Chapter Seven

Lance

Perry.

Even just thinking of his name causes a bitter taste to well up inside my mouth.

As I look out the door of the balcony at the dull gray Nissan Altima, most likely one of the earlier models, parked across the street, my fingers roll into a fist inside my pocket. A clear stain forms on the glass from the steam of my flaring nostrils.

Times like this, I wish I had a cigarette.

So Jordan has a kid now, does she? And with that lanky, older man with the receding hairline, the Mickey Mouse tie and the faded sports jacket, no less.

That's the part that bothers me.

I don't really mind if Jordan's a mother now, even though twenty-six may be a bit too young for that. She still has a great figure, after all. Her breasts look even bigger than before. What I do mind is the father.

The thought of another man, that man, having had her, is enough to make me want to shatter this glass panel in front of me into a million pieces.

No one takes what is mine.

"Mr. Isaac?" Mrs. Cooper's voice saves the glass.

"Abram," I correct her as I turn to her. "But you can call me Lance."

"Here's your towel." She hands me a folded pile of green cotton. "I forgot to hang it in the bathroom earlier."

I take it and drape it over my arm. "Thank you, Mrs. Cooper."

She turns away.

"And Mrs. Cooper?"

She pauses.

"What can you tell me about Perry, the man who lives across the street?"

"Perry?" The housekeeper turns to me with eyebrows creased to mirror the top curve of the lens of her glasses. "The only Perry I know is the one who works at Trader Joe's. That's where I do my shopping now, ever since Mrs. Wiseman passed away and her son took over her store. He can't even tell Brussels sprouts from lettuce, that one."

I touch my chin. "And about this Perry..."

"He's a good man," Mrs. Cooper says.

My eyes narrow. "Really?"

"I know a good, hardworking man when I see one," she says proudly.

And I have a feeling she doesn't think of me as one.

"Plus he always helps me with the cans of mushrooms that I can't get from the top shelf," she adds. "Why do you ask?"

"Just curious," I answer.

She snorts.

"And what about Jordan - ?"

"You stay away from that nice young lady," Mrs. Cooper warns with a raised finger. "She's got enough troubles of her own."

With that, she heads back down the stairs.

I let out a sigh.

It seems she's made her mind up about me.

Well, I've made my mind up, too.

I glance back across the street. The gray car still sits on the road, not in the driveway, which confirms what Mrs. Cooper said about Perry not living in that house. Also, Jordan was shoveling, which is usually a man's job, and not too happily, which suggests there is no man living with her.

Besides, Jordan wasn't wearing a ring, and when she introduced Perry, she said 'father of my son', not 'husband'.

A world of difference.

That means I have a chance of getting Jordan back.

In fact, I almost had her. If her son hadn't started shouting, there's no doubt I would have kissed her and she would have kissed me back.

Fiercely and with abandon, just like she did all those years ago.

Just at the thought, heat bubbles up in my veins. I draw a deep breath.

Patience.

It's only a matter of time before she's mine again.

~

When I see the light in Jordan's kitchen still on past eleven, I see it as an opportunity and so I walk over.

With any luck, her son will already be asleep upstairs. And the fact that there's no car on the street means Perry's already left.

A perfect opportunity.

Jordan, however, doesn't seem pleased to see me.

When she first opens the door, her brown eyes grow wide beneath arched eyebrows. Then those eyebrows fall and bunch up as the corners of her lips turn down.

"What do you want?" she asks impatiently.

"You don't happen to have some coffee, do you?" I try to peer inside. "Because drinking a cup always helps me to sleep better at night, and Mrs. Cooper won't make me one."

At first, Jordan blinks. Then she chuckles.

Now my eyebrows crease. "What?"

She shakes her head. "Poor you. Can't even charm an old widow."

I frown.

She crosses her arms over her chest. I wonder if she's wearing a bra beneath that thick, knitted sweater.

"And I suppose you don't know how to make your own cup? What? Do you have a secretary that makes it for you? And a butler?"

"As a matter of fact, yes."

Jordan gives another chuckle. "You should have brought them, then. How will you be able to sleep now?"

"I thought you might have some coffee," I tell her.

Her eyebrows furrow again. "And what makes you think that?"

I shrug. "Because you've got a kid you need to stay awake all day to take care of."

She nods. "Good. But if you'd actually been around a kid for more than a few hours, you'd know it's impossible to actually enjoy a cup of coffee with them around."

"Alcohol works, too. I'm sure you can still handle yours perfectly?"

Jordan frowns. "Even if I had either, why would I give you any?"

"Because we're neighbors," I supply.

"No, we're not." Her gaze goes past me at the house across the street. "You're just visiting for a while."

"So why not be nice to me until I leave?" I ask her.

"Nice?" Her eyebrows arch.

I shrug. "Or naughty, whichever you prefer."

She purses her lips and shakes her head. Then she begins to close the door.

I keep it open with an arm and a foot. "Why are you being so difficult?"

Jordan narrows her eyes. "Oh, you mean I should just lie on my back and beg you to fuck me?"

"You did it once before."

"I..."

She stops. The fire spreading throughout her cheeks tells me she's reliving that particular occasion.

