Chapter 10 Jordan #2
“Dammit.” He snaps his fingers. “At least it smells amazing here.”
“Pumpkin bars,” I say.
His eyebrows lift. “Edibles?”
“Not for you.”
“Says who?” he asks, looking wounded.
“Says me. They’re for my shop. You can purchase one if you’d like.” I smirk. “I’ll sell you one for an early buy, but it’ll cost you double.”
“I bet Ginger will give me one,” he says.
“Not gonna happen,” I tell him. “Sit your ass down before I kick you out.”
Reed blows out a puff of air. “Like you could.”
“We can tie Reed to a chair with some garland,” Willow suggests.
“Will, you don’t need an excuse to tie me up.” Reed winks at her.
She rolls her eyes. “Keep your fantasies to yourself.”
Ginger steps out from the kitchen and walks around behind the counter. “Twenty more minutes to go on the baking.”
“Hey, Ginger.”
“Hey, Reed.”
“I’m volunteering to be your taste tester.”
She smiles, shaking her head. “Your brother already has that job.”
I grin, pointing to my chest. “Quality control manager right here.”
Reed makes a sound of disbelief. “Self-appointed titles don’t hold any weight.”
Ginger comes over and hands me a plate of cookies. “To tide you over.” She then glances at Reed. “You'd better ask my quality control manager if you can have some.”
I grin at her, happy to have a co-conspirator in giving Reed a hard time.
“Ginger, have I ever told you you’re my favorite baker in the whole world?” Reed asks.
She shakes her head. “No, you haven’t. And you still have to ask Jordan for a cookie.”
I laugh. “Nice try, bro.”
“I thought you were the nice one, Ginger,” Reed says. “Maybe Will’s rubbing off on you.”
“She hasn’t called you fuckhead yet, so I guess not,” Willow retorts, making the rest of us laugh.
“Here.” I take a cookie and set the plate down on the table. “Help yourself.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Reed says, reaching in front of Willow to grab two cookies. She slaps at his hand, and he chuckles.
Ginger goes over to the window to check out my work. I walk over, standing beside her. “What do you think?”
“I love it.”
“Did you have anything specific in mind, or do you want us to do whatever we think?” I ask, looking at her.
She shrugs, her head swiveling as she looks around. “I’m not sure. I thought strands of lights on the front of the hanging shelves might look nice, but I don’t know if it’s possible.”
“If that’s what you want, I can make it happen.”
She turns, her wide green eyes meeting mine. “You can?”
I nod. “Whatever you want.” She has no idea how much I mean those words.
Our gazes remain connected, as if neither of us can look away.
I lose myself in her stunning irises. The vivid specks of emerald and gold swirl together in a kaleidoscope of hope and hesitation, like she’s standing on the edge of something she’s not sure she’s allowed to want.
It makes me want to make the decision for her, to lead her away to somewhere with no friends or siblings to distract us.
I’m fighting the urge to grab her hand when the oven timer goes off in the kitchen.
“I’ll grab them,” she says, already spinning away.
I hesitate for a second, then follow her into the kitchen. She removes the pan from the oven and uses the parchment to slide the bars free, setting them on the counter.
“They look perfect,” I say.
“They’re too hot to cut.”
“Patience seems like a big part of baking. I’d struggle with waiting for things to cool.”
“You get used to it, and on a regular day, I have other things I’m making at the same time, so I’m not standing around with nothing to do.”
“Like now?” I ask.
“Well…” she teases.
“I think I may have to fight off Reed over these.”
She laughs. “I’ll distract him with some gingerbread bars.”
“Maybe I’ll tell him they’re edibles,” I say, snickering.
Her eyes light up with amusement. “Do you think he’d fall for it?”
“Temporarily. If he didn’t feel anything after eating one, he’d know. But I’ll do what’s necessary to keep him from these pumpkin bars.”
“Sounds like you have your work cut out for you,” she says.
We both lean against the counter, listening to the music and the muffled voices from the other room.
“Thank you for doing this,” I say.
She scrunches her nose. “Don’t thank me. Besides, I thought we were partners in this venture.”
“We are, which reminds me. I forgot to show you something.” I pull my phone from my pocket and bring up a photo. I hold the screen in front of her so she can see what the pumpkin bars looked like when I sold them.
“Baked With Ginger,” she reads out loud, then glances at me. “You had labels made?”
I grin. “I made them myself.”
“Look at you. And you even wrapped each bar up individually.”
“What did you think I was going to do? Have them sitting on a plate on the counter?”
Her expression tells me that’s precisely what she imagined.
“Now that you know what a professional job I did, what do you think?” I ask, fishing for a compliment.
“Honestly, I’m shocked and extremely impressed by my business partner. I didn’t realize what a professional operation this would be.”
“Come on. I don’t do anything half assed,” I say, grinning.
She arches an eyebrow. “That’s true.”
“Also”—I reach in my other pocket and pull out some money—“here’s your portion from the sales.”
“What? No.” She shakes her head. “I don’t expect to make anything from doing this. I thought we were just joking about being partners.”
“Of course we’re splitting the profit. I wouldn’t be selling these if it weren’t for you.” I place the money on the counter.
“You’ve done enough for me already—hanging shelves, hanging lights at my house, and now decorating my shop.”
“Too bad.”
She groans. “Jordan.”
I groan back. “Ginger. I’m not changing my mind about this.”
“Fine,” she finally relents. “But you’re not allowed to hang any more decorations.” She brushes imaginary crumbs from the counter.
“Why not? You don’t always have to do everything alone.”
Her gaze raises to mine again. “I know, but it’s easier not to need anyone.”
Her reply hits me harder than expected, and I find myself reaching out, touching her arm. “I understand, but I’m here. You can count on me—I want you to count on me.”
She stays silent, looking at me, and then she slowly steps forward and into my arms. Her head tucks against my shoulder as I hold her without overthinking or letting doubts creep in. I only focus on this moment and how right she feels in my arms.
It doesn’t last nearly long enough, and when she pulls back, she gives me a gentle smile. “I should go cut the bars.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, fighting the overwhelming urge to drag her into my arms once more. I need to put some space between us. I hurry toward the door, calling over my shoulder, “I’ll go supervise the decorating.”