, and most of the shops and restaurants that run from Main Street down to Maple Street and around the little shopping mall in the town principal square have also closed up for the night.
In wintertime, Sylvan Creek goes to bed early, and most activities, aside from a single restaurant that closes at eight p.m. and the tiny movie theater that stays open a little later than that on occasion, are already closed. And here I am with my little rag in hand, hunting down one little stain on this or that spotless table so I can keep waiting around I don’t even know for what at this point.
I drop the rag on the counter, shaking my head. That’s it.
I’m going to put an end to this ridiculous behavior right now. Whatever has been going on with Jordan, it’s clear I misinterpreted, and even if I have not, I’m not going to get any answers tonight. Therefore, I better hit the road.
I go in the back to put on my fluffy hat, gloves, and double-lined fleece bomber jacket –I’ve spent twenty-six years in Arizona, and I’m so not used to these freezing temperatures. As soon as I get in back, I hear the door opening and the wind chime with the little red and pink glass clappers –shaped like Cupids armed with their cute little silvery bows and arrows– and the long metal tubes clanging together as they produce the unmistakable jingle that tells me a customer just walked into my bakery.
Crap.
Not only I neglected to lock the damn door, but I also forgot to turn the ‘Come in, cupcake, have something sweet!’ handmade sign around to the side that says ‘Sorry, sunshine, we’re closed for the day!’
Oh, well. I’m sure I can rustle up some cookies for them. I just need them to leave quickly, and, of course, I’m going to have to remind them that being served at this hour is an exception because gossip travels fast in this town, and I don’t want people to show up after hours expecting the same treatment over and over again. I place the jacket on the rack again and walk back in front.
“Hello there! We’re closed already. I forgot to turn the sign around, but I’m sure I can give you something sweet to–”
“I’m sure you could, Trudy. That’s why I’m here.”
I stop talking and stagger slowly up the host station, my eyes going round in surprise. I can only stare as Jordan strides up to the counter bar and then walks around it until he's standing in front of me, looking like a dream with his sky blue eyes slightly darker than they normally are, little ice crystals shining like diamonds are trapped in his dark, messy hair and in his beard. He's wearing a dark suit paired with a long cashmere coat and a tie that goes perfectly with his eyes. His hands are clenched at his sides and reddened from the cold. One large fist is wrapped around the base of a beautifully decorated, upside-down bouquet of red and pink rose buds, the tightly woven petals encrusted in a thick layer of white ice.
He must have come straight from his office in Denver because this is no way to dress for the kind of weather we have around here.
He is so handsome that I just stand here like a ninny.
I’m utterly transfixed by his presence and all the things I wanted to say lie forgotten at the bottom of my mind. I can practically feel the moment my heart firmly steps behind the wheel and shoos away every working neuron from my brain.
The gorgeous bouquet falls at our feet.
His large hands shoot up, and I feel them both on my cheeks as he brings me even closer to him. I shiver slightly at the contact, and I don't know if it's because his splayed fingers are freezing or because of all the things his nearness usually does to my body and soul. I blink up at him, and a moan leaves me when I feel one of his fingertips gently brush my lower lip.
He sighs and lowers his head until his deliciously cold lips touch my forehead in a butterfly kiss; his hands slide down my cheeks to my jaw and then lower still until his impossibly strong, long arms are encircling me in a secure hold I would never willingly leave in a million years.
Our eyes meet and hold for an intense second that stretches between us like a sticky string off a melting marshmallow until time loses its meaning, and all I’m aware of are the points of contact between his towering, hard body and my soft, smaller one as I lean into him, erasing the distance between us. I sigh and feel tears prick my eyes. This hug feels like coming home. I can’t explain it any better right now.
I don’t even think I should try. I wouldn’t dare.
The silence between us is tempered by our breathing, but it doesn’t feel heavy; it feels… right .
Jordan clutches me harder. I feel him kiss the top of my head. His hands are stroking my back up and down; his touch is gentle but masterful.
“Jo-Jordan?” I can only babble his name in question.
“I’m sorry I’m late, Trudy.”
I want to ask what he means, but he doesn’t give me time before he’s kissing me. Hard.
My legs almost buckle at the feel of his lips on mine, and when his tongue seeks entrance past my mouth, I can only let it in to play with my own. I throw my arms around his neck to anchor myself to something before I slip to the floor. Jordan bends to pick me up, my feet no longer touching the floor as I kiss him back with everything that I am and everything that I feel for him in my heart.
I don’t know for how long our lips mash against each other, our tongues doing their fervent dance. Our mouths keep coming together until we’re sharing the same air.
And we kiss. And kiss. And kiss.
The bakery is spinning around us, the snowy night outside, and all its noises have disappeared like the rest of the world hidden beyond the darkness, unseen and unfelt under the thick blanket of passion firing up inside of me. Of us.
When he finally drags his mouth away from mine, breaking the kiss, we’re both gasping for oxygen and trembling, and I feel something hard poking my belly.
I know immediately what it means, and a deep blush spreads from my neck to my hairline, excitement igniting in my veins while I hope he does anything but pull the breaks. I know we should be talking right now.
There is so much to say. But does it have to be now?
We both feel his iron-hard erection jolt between us, and Jordan grins down at me, not a little bit shy about it.
"Happy Post-Valentine's Day, my sweet," he tells me earnestly, his voice husky and deep, his barrel of a chest expanding with every fast intake of breath.
I frown, looking curiously up at him as he makes me slide down his hard body until my feet are touching the floor again.
“What did you say? Post-Valentine’s? What’s that?” I ask, my fingers still caressing his nape, my heart beating a furious staccato in my chest and between my legs in my now very damp panties.
Jordan’s smile grows bigger. “It’s something just for us,” he whispers on my lips, and then he is kissing me again, my eyes fluttering closed as I feel myself being swept by the waves of his passion again.