Chapter 17
“Can you believe that shit? I mean honestly—”
“Uh, Jordan?”
“I don’t know what was worse—Ray’s insults or Will defending him and not me!”
“Jordan . . .”
“I swear, I hate this town so much sometimes—”
“Jordan!”
“What?”
“Step away from the apples. Now.”
For once, Jordan did as she was told. Knife aloft and dripping with apple pulp, she looked up from the enamel-topped table in George and Casey’s kitchen. “What?” she asked again.
George rose up on her toes to peer over at the other woman’s workspace from her station, where she was wrist deep in pie dough. “You’re not supposed to be making applesauce.”
“I’m slicing them. Like you said.”
“You’re pulverizing them.” George wiped her hands on a cloth and crossed the room for a closer look. “Okay, you’re only pulverizing some of them. Others look like they’ve been gnawed on by raccoons. What did I tell you about uniformity? Thin slices so they all cook evenly in the pies . . . You know what? Maybe you should do something else.”
Jordan’s heart sank. Had she just failed at another task George had given her? Was she ever going to be able to do something right around here? Judging by the look of consternation on the petite woman’s freckled features, the answer was most likely a big fat “no.” George slipped the paring knife out of Jordan’s hand and set it on the counter near the sink. When George came back to the table, she was looking a lot more sympathetic.
“I know what you’re going through. Believe me, if anybody’s going to get it, it’s me.”
“That’s why Officer Billy asked you to give me a job, didn’t he?”
George smiled. “I think it might have crossed his mind, yeah. He’s pretty perceptive. And you should trust he knew what he was doing with Ray as well.”
“Whose side are you on, anyway?”
“Not Ray’s, that’s for sure. I’m just saying Billy might have been a little short with you, but egging him on to tase Ray—much as pretty much everybody around here would support the idea—doesn’t fit the proper procedure. He was going by the book with his police work, which is what he does best.”
“Police work? Or going by the book?”
“Both. Why?” George’s smile turned sly as she spirited the pulp-covered cutting board and apples away. “Are you saying he’s ‘by the book’ in other ways? That’d be boring.”
Jordan glanced away before George could catch what was likely a hungry look on her face. Because she was remembering the way Will had kissed her on Halloween and good grief, was it hot in here all of a sudden? Must be the ovens preheating.
George caught on anyway. “Oh. Apparently not. At least, not where it counts.”
“I don’t know about any of that.”
“Really? I thought you two were . . . you know.”
“Nope, not ‘you know.’ Can we talk about something else, please?”
George looked like she wanted to press the issue, but she only said, “Fine. Dinner rolls. You can do those, can’t you?”
Several aerospace engineers were arriving from downstate late in the afternoon for a think-tank sort of retreat. George and Casey had explained to Jordan how Bowen Farms Inn and Conference Center couldn’t live on the revenue from the pumpkin farm, since it only operated for about eight weekends out of the year. They had been working on getting the “inn and conference center” part of the place up and running with varying degrees of success, so the rocket nerds were more than welcome. Jordan had no doubt their business was going to be a roaring success sooner rather than later. But right now, this conference was the only thing on the roster for the entire month of December, so the main goal was to impress the engineers and get some good word of mouth going.
“Put dough on a baking sheet? Yeah, I think I can manage it.”
“No, not just . . . plop,” George said, whipping the cloth off a large mixing bowl to reveal a mound of risen dough. “Make them small—but not too small—and . . . I don’t know. Nice.”
“‘Nice’?”
“Attractive.” George rolled her amber eyes. “Just do it, all right?”
“Man, you get grumpy when you go outside your comfort zone.”
The other woman laughed a little as she returned to her desserts. “Yes, I’m confident with the pies and not much else, but that’s got to change, hasn’t it?”
“I dunno, it could be your ‘thing.’ ‘Bowen Farms: We serve nothing but pie. Deal with it.’”
“That’d keep the weight-loss groups away.”
“Or pull them in. What about weddings?”
“Sure, we’d do a wedding if somebody asked us to. Under the trellis in the rose garden in nice weather; otherwise, in the formal drawing room.”
“So you’ve thought about it.”
“Well, yeah. Nothing’s off the table, you know?”
