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Chapter Four

Jordan

He hung up the phone after confirming that the others thought his plan was sound and then went back into the kitchen, ruffling Carter’s hair as he determinedly spooned oatmeal into his mouth.

Well, about half of it made it into his mouth.

The rest was on his face and the highchair and his clothes and the floor.

But he loved feeding himself.

Jordan had just gotten in the habit of making twice as much so that a reasonable amount made it into his son’s stomach.

Emma was also eating happily, and he sat next to Abby at the kitchen table. “You hungry?”

She bit her lip, nodded. “But I can get it—”

He stood. “Cinnamon toast and tea? Or are you sick of that yet?”

She smiled. “Is it even possible to get sick of cinnamon toast and tea?”

“I’m guessing the correct answer to that question is no.”

“Exactly, but Jor—” She stopped. “You really don’t have to wait on me hand and foot. You’re already doing so much and—”

“This is my family, sweetheart. I couldn’t carry Emma”—he grinned—“and thank God for that, but let me at least take care of you in this way.”

Guilt flashed in her eyes. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Yes.” He tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. “In fact, it makes me feel like I’m finally doing something productive.”

More guilt. “Baby—”

He bopped her lightly on the nose. “Hush.”

More guilt in her expression, but Jordan decided not to comment on it or push further.

He had a plan, and he was going to stick to it.

Or at least, he’d put the plan in place and had to trust that the rest of the Sextant would pull their weight.

So, instead of worrying about something he couldn’t change, he poured a cup of coffee for himself, brewed her some tea, and then set about spending the rest of the day making sure she got as much rest as possible.

Because his woman had plans that evening.

Whether or not she liked it.

She was going to kill him.

They’d been married long enough for him to see that much in her face, but he simply ignored the glare and opened the door a little wider to allow Bec, Sera, CeCe, and Rachel in.

“Hi,” CeCe said, kissing him on the cheek and whispering. “Heather’s going to call. She’s in Berlin.”

He smiled. “Thanks for the assist.”

“Aunt CeCe!” Hunter yelled, dropping his pencil onto the kitchen counter and tearing through the room to hug Cecilia tight.

“Oof!” she exclaimed, teetering back on her heels before Jordan snagged her arm to steady her. “How did you get so big?”

“It’s my new heart!” he said, or really, yelled, sprinting back to the kitchen, but not before yelling some more—this time over his shoulder, “It makes me a superhero, CeCe!”

“I see that,” she said in what someone on the street might think was an indulgent tone.

But Jordan knew better.

Hunter was a superhero.

Less of the Hollywood variety and more of the real-life type. He’d been sick for much of his life, and it wasn’t until he’d received a heart transplant a few years ago that he’d been able to be a real kid.

It was still hard as hell to let him play sports and skid through the house, especially after Jordan had spent so much time at Hunter’s bedside, but Abby was the one who’d actually helped him see that his nephew wouldn’t be able to live a full life unless he loosened the protective hold a bit.

He’d already been more son than nephew—Hunter’s biological dad and Jordan’s brother had died before he was born—and Abby, too, had given him the courage to adopt Hunter, to be a true family, and he was forever grateful for her.

And the woman thought she wasn’t doing enough?

Ha.

She’d changed his life for the better, made it something he was so damned thankful to be living, made it—

Perfect.

Even with her glaring at him from across the room.

“Where’s my little squishy?” Sera asked, hanging her coat on the rack and squeezing Jordan’s arm at the same time.

None of the Sextant—and somehow, he’d gotten in the habit of calling Abby and her friends that, even though it was a ridiculous name thought up after too many drinks and an ill-fated Google search—but regardless of that silly name, none of the women were still at guest status, as Abby liked to call it.

They strolled right in, Sera scooping up Carter and kissing his chubby little cheeks, CeCe moving to look at Hunter’s homework, Bec grabbing drinks from the fridge and snacks from the pantry, and Rachel carefully snagging Emma from Abby’s arms, ordering her to go upstairs for a nap.

“But—”

“But, nothing,” Rachel said, in her no-nonsense, efficient tone. “We want to chat and hang out, but not until you’ve slept a bit more.”

“I’m not tired—”

Except, Abby’s protest was cut short by a yawn.

Bec, who was setting a pile of snacks on the table, merely raised a brow. “Want to try that line with another group of dirty old ladies?”

Snorting, Jordan moved into the kitchen, grabbing some ingredients for spaghetti, one of the few meals he could cook—and the only one that would work for a large group that Hunter and Carter would both eat as well. But while the cooking was necessary, it was also part distraction.

Letting Abbs’ friends take her in hand.

Because sometimes a man needed to call in the experts, and as much as he loved his wife, he knew there were things she still held back from him, still kept close to her chest.

Part because of her asshole of a father.

And part because she felt a responsibility to do everything by herself.

Stubborn woman.

But still, he wouldn’t take her any other way. He just knew that sometimes he needed a little help to get through that shell of hers.

When Hunter left to put his homework in his backpack, CeCe came up next to Jordan, leaning a hip against the counter as he sliced vegetables. “It’s not often a man ”—her green eyes danced—“calls an emergency Book Club meeting.”

“You mean Wine Club?” he deadpanned.

“Yes, exactly.”

He sighed, dropped the veggies into the stockpot. “She says she’s not doing enough,” he said softly. “Like giving birth and nursing Emma, all while taking care of Hunter and Carter isn’t enough.”

CeCe snorted.

“Exactly,” he said. “But I don’t think that’s all of it. That’s why I called Sera. There’s something else going on.”

“Yeah?”

He thought about the way she’d jumped away from his touch, the guilt in her eyes, the way she’d avoided being close to him all day.

And his worry was that it was more than being tired or feeling like he was taking on too much. Jordan worried that she was unhappy because of something he was doing and just hadn’t found a way to tell him.

Which worried him further.

Because if their communication had broken down that much, if she couldn’t just talk to him as a friend and wife, then . . . fuck, he was definitely doing something wrong.

Hence the big guns.

Hopefully, if she couldn’t talk to him, she would at least talk to her friends.

“We’ll sort her out, Jor,” CeCe murmured, squeezing his arm. Then she smiled. “After her nap, that is.”

“Did Bec get her to go lay down?”

A nod. “Already out, poor thing.”

He stirred the pot, began adding tomato sauce. “Emma has decided that sleep is far too overrated.”

“I thought you guys were going to hire a nanny.”

“Abby wants to wait until she goes back to work.”

“A night nurse?”

He shook his head. “Couldn’t get her to agree to it.”

“Stubborn one, isn’t she?”

“It might be her superpower.”

CeCe chuckled. “We’ll turn the screws, get her to talk.”

“How will you torture her?”

“I’ll threaten her with a glass of wine,” CeCe said.

“That’ll do it,” he said, feeling better already. Not because of the wine—Abby couldn’t stand the stuff, even though the rest of her friends could suck it down like punch—but he felt better because they cared about Abby, because they knew her, because they would help him get to the bottom of this.

And if it ended up that he was the problem that was making his wife so miserable, then Jordan would fix it.

Whatever it was.