Chapter 19
JORDAN
“There’s been a mistake.”
My things just arrived, packed neatly in new boxes but still damaged from the rain. The furniture was ruined and taken to the dump, the first set of movers told me.
There’s a second set of people bringing racks with garment bags and piles of shoe boxes and shopping bags, though. Holt Renfrew is printed on one magenta paper bag.
“This isn’t mine,” I tell them. “Take it back.”
The delivery guy looks at his tablet. “Jordan Hathaway?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Sign here.” He shoves the tablet in front of me, and when I hesitate, he gives me an urgent look. “We have another delivery after this, and if you don’t sign, it’s going to be a whole thing. Here’s the sender’s info.”
He shows me the screen. Some personal stylist.
They load the rest of the bags and one more rack into the guesthouse, and then they’re gone, and I’m left standing here, gawking.
Inside one of the garment bags hangs a floor-length wine-red dress, the smoothest, softest fabric. I tuck my bottom lip between my teeth. I love this color, and I would look amazing in it.
But this isn’t mine.
I’m still staring at all the things, sharp-looking suiting pieces and cashmere sweaters and soft leather boots and matching belts, when Tate appears in the doorway. I didn’t even realize it was still open.
“Good, it’s here.” He doesn’t seem surprised.
The cat waltzes back into the guesthouse after following Bea this morning.
“There’s a booklet of outfit ideas that the stylist put together, somewhere around here.
Anything that doesn’t fit or you don’t like, I’ll arrange to have sent back.
If you want something in a new size, make a note and I’ll take care of it. ”
There are those words again. I’ll take care of it. An unfamiliar sense of comfort rolls through me and I rub my sternum.
“I can’t afford this. Any of it.”
And I hate the idea of him doing something like this for me.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s on the team.”
I stare at him, my eyes narrowing. I would never accept money from my father—I shredded all the checks that came in the mail over the years—but is this technically accepting money from him?
“The Storm has a budget for things like this. When people move, we relocate them. If those items were damaged in transit, the team would cover it.”
My eyes narrow more. He doesn’t meet them.
“And I notice you don’t have much of a professional wardrobe.”
Ah. So there it is. I’m a bartender dirtbag who wears jeans and sneakers and jackets with frayed cuffs, and I’m an embarrassment to the team. No wonder he bought me a coat.
“I would do this for any employee in your situation,” he says, hands on his hips. “You aren’t special.”
“Great.” I don’t know why I sound so moody right now. It isn’t doing anything to improve his idea of me. My eyes catch on something lacy and I hook a finger into it, holding it up. “Do you normally pick out panties for your employees, Coach?”
He stares at the underwear, cheekbones going pink. “Obviously, the stylist picked those out. I didn’t know what was damaged, so I told her to include everything.”
“Are you sure?”
Good, kind, professional Tate Ward would die before buying his employees panties. Especially pretty, lacy ones like these. Like everything, they look expensive. Teasing him is too easy, though.
“Jordan.”
The way he says my name, all stern like that, makes my mouth curve.
“Are you going to check to make sure I’m wearing them tomorrow at work? As part of my professional wardrobe?”
He drops his head and rubs the bridge of his nose with a long sigh.
I pick up a maroon balconette bra, nicer than anything I’ve ever worn beneath my clothes, and check the tag. All the prices have been removed. Appearing at my feet, the cat stares at the bra, transfixed.
“Wow, you even got my bra size right.” I wiggle my eyebrows at him. “Is that in my file at work, too, or did you make a lucky guess?”
His jaw tightens. I like this game. The cat reaches a paw out to claw at the bra and Tate scoops her up into his arms.
“The stylist guessed based on some photos from Dr. Greene.”
My eyebrows shoot up. So Georgia the traitor was involved in this. Interesting.
“Consider it a signing bonus,” he adds, eyes lingering on mine. “You need to dress for your new role.”
“I don’t need to look professional in order to do a good job.”
“No, you don’t.” He says it like he means it, like he truly doesn’t care what I wear to work. “But you’re going to have a lot of eyes on you, Jordan.” He works his jaw, studying me with an unreadable expression. “I thought it might make you feel more comfortable.”
I hate that he makes a good point. I hate that he’s so thoughtful, that he thinks about things most men wouldn’t.
There’s a few bags from Arc’teryx, though, which sells outdoor clothes. The gold standard of raincoats in Vancouver. That wouldn’t be professional clothing. And a shoebox labeled Blundstones. Again, great for rainy weather but not for an office where guys like Tate are wearing sharp custom suits.
“I’ll bring in a cabinet from the house for anything that doesn’t fit in the closet,” he says before I can argue.
“I’m not staying,” I say quickly. “I’ll find somewhere else to stay tonight.”
