Chapter 31
LIBBY
Jordan texts to let me know he’s leaving work without me, but only because he’s headed home to start dinner so it will be ready when I get there.
I really have the best husband.
I hope he’s making pizza. His mom’s crust is spectacular. Shockingly, despite being a pretty perfect husband, he can’t read my mind, so I text him.
Libby
Pizza?
Jordan
You’ve got it, boss.
Boss is such a great term of endearment.
Especially the husky way he said it the other day in his office.
I know I shouldn’t flirt with him like that when he can’t flirt back—well, he won’t flirt back.
He’s been so careful since the night he told me about his feelings.
Sometimes it’s frustrating that he’s denying his natural inclinations to flirt with me, because I like it.
But seeing him resist to show me that he can be trusted? Very hot.
He’s pulling a pizza loaded with toppings out of the oven when I come into the kitchen after work.
“Oh my goodness, Jordan,” I moan, kicking off my shoes and dropping onto one of the upholstered stools at the kitchen island. “That looks fabulous.”
He sets it proudly down on a silicone hot pad in front of me. “Pepperoni, sausage, bacon, fresh mozzarella, tomatoes, onions, peppers, no olives.” He eyes me, and somehow he’s figured out that I don’t like them. He’s a wizard. “Loaded up with all the good stuff.”
“You’ve outdone yourself.”
He bows with a flourish, and I laugh. “Want to go change while it cools? It’ll be ready to eat in about five minutes.”
I shake my head and glance down at the lightweight, mustard-colored, wide-leg dress pants I’m wearing. “These pants are very comfortable, actually. I’m good. I’d rather chat with you. I haven’t seen you all afternoon.”
“How’d the meeting go?” he asks as he turns to grab plates from the cupboard.
“Great. I’m excited about the family deals we’re offering. We’re going to make some lifelong fans. Fabulous investment.”
He leans his elbows on the island after gathering our dinnerware. “You realize, Libby, that according to this theory of families at the games, our children are going to be hockey players, not football—” He stiffens, then straightens. “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that—”
I laugh. “We are married.”
His cheeks are so red. “I know, but—”
“It’s fine. You think I haven’t thought about our future like that?
” Now I lean on the island, stretching my hands out to take his.
I don’t care if our kids are hockey players or football players.
I want them to be ours. I want to trust they can be.
Every day with Jordan makes me believe it a little more—believe that there’s nothing to fear with him.
“I’m so relieved you do,” he says quietly, holding my hands tightly, like he wants me to understand all of his feelings in that grip.
We sit there, staring at each other for several moments, before he pulls away, reaching for the pizza cutter.
He dishes out our pizza and then rounds the island to sit next to me.
We eat in silence for several minutes, Jordan finishing his first piece and grabbing another before either of us talk.
I’m still mulling over our kids. Will we be like Janelle and Charlie and have half a dozen?
I don’t think I’m opposed. I’ve just never pictured myself with a whole brood like hers.
Or will it be difficult, like with Ellie?
Maybe only one or two? My heart squeezes, mostly aching for my sister.
But we wouldn’t have Kat and Emmeline in our family if she’d been able to get pregnant.
“So, I got a call from Mitchell Hurst today,” Jordan says, breaking into my thoughts.
My eyebrows go up. “Oh? Did he find something?”
Jordan shakes his head. “There’s been a development.”
I scowl, setting my fork down. “That doesn’t sound good.”
He lets out a long, frustrated sigh. “It’s not.” He turns on the stool, facing me. “He told me to make the payment because he knows I cheated on you four months ago.”
“What?” My mouth drops open. “But there were no girlfriends—”
“There were four dates with Daria Cane.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and opens it up to Instagram, then hands it to me to show me a post. It’s nothing.
A picture of Jordan posing with a pretty woman at a restaurant.
The food does look really good, but she could be a fan asking for a selfie for all this picture shows.
I point to it, scowling. “He thinks you’re going to hand over half a million dollars based on that?”
Jordan shrugs. “That’s the thing. I don’t know what he has. Surely not just this, right? He told me to ‘think about it.’”
I snort. “I’m not super surprised that there are people coming after you, but this feels like amateur hour.”
Jordan holds out his hands. “There has to be more, right? Something conclusive.”
I fold my arms. “You would think so, but some people really are just stupid.” I pick up my phone from where it’s resting, face down, next to my plate.
“Caleb?” Jordan guesses.
“Not yet. I like to save Caleb for the tricky, gray-area stuff, and those favors are big, so we’ll keep that in our back pocket for now.
” I tap the contact number for Adam, one of the private detectives I have on staff in Houston.
“I may not be running the place, but I am still the boss of a private investigation firm.”