Chapter 14
fourteen
MARILEE
It’s official—I don’t know what’s gotten into Jordan.
But the past week, he’s leaned hard into the fake husband role even more than the best friend role. Though come to think of it…
It doesn’t feel fake .
The flowers he left on the kitchen counter Monday with a sweet note didn’t feel fake.
The picnic he surprised me with at our special spot during lunch on Wednesday after cosigning loan documents at the bank didn’t feel fake—especially when he casually took my hand as we ate and I told him about my fears and worries in taking over for Marla…and he reassured me that I had exactly what it took to do this and do it well.
As for the foot rub he’s given me every night as we watch a different romantic comedy—many of them about friends who decide to date? Those haven’t felt fake either.
And then there’s the way we’ve slipped into a routine every evening of going to bed at the same time and talking until one of us (usually me) is yawning.
Every morning, somehow, I wake up in his arms.
It’s driving me crazy. Because it can’t all be in my head, right? Things have felt different between us since he came home from a run last weekend.
Sure, some things are the same as they’ve always been—like how he seeks me out just to tell me something funny that happened at work that day, or to ask my thoughts on the latest kids’ TV show and whether it’s age appropriate for Ryder.
But there are these little touches, little gazes he’s given me, little ways our interactions strike a match inside me, leaving me warm and buzzing. It feels like things are shifting.
And I’m not going to lie—that still scares the sugar out of me.
But…I’m not running, either. I’m doing what April suggested, testing the waters, letting the possibilities sit and stay a while before automatically dismissing them. I told him one of my deepest secrets, and he’s still here. In fact, ever since that conversation, he seems to be…pursuing me.
It’s all a bit heady.
Which is why I’m, once again, baking—if one can call Saturday morning pancakes “baking.”
“Lee-Lee, when will breakfast be ready?” Ryder’s head pops up over the kitchen island, where I’m nearly done throwing the batter together and preheating the griddle. He’s in his tight little Superman pajamas, complete with a Velcroed cape. “I’m starving.”
“You are, huh?” I boop him on the head with the clean spatula, which makes him giggle. “Your dad should be home from his run any minute, and then we’ll eat. You can keep watching Paw Patrol for now.”
“‘K.” He runs back and tumble-flies over the back of the couch, unpausing the show, which plays at a medium volume.
I roll up the sleeves of my blue hoodie—well, Jordan’s hoodie that I stole in addition to a pair of his flannel pants rolled ten times because I desperately need to do laundry—and stir the batter before opening the fridge for more ingredients, humming the Paw Patrol theme song to myself.
The front door squeaks open, and Ryder says, “Hi, Daddy!”
Jordan’s baritone rumbles, “Morning, bud. Oh, I love this episode.”
“Yup. Marshall’s the bestest pup. Watch how he shoots that water!”
“Love how they’re working together to save the day.”
“Me too.”
Smiling at their natural interaction, I reach for a container of blueberries, a bag of chocolate chips, a can of whipped cream, and a jar of chocolate sauce I made up last night from scratch. “Morning,” I call as I close the fridge door—and nearly have a heart attack.
Because Jordan is standing beside the couch with no shirt on.
Biscuits and gravy. He’s stretching his arm over his chest while watching colorfully clothed dogs on TV, and um, what is happening to my insides? I have seen Jordan in a bathing suit plenty of times. More than I can count. More than I remember.
But this? I’ll never be able to get the image of his smooth, taut skin—just a smattering of dark hair surrounding his well-formed pectorals—out of my brain. His torso is streaked with sweat, joggers slung low on his hips, and his muscles are the perfect balance between ripped beefcake and barely there. Why are my eyes drawn to the veins in his tan forearms as points his elbow toward the sky and stretches his triceps?
The container of blueberries drops from my hands, and I yelp as the fruit scatters all over the floor.
“Whoa there.” Jordan rushes to help as I set the other food on the counter and squat down to scoop berries into the flimsy plastic container.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
“No big deal.” He gently gathers fruit in his hands and helps me refill the container. Despite the sweat, he smells like ocean air and forest. His hand brushes mine as we close the container together. Then our eyes connect, and it’s like he sees me for the first time as his gaze sweeps down over me. His irises seem to snap and darken. “What are you wearing?”
