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And actually, the calzones were take-out from a couple nights ago, but yes, Jordan’s not working tonight, and I’m anxious to see how she is. And to—hopefully—get back to normal with her.
Not too anxious, though. I kept the guys an hour later today on purpose, because while I’m dying to see her, I don’t want to be dying to see her, and I needed to prove that I have some control over myself.
Dutch pulls on his baseball hat, shooting me a half-smile like he agrees with Todd, but I just frown and climb into my truck. I don’t need the mental image of Jordan walking around my kitchen in her bare feet, bending over counters to grab things, and doing that cute thing she does where she blows her hair out of her face, but it just falls right back into the same spot again.
We can live there, and our lives will continue until she gets her own place. She’ll go to school and work and once in a while a guy just may come by to pick her up, and I’ll carry on, too. I’m a single man. She has to expect I’ll be out with a woman here and there. It’s fine, and it’s as it should be.
If she were ten years older, though…
I smile to myself, finally feeling like I got my head back on straight. I twist the key, starting the engine, and pull out of the lot, making my way home.
I’m glad I didn’t try to get out of the site right away at five. And all in all, I did well. I was the one who stopped things last night, right? Twice? I have a moral compass, and while it wavered, it found true north. Eventually.
And I’m only human. Would anyone not notice how beautiful she is?
I blow out a breath, turning on the radio as I coast into town and wind through the neighborhood streets.
I need a date. I’ll just twist, wind, and mold what happened with Jordan last night as some six-minute fluke under the full moon and go back to being…her, like…elder and shit. Just a responsible adult she relies on for guidance. That’s it.
She’s not a woman, she’s not experienced in the world, and I’m not the man who’s going to marry her or give her kids. I have no right to her.
I take a deep breath, feeling ready, and pull onto my street and up into my driveway. It’s just after six, Jordan’s VW is here, but that doesn’t mean she is. I told her not to driv
e it yet, but she could be with her sister.
I park and grab my lunch box before climbing out of the cab. Reaching into the back, I pull out my tool belt and swing it over my shoulder, walking across the lawn to the porch stairs.
But I see something out of the corner of my eye and turn my head, seeing Kyle Cramer’s house. Jordan is stepping out of his front door, followed by Kyle who hands her a piece of paper and smiles down at her.
She continues to inch away, but she smiles back and jerks her thumb toward my place, and they both exchange a few words and nod. Turning away from him, she walks my way, and my gaze flashes to him still standing behind her, seeing his eyes roam her backside.
My lungs fill with heat, and instinct starts to kick in. Don’t even try it, asshole.
She approaches, looking up and slowing for only a second when she sees me.
I jerk my chin, keeping my tone even. “What was that all about?”
She blinks, walking up the porch steps. “Oh, he, uh…he has his kids tonight,” she says, “but he forgot he had a baseball game, so he asked me to watch them. I said yes. He was just running through the house and procedures with me.”
“Why you?” I follow her.
She glances back at me, and I realize that sounded rude.
“I mean, he must have babysitters lined up already,” I add. “I was just curious why he asked you.”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs and grabs her bag, checking to make sure she has what she needs. “Probably because I’m right next door, and he thinks I’m still into pocket money,” she jokes. “It’s fine. Really. I have nothing else to do. I’ll be back late, okay?”
Late? The games are over by ten.
He must be joining the team at the bar afterward.
And then the degenerate’s going to come home drunk, to a barely legal, hot babysitter.
Fuck no.
She moves for the door, swinging the pack on her shoulder, and I take a step.
“Wait…” I say.
