Page 88 of The Price of Forever

“For who hurt you. I need to know names.”

I swallowed hard, touched by the gesture. “You don’t have to—”

“Jordan, yes I do.” He trailed this thumb along my jaw, until it pressed into my chin. “Because you’re mine, whether you realize it or not.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

SEVEN

One and done was a laughable concept now. It had been my game plan—sample the forbidden fruit, get it out of my system, and move on with my life. But no. There was no “done” anymore. After finding her broken and vulnerable in the bathroom, hugging her knees to her chest, there was only “mine.”

Mine to hold. Mine to protect.

Jordan got her shift covered at the coffee shop that morning, which allowed her to sleep off the rest of her hangover. I carried her to her bed, left her with some water and ibuprofen, and got to work distracting myself via exercise. I changed into gray sweatpants and opted for weights, crunches, and push-ups, then I opened up my laptop to find the quickest interior painting company I could hire. I needed to repaint my bedroom walls ASAP. I sent inquiries to a couple of places, then switched to business management mode.

Despite Jordan’s best attempts to either haze or scare Chico off, he wanted to continue working for Silva Security. His first assignments were with the Fairchild brothers on various outings when additional security was needed, like trips back to Kentucky for Willow’s court hearings. He was doing well, which meant I needed to start looking for the second new hire.

I still wasn’t sure which protection officer would become Jordan’s full-time companion. I’d now crossed the line I swore not to cross, which would make handing over her protection even harder—and more necessary. Not to mention I still had to inform Jordan of my plans, which scared the shit out of me.

But it was a no-brainer. I had to do this, if I wanted to keep my heart and my future intact.

Around three p.m., I finished all I had to do. Jordan still hadn’t come out so I knocked gently on her door. I heard a faint mumble from inside, so I pushed the door open slightly.

“Hey. Do you need anything?” I asked, squinting into the darkened room.

“I’m good.”

“Not hungry?”

“No,” she said faintly, like she was still half asleep. I shut the door quietly and confronted my apartment. It was already clean; I had Jordan’s lunch waiting for her, whenever she woke up. My work and workout were done for the day. What remained?

Spoon carving. I went back to my bedroom, tossing on a white T-shirt before rummaging through the depths of the closet to find my supplies. It was the only alternative when I was sexually frustrated and anxiously awaiting Jordan.

Prior to my move from Kentucky to New York, I’d batch cut a bunch of utensil outlines from some spare wood I came across, mostly aspen and balsa wood. I grabbed one of the precut spoons from my big bag of woodworking materials, along with a safety glove, thumb guard and some carving tools, and retreated to the living room.

I loved the repetition and focus of spoon carving. It helped soothe my mind—or in this case, my raging sexual desire. At this point, half my kitchen collection were tools I’d carved myself. This would be a more basic spoon, just for my own personal enjoyment.

Time flew by as I shaped and carved the spoon to my liking, wood shavings tumbling to the plastic covering I used on the floor. I smoothed the curves; added extra roundness at the base. I wasn’t even sure how much time had gone by when Jordan’s voice cut through my concentration.

“Playing with your wood, huh?”

She came around the sectional, a smirk on her face. My big T-shirt hung loosely from her slight frame, a gut punch I hadn’t planned on. I’d slipped it on her last night simply so she wouldn’t have to sleep in her regular clothes. But seeing her wearing my old gym shirt, wandering around my apartment, took my fucking breath away.

She climbed onto the couch next to me, snuggling in close as she assessed my handiwork. Ranger joined us a moment later, his purring immediate as he snuggled up next to my other side.

“You’ve discovered my secret,” I told her.

She twisted to look back at the kitchen, then at the spoon in my hands. “Wait a minute. Did you make all those wooden spoons in the kitchen?”

I nodded.

“I’ve been in love with them since I moved in.” Awe shone in her voice. “Can I see this one?”

I handed it off, looking at the imperfections while she turned it over in her hands. It was about 97% ready, though I never felt any project was truly done.

“This is so cool,” she said. “And you’re good at it. I bet this is really calming.”

“It is. Though probably not as calming as climbing a pole.”

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