Obviously, I can’t stay here. Even if I love this little cottage.
Tate studies me with a frown, like he’s torn. “You should stay.”
I stare at him.
“No one uses this guest cottage except Bea. You’re going to be busy this season.” He looks at me, then away. “Finding a place last minute is going to be a nightmare. And I’ve seen the kind of place you chose for yourself.”
I don’t know what to say. Do I want to live in the cottage? Yes. Forever.
Do I want to sleep fifty feet from where Tate Ward sleeps? That seems risky. That seems like a bad decision that could lead to more bad decisions. Decisions that end in my total humiliation.
A tiny, stupid balloon of hope lifts in my chest. “Don’t tell me you’re actually worried about me, Coach?” My eyebrows lift and I’m smirking.
“Ross asked me to take care of you.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Making sure you have a roof over your head is the least I can do.”
Oh. The balloon deflates in my chest, sputtering around until it hits the ground. He’s doing this because he’s a stand-up guy. He looks out for me out of duty to my father.
“I can’t afford this place,” I admit, half-relieved and half-disappointed.
“I’m not charging you.”
“You have to charge me rent,” I scoff.
Challenge fills his gaze. “Do I, now?” he says in a tone that sends a shiver down my back.
Hot. Why was that hot? What’s wrong with me?
“Stay here until the end of the season and save money.”
My brain doesn’t know how to comprehend this. People aren’t generous like this. “Why are you doing this?”
“I don’t know.” He sighs. “I want you living in a place that has working smoke detectors? Your dad would too, if he knew.”
I should probably be pissed that he’s bringing my dad into this, but my mind just snags on him saying I want you.
That’s not how he meant it, but that’s how I hear it.
“You can use the Adventure Car whenever you need,” he continues. “Drive yourself to the arena every day. I’ll drive my other car.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“We use it on some weekends if we go camping or off-roading, but we don’t do much of that in the winter. I usually take Bea skiing or skating or hiking or something if we want to spend time outside.”
“No.” I hold a hand up. “What did you call the car?”
A pause. “The Adventure Car.”
I press my lips together.
“What?” he asks, but he’s smiling.
“Adventure Car? Oh my god.” I’m trying so, so hard not to smile. “You are such a dorky dad.”
Yeah, right. Tate Ward couldn’t be a dorky dad if he tried. Just look at those forearms. Dorky dads don’t have tattoos on their chest like he does.
He looks affronted, but he’s grinning. “I benched three hundred this morning.”
I’ll bet he did, with what I saw.
“Dork.” I fold my arms. “You should call your car the Dad Mobile.”
“Unbelievable.” He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “I offer you free room and board and you repay me by bullying me.”
I’m full-out grinning now, and our eyes linger on each other. A funny feeling flips in my stomach, like everything turns over once, slowly and deliciously. I look away, breaking the moment.
My brain says, find a place to live that isn’t his. Stand on your own two feet and do not accept help.
I could stay with Georgia until I find a place to live, but I’ve seen how they act at home and it’s even handsier than in public. No thanks.
I could try to find something short-term near the arena, even if it is with a roommate, but my mind flashes back to the roommate I had in first year university, who played music at all hours of the night, constantly clogged the bathroom drain with her hair, and ate my peanut butter.
No roommates. Georgia’s the only person I can fathom living with and she’s off the table.
I could save money if I lived here, and if he decides to renege on his offer early, I’d have savings to find a place on short notice, even if it is expensive.
And it’s so, so nice. That bed. Goddamn. The wood stove. The view.
“Consider it added incentive to keep up your end of the deal,” he adds.
Right. I’m a flake and he doesn’t want me to bail on the team. Of course.
“Um. Yeah. I’ll take you up on that offer.” I swallow. “To live in the guesthouse. Thank you, Tate. Again.”
I expect him to make a crack about me actually using my manners, but he gives me a pleased look. “You called me Tate.”
Blood rushes to my face, and I’m suddenly self-conscious.
“It’s a good thing,” he adds. “We’re colleagues now.”
“You’re my boss.” You’re under me, he said.
“Sure. But you can still call me by my name.”
Our gazes linger for a long moment and there’s a funny feeling in my chest. I break eye contact first.
“I better unpack.”
“Sounds good.” He clears his throat, stepping back. “Let me know if you need anything.”
Before I can tell him I won’t, he’s walking up to the house, the cat following at his heels.
That night, I’m unpacking more of my new things when something catches my attention through the windows—light flickering in Tate’s bedroom window. My jaw drops.
No TV, my ass. He so has a TV, that liar. I shake my head, smiling. So he’s actually human, with his own little shameful secrets.
Maybe he’s not so good after all.