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The words were out faster than Luke could stop them, and the undisguised hurt on Jordan’s face told him she felt the full force of their cruel bite.
Damn it. This wasn’t him. He wasn’t the jerk that hurt women. Not intentionally…
“Jordan—”
She shook her head and held up her hand. “Don’t worry about it.”
The hell he wouldn’t. He’d been raised better than to speak to a woman that way, even the most vexing of women. “I didn’t mean—”
“Sure yo
u did, Mr. Elliott. Please don’t apologize for speaking your mind, as I’ve done the same ever since I got into town.”
Jordan smiled as she stood, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She pulled her wallet out of her purse, tossed down a couple of bills. “Drinks on me tonight.”
She walked away without meeting his eyes. He felt the smallest twinge of relief that she walked out the front door instead of resuming her conversation with Travis Olander, but it did little to dull the regret.
Nor did it ease the absurd wish that he and Jordan Carpenter had met under different circumstances.
She’d accused him of speaking his mind—of meaning what he’d said. But she was wrong. He hadn’t meant it. Jordan was a pain in his side, yes, but not a bad person.
Most alarming of all, Luke felt the strangest pang of regret at the thought of sending her back to her big city.
It’d been forever since someone had bothered to shake up his life—since he’d bothered to allow it.
Luke lifted the beer to his lips as he stared absently at her mostly full wineglass, wondering just what the hell he wanted to do about the most alluring woman he’d met in a long time.
Chapter 11
Jordan slammed her laptop shut and drummed her fingers atop the MacBook.
Two.
That’s how many new potential Jilted candidates she’d come up with after six hours of Internet research. One was a beefcake from Miami, who, if Facebook could be believed, had four ex-fiancées. He was good-looking, definitely, but he also went by Flash. No last name. And he seemed to have an obsession with his own abs. Six-packs were always a bonus for reality TV, but for this type of show, it’d work much better if the guys at least pretended to have some humility. They already had a strike against them with the runaway-groom thing. A huge ego might be too hard of a sell.
The other candidate wasn’t much better. Jeff Marx from Philadelphia had a last name, so that was something, but he had six ex-fiancées. How was that even possible? There was something just not right about a guy who put an engagement ring on a half dozen different fingers. Even more damning, the guy had his own YouTube channel, where he liked to ramble on about the vixens who had proven unworthy of his love.
Frankly, it creeped her out.
Jordan glanced at the clock. Two P.M. Too early for wine, so she poured herself a glass of iced tea and picked up her cellphone to call one of her colleagues.
Dana Munos was another of Raven’s minions. She and Jordan weren’t besties or anything, but they got along, helped each other out when one had hit a wall. Jordan had so hit a wall.
“This is Dana.”
Jordan blinked a bit at the brusque greeting. Maybe she’d been in Lucky Hollow too long, because the quick impatience in Dana’s tone caught her off guard. She’d grown accustomed to the more friendly greetings of the people of Lucky Hollow, who called her dear and sweetheart and approached every conversation as though they had all the time in the world.
“Hey, Dana, it’s Jordan.”
“Hey! Sorry. The damn phone’s been ringing nonstop today; I’m not even looking at caller ID anymore. What’s up? You back in New York yet?”
“No, still in Montana. Which is actually why I’m calling. Got a sec for some advice?” Jordan said, taking her tea into the living room and plopping onto the couch.
“Sure,” Dana said, her voice curious. “Hit me.”
“So, this candidate I’m trying to recruit—”
“The hot firefighter.”