I open the door a bit wider and touch her chin. "Why fight it, Jordan? Why not let me in?"

Just then, a beeping sound comes from the kitchen.

She runs off. I frown at another foiled attempt but take the chance to let myself inside the house and have a quick look around.

The stained walls and the non-polarized outlets tell me the house is old, maybe just as old as the Marshes' house. The furniture looks new, though, and modern - the leather couch black like the one in my office, the corner bookcase zigzagging against the wall, and the table on which the 44-inch TV sits plain white and hollow with no edges. There's no coffee table, though. No floor lamps, just ones screwed to the wall. On the large rug between the TV and the couch, toys of various shapes, sizes and colors are scattered - Lego bricks, toy cars, a fireman helmet, a toy drum, plastic dinosaurs and a stuffed purple giraffe to name a few.

It's obvious who owns this living room.

As I pass by the stairs, I see a small jacket and a scarf hanging around the newel. I see scribbles in crayon on the wall along the staircase, too, and I'm guessing they're fairly new.

In the kitchen, Jordan is busy transferring cookies from baking pans to a cooling rack. The smell of molten chocolate and vanilla hangs in the air. A bowl of leftover cookie dough sits on the counter.

"You bake?" I ask her.

Jordan lets out a loud sigh and I can almost see her rolling her eyes even though her back is turned to me. "If I give you a cup of coffee, will you leave me alone?"

"Sure."

She turns the coffee machine on.

"And maybe a cookie," I add.

She hands me a cookie from the rack.

I take a bite and a moment to assess the morsel.

Jordan leans back on the counter as she watches me. Her fingers tap the edge of the marble.

"Well?"

"It's good," I pronounce my verdict before taking another bite. "Not too sweet. I like the texture, too. Crunchy but not hard. Chewy, not crumbly."

"Wow." She nods. "I didn't know you were a cookie critic."

I shake the crumbs off my palms. "I didn't know you baked."

"Like I said, you don't know anything about me."

"I know you have a son," I point out.

"You only found that out today."

I take a step closer to her. "I know I was your first."

She touches her chin as her gaze darts to the ceiling.

"I've read that most people consider their first time their worst." Her eyes turn back to mine. "Sure you insist on that distinction?"

I suppress a frown as I take another step forward.

"I know that man isn't enough to satisfy you," I tell her.

"You mean Perry?"

I take another step.

"And what makes you think that?"

"If he was, you'd be with him, but you're not," I point out. "You have a son, but you don't live together. That's the only explanation, isn't it?"

Jordan snorts. "And you must think you're the only man who can satisfy me."

"I know I am."

She turns still as her breath catches. The lump in her throat quivers. Her cheeks start to redden again.

I grin as I close the gap between us further with another step.

She raises a hand. "Don't come any closer."

"Or?"

She glances behind her and dips her fingers into the leftover dough.

"You'll have a mess to clean up. And you don't strike me as the kind of man who likes getting dirty."

"Don't I?" I grab Jordan's hand and lick the dough from one of her fingers. "It depends on the mess."

I slip the whole finger between my lips. Hers part to let out a soft gasp as I give a gentle suck.

I move on to cleaning the next finger as I hold her gaze. Her eyes tremble just like her hand.

I continue until her entire hand is clean. Then I trace one of the lines on her palm with the tip of my tongue. A soft whimper escapes her.

I let her hand go and dip my finger into the dough. I run the tip across her quivering lower lip. Her eyelids close.

I've won.

With a victorious grin, I bring my lips to hers, but as soon as they meet, I feel her knees buckle. She grabs the edge of the counter and I try to wrap an arm around her to keep her from sliding down, but my arm hits the bowl of dough instead. It slides across the marble.

"Shit!"

I manage to keep the glass bowl from falling off the edge, but not from bumping into the cooling rack. Some of the cookies fall. As I pick them up, Jordan grabs the rack to steady it, but her elbow hits the already precariously positioned bowl and sends it over the edge. Dough and glass splatter on the floor.

I get on my feet quickly, jumping out of range, but when I place my hand down on the counter, my fingers send a small bottle toppling and before I can put it upright again, the smell of cinnamon drifts into the air.

I cover my nose as I grimace.

"Sorry," I tell her. "I can't stand the smell of cinnamon."

Jordan gapes. "That's what you're sorry for?"

"And for this mess," I add remorsefully. "I'll help clean - "

"No," she cuts me off. "I think you've done enough."

She points to the door.

"Just leave."

"But - "

"Leave!"

I walk out of the kitchen. I can't stand the smell there anymore anyway.

"Mommy?" A voice calls from upstairs. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, sweetie!" Jordan answers from the kitchen. "Go back to bed. I'll be right with you."

I glance back at her and find her sweeping the floor. I think of turning back to help after all, but she scowls.

I go out the door, out into the cold, where I force an icy breath into my lungs.

Another spark put out before it could be kindled into a flame. Another opportunity wasted.

Still, I think as I glance back at the door, that attempt was fun while it lasted. And I did get a little farther than before.

A grin forms on my lips.

Who knew I could crack her defenses with cookie dough?

Next time, I'll try something even sweeter.