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As soon as Amanda left, Molly changed clothes and got out the paint she’d purchased earlier in the day. She’d put on an old dress shirt of Jordan’s, rolled up the sleeves and paused to study herself in the mirror.
“Stop kidding yourself,” she muttered. Choosing to paint in Jordan’s shirt had been a deliberate act. Illogical though it was, she felt close to him in this shirt. Years earlier, before they knew what was to befall them, it had been a favorite of hers.
She’d stolen it from his closet when she’d picked up her things at the house and moved them into the apartment. For a short time afterward, she was afraid he’d ask her about it. As the weeks passed, she realized he had so many shirts he wouldn’t miss this one.
Wearing it now, while she painted the baby’s crib, had been an effort to bring him closer to her and their baby. In this shirt, she could pretend his arms were around her.
She was stirring the paint when the doorbell chimed. She hurried impatiently into the living room.
The last person she expected to find at her door wasJordan. His arms were filled with two heavy brown sacks, and his eyes met hers with a beguiling smile.
“I come bearing gifts,” he said.
“What kind of gifts?” she asked, crossing her arms, trying to decide what to do. Let him in? Or shut the door?
“Dinner, with all the fixings,” he said. “All your favorites.”
“Southern-fried chicken, potatoes and giblet gravy?”
“Or a variation thereof.”
Molly threw open the screen door. “Come on in.”
Jordan chuckled. “You always could be bought with food.”
“If you plan on staying more than five minutes,” she warned, “then I suggest you start cooking.”
His grin grew broader. Molly followed him into the kitchen and quickly discovered he’d brought far more groceries than were necessary for a single meal. He made two additional trips to his car.
“I don’t mean to be nosy,” he said, placing fresh vegetables in her fridge, “but where’d you get that shirt?”
Molly’s eyes grew round with feigned innocence. “This old thing?”
“It looks a lot like one of mine.”
She fluttered her long lashes. “Are you suggesting I stole it?”
He turned and faced her, hands on his hips. “I am.”
She lowered her gaze demurely. “Did you miss it?”
“No, but I’ve got to tell you, it never looked that good on me.”
Molly laughed and, turning on her heel, left him and resumed her task in the baby’s bedroom. She could hearJordan working in the kitchen, as he went about preparing their dinner. Not that it would require any great skill. The deli had already roasted the chicken, which he was attempting to pass off as southern fried, and the mashed potatoes and gravy looked suspiciously as if they’d come from a restaurant.
Fifteen minutes later, he joined her, watching her dip the brush in the paint and spread it evenly over the wood. Molly waited for him to say something, but he didn’t for the longest time. She paused to glance up at him.
“Is it a good idea for you to be painting in your condition?” he asked.
“It’s perfectly safe. This is latex paint, not oil-based. I checked on the internetandI asked the doctor.” If he was so concerned, she had an extra brush. She waited, but he didn’t volunteer and she didn’t ask.
“How was your week?” he asked, and the question was full of meaning.
Not sure how to respond, Molly reviewed her options. She could lie and tell him everything was just great, although she’d been restless and miserable. Or she could admit she hadn’t slept through a single night because each time she closed her eyes she remembered how good she’d felt in his arms.
“I don’t know how to answer that, Jordan,” she finally said.
“Did you think about me?”
