Page 35

A low boiling chuckle leaves his lips, then he walks to the bed, where I notice some clothing is spread out. Jordan lifts a pair of neatly folded black slacks, sliding his long, muscular legs into the holes. The sound of the zipper coming together is a jolt of excitement to my body. “That better?” he asks.

“Sort of,” I whisper. “You're still shirtless.”

Jordan smirks ear to ear. “Aren't you observant. Get in here, Lorikeet. Don't make me ask again.”

Compelled to move forward, I climb the last steps onto the landing. The hallway stretches between us. Just six feet keeping me away from a half-naked Jordan Hartford. He fits me with an expectant stare; he knows I'll enter the bedroom before I slide my crimson shoe over the wood. One step, two, I'm at the entryway. The last time I came in here I sat on the mattress, trying to plan out the seduction and untimely death of this man's son.

“Where's Dezmond?” I ask.

“You didn't see him downstairs? He must be sleeping. His room is in the basement.”

“Oh,” I say simply. Craning my neck, I look back where I came from. “He could come up here any second then.”

“Are you afraid he'll see something he shouldn't?”

I jerk my attention back to Jordan. “No, of course not, we're not doing anything wrong.”

“We're not,” he agrees in a hush.

Swallowing the grit in my throat, I look at the items on the orange bedspread. There's a shiny black belt, a splayed out long-sleeve dress shirt the color of tree moss, and three different ties, all of them coiled like snakes. “What did you want my help with? I'd expect someone your age to know how to dress themselves.”

Jordan snorts before picking up the shirt. “You can't bruise my ego that easily. I'm not ashamed of being forty, if anything, I'm proud of it.” His arms glide easily into the sleeves, so it drapes open across his abdominal ridges. “These are my golden years.”

“Gold-plated, maybe,” I chuckle.

His eyes narrow on me—I fidget on the spot. “You said you were looking for me. What for?”

“My mom asked me to deliver the flower arrangements. I brought two in, but the rest are in my car. I thought I could get some extra muscle to move them inside.”

“You've got more than enough muscle for the job,” he says smoothly, eyes raking over my body as he buttons his shirt.

“What the hell does that mean?” Heat races to my cheeks. “Are you making fun of my muscles?” Lifting my arms, I flex to show off my biceps. “You're proud of your age? I'm proud of these beauties.”

Jordan pinches the last button on his left cuff, staring at me with his eyebrows held high. “I was being serious, Lorikeet. You look strong. Youshouldbe proud of that.” He hesitates, checking my face more closely. “I'd have to be blind to say you're not beautiful.”

My muscles go slack as my arms droop downward. What rises, instead, is a new wave of heat.Did he just call me beautiful?In a roundabout way … yes, he did.

I was mostly teasing him when I flexed. The percentage of brainpower I waste giving a shit what anyone thinks about my body is thimble sized. Years of swimming against the Atlantic Ocean's currents blessed me with powerful limbs, sharpened the lines in my deltoids, my thighs, to the point I had to be careful where I bought my clothes, or they'd fit strange. My mother's naturally tall genetics filled the rest of me out.

I'd just wanted to make Jordan feel some guilt … maybe provoke him a bit.

Why did he have to go and create butterflies in my stomach?

“This is what I wanted your help with,” he says, tearing me from my thoughts. He holds up three ties; one is copper, the other two slightly different shades of blue, all are satin-sheen.

“They're very nice,” I say.

“Pick one.”

“For you to wear?”

“Who else?” he chuckles dryly.

Rubbing my tongue on my bottom lip, I move closer to him beside the bed. He could grab me if he wanted to. There's nothing but air between us, nowhere for me to run. I know how quick he is. He's shown me before. “Give me,” I say softly, holding out my hands.

Jordan doesn't need to get nearer to me, but he does anyway. I can feel the lingering heat of the shower coming off his body. He drapes the ties in my palms. I'm trembling as I lift them, one by one, to line up next to his left temple. “What are you doing?” he asks softly.

“Comparing them to your eye color."