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This thought makes me feel a little bit better, and so I grab an old pair of shorts and a Victoria’s Secret sweatshirt and toss them on to wander back downstairs. I’m not up to eating anything yet, but I could use some water. The food from the wake is still sitting like a stone in my stomach.
The stairs creak as I walk down them, running my hand along the oak bannister. I stop for a second. Is Mr. King still here?
I hear my dad’s voice. “Thanks for coming back, King,” he says.
“It’s my pleasure,” he says with that low rumble. “Good to see you again, and I’m glad that we had a chance to talk about this opportunity.”
“Me too,” my dad says thoughtfully. I hear them coming to the front hall, and while part of me wants to run back up to my room and hide, the other wants to lay eyes on Mr. King again. I wish I could hide and watch them.
“Jordan,” my dad says. “You’re up.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I was just coming down to get a glass of water.”
“Funerals are exhausting,” my mother says. “Were you able to nap?”
“For a little while.” I look away. I want to memorize the way Mr. King’s body looks with his clothes stretched over his muscles. Most guys I know don’t work on their bodies, but you can see his six-pack and pecs through his shirt. The forearms are tanned, with golden hairs, and the definition of his muscles makes me want him to take off his shirt and see more. “I decided to go to Paris,” I say.
“Paris is beautiful,” Mr. King says.
“Sure, it’s beautiful,” my dad blusters, “but you don’t want to go there now, do you?” His eyebrows knit together. “Not after everything? You don’t know what could happen.”
“Anything could,” my mother says sagely, nodding her head. “Now’s not the time to do such a thing. Isn’t that right?” The last statement she directs to Mr. King.
“Paris is an incredible city,” he answers her. “I might be heading there myself for business. If she were to get in any trouble, I’d be happy to help her out.”
“That would be great,” I squeak.
My mother looks to me, then to Mr. King. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, as it’s a moot point. Where would you get the money, anyway?”
“I’m getting something from my best friend in her will,” I say. I’m feeling increasingly self-conscious in my shorts and shirt. “I don’t know how much it’s going to be, but I’d like to go as a tribute to her.”
“I don’t know about that,” my dad says.
“It’s a lovely idea,” Mr. King says at the same time. “I should be going, in any case.” He hands me a business card, and I clutch it in my palm, its crisp edges against my skin. “In case you decide to go to France, you know where to reach me.”
“Thank you,” I say. This time my words aren’t squeaky, just soft and breathless.
“Anyhow, great to see you,” my dad says to him. “Nice remembering old times and looking forward to new ones.”
“Most definitely,” he answers, his smile widening again. “And you too, Margaret,” he says to my mother. Then he looks at me. “Jordan.” The way he says my name thrills me to my core again, sending tingles through my body.
Did he just wink at me?