Is it just my imagination, or does his voice go all husky at the question?
I glance down at my sweatshirt. Well, his sweatshirt. “Um, I hope you don’t mind, but almost all of my clothes are dirty, so I rummaged around in your dresser and borrowed these.” And darn it, there’s a splatter of flour on the front. I rub at it furiously. “Sorry, I’ll make sure to clean this before I return it.”
Then I’m breathless as he places his hand over mine, effectively stilling it.
“I don’t mind.” It’s all he says, but the meaning pulses palpable between us.
Not just I don’t mind you borrowing my clothes , but also… I don’t mind your mess .
I glance away, swallow. “Thanks,” I whisper. Then I stand, blueberries in hand, and set them on the island. The batter’s ready so I ladle some onto the greased griddle. The sizzle pops and settles. I tuck an errant strand of hair behind my ear. “This will be ready in about ten minutes if you want to grab a shower before breakfast.” And look at me, I manage to say it all without sounding like a nervous teenager.
“I’m okay.” He hitches a hip against the island and reaches for a stack of mail.
“Oh.” And I can’t help but stare at the contours of his chest—a chest that has been hiding. Or rather, that I’ve never really noticed until now. “All right.”
He peeks up at me, a tiny smile flicking over his mouth, and I avert my eyes back to my pancakes.
“Yikes,” I say, pulling three nearly blackened pancakes off the griddle. Clearly, I wasn’t paying enough attention. Wonder why . “Um, well, if you want to throw a shirt on, I’m sure you’d be more comfortable.”
“I’m okay,” he says again, the grin growing wider. “But if it’s too distracting for you …”
“What?” I release a garbled laugh as I spray the griddle again and ladle out more batter. “Noooo. It’s fine. I just want you to be comfortable.”
“Great.” Aaaaaand he proceeds to stand there some more, shirtless, his manly chest a glowing beacon for my eyes. This is getting ridiculous. “Well, um, would you mind washing the berries and putting both them and the chocolate chips into bowls? I thought we’d do a little pancake bar.” And if he’s at the sink, he’s behind me. Out of sight, out of mind. Problem solved.
“Sure.” He sets down the mail and rounds the counter, taking the bag of chocolate chips and the berries with him, his eyes glittering with amusement. I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks. Fine, maybe he’s onto me, but so what? I can find him attractive. He’s my husband. Fake husband, but husband all the same.
But for how long?
Exactly three hundred-forty-six more days. But who’s counting?
I pull three golden pancakes from the griddle—much better—and add more to cook while cartoons drown out the doubting voice in my head. The sound of rushing water streams in and out of my consciousness as I give all of my focus to the pancakes. Finally, all of the batter is gone, and I’ve got a stack of perfect little pancakes, save the first three I ruined. Grabbing the dirty batter bowl, I turn toward the sink—and the edge of the bowl smacks right into Jordan’s bare chest.
“Oof.” One of his hands reaches out to steady my arm, and the other takes the bowl from me, depositing it into the sink. “You all right?” His thumb skates down my covered forearm to my hand.
Goosebumps are left in its wake.
“Yeah.” I’m frozen at his touch. A shudder works its way up my entire body.
One eyebrow arches, and Jordan reaches for the zipper of the hoodie I’m wearing, which is hanging open, exposing a stained black tank underneath. He clasps the metal ends of the hoodie zipper together and slowly, achingly, runs it upward, all the while keeping his gaze steady on mine. When the zipper’s to the top, he gives the hoodie strings a tiny tug. “There.”
“What…” I swallow. “Jay, what are you doing?” Because suddenly, I have to know. Have to understand if I’m going crazy. If I’m imagining things.
But he just shrugs like it’s nothing and says, “You seemed a little chilly.” Then he steps around me, calls to Ryder, and turns to me with all the innocence in the world. “Ready to eat?”
And all I can do is nod dumbly, more confused than ever.