Pocketful of Sand(20)

I think of what I know of Cole so far. Nothing, not one single thing, makes me think he’s anything other than 100% darkly delectable, manly-man straight.

“But you don’t think so now?”

She waves me off with her hand. “Nah, I don’t think I ever really did. I think it was just easier to understand than his rejection.” Her comment, unexpectedly insightful, takes me by surprise.

“Oh,” I say flatly, not knowing what else to say.

Jordan’s face takes on an uncharacteristic seriousness. “I’ve got more baggage than I can handle. I wouldn’t blame anyone else for keeping their distance. Still hurts, though.”

“Why would you say that?”

She stares hard at her fingers where they pull and tug and twist a loose string along the sofa cushion. It’s the first time I’ve seen her anything less than comfortable, confident and slightly inebriated, I think.

“My husband left me three years ago. But not before he screwed half the town and told everybody about the problems I had trying to get pregnant. He was a real son-of-a-bitch. I’ll be the first to admit that he hurt me and that I haven’t been the same since. It’s just…it’s just…so humiliating,” she confesses a bit tearfully. I’m so shocked by her story and by her softer side that I just sit here staring at her. Thankfully she hasn’t looked up at me. After a loud sniff and a shake of her head, as if ridding her mind of bad memories, Jordan finally raises her glistening brown eyes to mine and smiles. “That’s when I started drinking. Haven’t looked back since.”

I’ve never seen someone wear alcoholism more proudly, but in a way, I guess she’s earned her weakness. Besides, who am I to judge? We all heal and cope (or avoid coping, in this case) in different ways. I have enough problems without chastising this wounded woman for the choices she’s made since her husband turned on her.

“So now you can see why it’s my mission to get in that man’s pants,” she says, nodding her head toward the bathroom.

“Ummm,” I hedge.

No, I don’t see the connection at all.

She shrugs. “You’d get it if you drank more,” she declares with a grin. “But I’m glad you don’t. That little girl needs you.”

This is the moment that I decide I like Jordan Bailey. Very much. Even if she is damaged and headed down a dangerous path with her drinking. Sometimes I think broken people gravitate toward one another, like our shattered pieces connect on a level that unscarred people never know.

I glance toward the bathroom, thinking of the man inside, holding my daughter so rapt. Maybe that’s why I’m so irrefutably drawn to him. He may be the most broken one of all.





TWELVE


Cole



SHE’S GETTING UNDER my skin. I’ve thought about Eden from the second I left her with a fixed faucet and running water. I’ve thought about her being there all by herself, about the possibility that Jason might come over to check on her, especially after Jordan tells him what happened. And that eats at me. I hate to admit how much it bothers me to think of him being in her house, of him being close to her. Of any man, really.

Even though I don’t want the strings, even though I don’t want the feelings, in some way I feel like Eden is already mine. Or at least that she should be. And what’s mine, no man touches. Or at least, if he tries, he doesn’t get to talk about it for a few days while he heals.

It makes no sense, of course. I have no claim on her. No right to care even. But I do. God in heaven, how I do!

That’s why, although I shouldn’t–shouldn’t care, shouldn’t get involved, shouldn’t make things worse–I email my agent and ask him to send me a no-contract phone as soon as possible. As inadvisable as it is, I want her to have a way to reach me. And only me.





THIRTEEN


Eden



IT’S ONLY BEEN two days since I’ve seen Cole, yet it feels like forever. I’m like a junkie, jonesing for her next fix. What is wrong with me? I never get like this. Over anybody, much less a man! I’ve had too many bad experiences. I have too much baggage. I don’t even want to want someone this way.

And yet here I am. Wanting. And loving it in a perverse way. The anticipation, the sensations, the exhilaration–they’re as addictive as Cole himself is turning out to be. My worry, however, is that they’re as destructive as an addiction.