Jordan stared at the large whitish dome in the bowl. How did you make a dinner roll attractive?
“Don’t mess with the dough too much, or it’ll get tough,” George advised. “Just shape it and leave it. How about a knot, or a braid?”
“I only know knots or braids in hair.”
“Yeah, well, don’t mix the two—hair and food—okay? I’ve got enough problems.”
The women worked in silence for a while, Jordan frowning in concentration as she tried to make nice-looking dinner rolls, and George working her magic on several apple pies. Jordan started to relax a little; maybe this was something she could do. Maybe she had a knack for cooking she’d never known about (apple hash notwithstanding). She usually lived on takeout and frozen stuff—a habit formed in her childhood, as her parents never cooked much either. When they had a housekeeper/cook, they ate well, but that ended, and they were left to their own devices in the kitchen. That was when delivered pizzas and microwaved Hot Pockets became her diet staples.
Around lunchtime the back door slammed, and the sound of clomping boots preceded Casey’s appearance in the doorway.
Immediately George snapped, “I warned you about wearing work boots in the house. Now you get to mop the hallway.”
Casey grinned, his green eyes twinkling, but he backed out of the room then reappeared, this time without the boots. He headed straight for George, hugged her from behind, and nuzzled her neck.
“Should I leave you two alone for a while?” Jordan offered, trying not to be jealous of the bond between them. She didn’t want that—what was she envying? But damn, they looked so happy together. Like they just . . . fit.
George laughed as a lock of Casey’s dark hair tickled her ear, and she elbowed him in the ribs. “How many times have I told you not to bug me when I’m making pies?”
“And if I obeyed, I’d never be allowed near you. You’re always making pies. How’s it going, Jordan?”
Jordan shrugged and focused on shaping more dinner rolls. “George hasn’t killed me yet, so okay, I guess.”
“That’s a good sign. Anything available for lunch?” Casey asked his girlfriend.
“You know where the food is.”
“Ah, you spoil me.” With one last kiss just under her ear, he started rooting around in the fridge.
Jordan glanced over. George’s face was pink, and she was smiling broader than Jordan had ever seen. Behind her, Casey was bending over, giving a fine view of his assets, and Jordan couldn’t really blame the woman for being all hot and bothered. Plus he was nice—Casey had been very welcoming, and far more understanding than George whenever Jordan screwed up around the place.
Once he had a sandwich made and a bag of chips in his hand, Casey decamped to another part of the house to eat—with a slap on George’s rear on his way out—since there was no room for him in the kitchen.
“Any more at home like him?” Jordan couldn’t help asking when he was out of earshot.
“Afraid he’s an original and an only.”
“It figures.”
“Well, maybe you should reconsider you and Billy not being ‘you know’ . . . you know?”
Although she’d gotten more comfortable talking to George about a lot of things, there was no way Jordan was going to share her and Will’s sketchy track record in the romance department. Honestly, it had been humiliating, being rejected like that at Thanksgiving, and it still stung. Dammit, if she wanted a hookup, he should just be a Neanderthal and go along with it! But no. He had to be honorable or whatever.
“Um . . . Jordan?”
Oh no. George had come up behind her. And there was that tone. She’d done something wrong again. Was she taking out her irritation with Will on the dough? “What?”
“Why are you making penises?”
“Wh—penises?”
George examined the baking sheet. “Yep. I’m looking at a whole lineup of penises here.”
“They’re not!”
“Honey. They’re penises.”
“How many times are you going to say that word?”
“Okay, dicks. Why are you making dicks? You do realize we’re not hosting a bachelorette party, right?”
“Yeah. These are rockets, for the rocket scientists. Get it?”
“Explain the balls.”
“Balls?” Jordan surveyed her work. “Those aren’t balls. That’s the smoke or vapor—whatever comes out of the engines when they launch. I thought the rocket scientists would like the detail.”
“Aerospace engineers,” George corrected her. “And look again, please. Those are a bunch of . . . what’s the plural of scrotum? Scroti? Whatever, those are definitely not billows. Of anything.”
Jordan looked again. And damned if she didn’t see a whole baking sheet full of cocks and balls. “Shit.”
“Yep. Now get out of my kitchen.” For a moment Jordan was certain she had just been fired, but George added, “Have some lunch. And please find Casey. Tell him I’ve got a job I need him to do. Upstairs.”
