Page 4 of Stella's Christmas Rescue
“Thank you for checking it out, Jordan. As a thank you for not making me hunt Sugar alone in the dark and for pissing off my stalker, how about I make you and Max supper tomorrow night?” I ask. I don’t often get to cook for anyone else, at least, not for the last three years.
He teases me and asks, “Are you any good?”
Why do I have the feeling he doesn’t mean my cooking? I smile, “I’m alright. I make a mean salad.”
He chuckles, “Never been much of a salad guy.”
I look over his thick, muscular body and say, “I don’t imagine you are.”
“I’ll eat whatever you put in front of me.”
My neck flushes warm at the thought and I pray the blush doesn’t make it to my cheeks. “I’ll see you at seven.”
“Looking forward to it.” He smiles, then gets in his truck. Jordan waits for me to get inside, before he drives away.
I lock the doors, including Sugar’s dog door, and turn on the alarm. I’ve gotten pretty fast at it in the last two weeks since I’ve lived at this farmhouse. The whole process takes less than a minute, which my handler says is pretty good. I trust his opinion on the matter. He’s been a handler with Witness Protection for over ten years, and his record is impeccable.
I crawl into bed, turn on my lavender aroma therapy machine, and relax. I’ll actually get to have supper with another person. Sugar nudges my leg, as if she knows my thoughts. “You’re a wonderful dinner companion, Sugar, but sometimes, I’d like a conversation. Besides, you ran off tonight for your own companion. Don’t judge me for the same.” She sighs and falls asleep, reminding me to do the same.
***
The next night, the finishing touches on dinner are almost ready, when a knock disturbs us both. Sugar trots to the door, I tug my apron off, and open it. Dear heavens, he looks yummy. I’ve never been into older men, but he ticks every box on my list. Tall, dark, athletic. Haunted eyes that hint at an interesting life, before he met me. “Good evening, Jordan.”
Max bursts past him and he and Sugar run around the living room. Jordan holds out a bundle of herbs and my eyebrows practically knit together when they scrunch in confusion. “They didn’t have flowers at Bailey’s, and I was always told to bring something when someone cooks for you.”
I chuckle, “Thank you, they’re lovely. I’ll put them in some water. Come in.”
He grins at my silliness, then looks around, “I know I was here just last night, but it’s still strange to see what a woman has done to Hanson’s.”
“How do you mean?” I put some water in a canning jar, then add the herbs.
“The heavy curtains are a nice touch. Smells fantastic in here. Not like ointment.”
“Ah. Well, that’s a custom blend of oils you’re smelling in the diffuser.”
“They don’t sell that at Bailey’s do they?”
I smile sadly, “No. I make it. I was a custom perfume designer, back in Nashville. I closed up shop a while back.”
“Damn shame. What’s in it?”
“Trade secret. But if you’re nice, you might find yourself with a bottle of the good stuff one day.”
He smiles, “Guess I’ll have to behave. There goes my plans.”
“How do you take your ribeye?”
“Ribeye? Didn’t think I did enough to deserve that.”
“You helped put my mind at ease, Jordan. My peace of mind is priceless to me. Rare, medium, please don’t tell me you’re a well—done guy.”
He laughs, “Medium rare, if you don’t mind.”
“On it.” I pop the fries into the deep fryer for their second cooking and heat the pan for the steaks. “You’re a bourbon guy, right?”
“Good guess. Truth is, I’m not picky, but I do appreciate a nice bottle now and then. What makes you ask?”
“Open the wine fridge in the pantry.”