Relieved, Jordan selected an apple from a bowl and grinned. She could only imagine what that job entailed. “Hey, George?”
“Hm?” the other woman asked absently, rolling out more pie dough.
“You and Casey.”
“What about us?”
“You’ve been engaged for a long time, right?”
George nodded. “Yeah, I suppose. Why?”
“Well, just . . . what are you waiting for?”
The other woman looked up sharply. “What?”
“What’s stopping you? From getting married?”
“Nothing! We’re just taking our time. Concentrating on the business first.”
“Yeah, but I’ve heard it’s been, like, years.”
“A couple, maybe.”
George’s look was darkening, and Jordan knew, in the back of her mind, that she should shut up now. Actually, she should have shut up several minutes ago. But she didn’t.
“So . . . if you know he’s the guy you want, why are you dragging your feet and making excuses?”
“I am not dragging my feet or making excuses! What the . . . Okay, you need to leave now. Eat your lunch and then make sure all the en suite bathrooms have towels and toilet paper. And then you can go.”
Oops. She’d stepped in it. Jordan had thought George would just laugh and say she and Casey had been making plans, and it was going to happen when it was going to happen, probably soon. Or she’d say they didn’t need a piece of paper to feel married, blah blah blah. Instead, Jordan had discovered the really scary side of Georgiana Down—her temper.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. “So, what, am I fired?”
George hesitated just long enough to make Jordan’s stomach flutter with panic. But then she said with a sigh, “No, you’re not fired. When I said you could go, I meant you need to deliver the last batch of pies to Nora’s once they’re a little cooler. In about an hour.”
Dodged a bullet, that’s what she’d just done. God, sometimes Jordan completely understood why everyone acted like she was a pinless grenade. Here she was, creeping up on thirty years old, and completely incapable of filtering. No wonder people in Marsden still treated her like she was thirteen; in a way, she was—still seeking out negative attention, because at least it was attention of some sort. What a juvenile way to approach life. This was officially beyond a bad habit now. And what was worse, it didn’t need to be this way. She could fix it. She even had help, if she wanted it. Will believed in her more than she believed in herself, and for some reason she hadn’t managed to chase him off yet, brave boy.
She didn’t even resent the comment he’d made the night he’d shown up at her house, drunk and vulnerable and obviously sort of horny. Tell me you didn’t hook up with Cam. He hadn’t been judging her behavior. She knew that now. He’d just been desperate for a confirmation that the woman he was interested in hadn’t been with one of his brothers first. It made perfect sense. And she’d bitten his head off, thinking he was judging her for her wanton ways.
Now she’d pushed away one of the only women in town who had shown her any kindness, who had the potential to put up with her shit and get past it to be her friend.
Jordan hefted four of the pie boxes in her arms and eased her way out the back door. It was snowing again, a stiff wind whipping the flakes sideways through the air. She tucked her chin into her scarf and started down the back steps, then stopped at the sight of Casey’s pickup blocking her Chevy. She heaved a sigh. Now what? Well, she could go back into the house and try to find either George or Casey to ask one of them to move his truck, but she really didn’t want to do that because of her certainty they were on the third floor, in their apartment in the spacious renovated attic. Doing what any couple in love would be doing with a few stolen moments.
Jordan went back inside, put the pies on the table, and plopped onto one of the kitchen chairs. Should she wait for them to reappear? If they thought she was headed to Nora’s already, they were likely to plan on at least an hour of, uh, private time. If she sat there until they wandered downstairs (wearing clothes, she prayed silently), it’d be awfully late, and George would be mad at her all over again for not getting the pies to Nora in time for the early bird special. Dang, how those senior citizens loved their pie. She did have one other option: George’s decrepit Dodge Neon, which she fondly referred to as the Pink Lady, was parked in the back drive as well. And, unlike Casey, George kept the keys on a rack just inside the kitchen doorway. Who knew where his keys were? Probably in the front pocket of his jeans, which were most likely on the floor of the apartment . . .
Time to stop thinking about what was going on two floors up and make an executive decision. She scribbled a note explaining the situation, picked up George’s keys and the first stack of pie boxes, and headed out to load up the Neon.