“Both of your sisters are stunning,” he told her. “But you’re the only one who makes my heart skip a beat every time I see you.”
“Since it’s dark and you’re watching the road, you probably didn’t see me roll my eyes at that.”
“You don’t believe it’s true?”
“No,” she said bluntly. Then, “Turn right here.”
“I’ll let that pass because you don’t know me very well yet,” he said, flicking on his indicator to make the turn.
“Yet?”
His lips curved. “The night is still young.”
“The third street on the right,” she said.
He made the next turn.
“And the second driveway on the left.”
He pulled into the brick driveway and parked behind the silver-colored Prius that he recognized as her vehicle. The two-story town house was stone and brick, with a covered porch and lots of windows. The flower beds that flanked the steps leading up to the front door were a riot of red and purple and yellow blooms.
“Nice place,” he said.
“We like it.”
“We?”
“Me and Tristyn.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Almost four years.” She dug her keys out of her purse. “Well, thanks for the ride.”
“If you’re really grateful, you could invite me in for a drink,” he suggested.
“Or I could pretend you’re Gold Hub Taxi and leave ten dollars on your dash.”
“There’s no need to take your anger on your sisters out on me,” he pointed out reasonably.
She sighed. “You’re right—I’m sorry. Would you like to come in for a drink?”
“I wouldn’t say no to a cup of coffee.”
“I’ve got coffee” she admitted.
“I’ve got cannoli,” he told her.
“If you intended to share that cannoli with me, you might have mentioned that in the first place.”
“I was hoping you’d be more interested in my company than my mother’s pastry.”
“Come on, Charm Boy.”
He turned off the engine. “Charm Boy?”
She laughed at his indignant tone. “Would you prefer it if I called you Pastry Purveyor?”
“As long as you call me,” he said with a grin.
Chapter Six
The front foyer was wide and inviting—the floor covered in sand-colored ceramic tiles, the walls painted a pale gold color and set off with glossy white trim. It was tasteful and elegant and probably professionally decorated, which shouldn’t have surprised him, considering that she was a Garrett.
His own family was hardly poor—except in comparison to one of Charisma’s oldest and wealthiest families. Which made him wonder why Jordyn would choose to work erratic hours behind the bar in an Irish pub instead of holding down a nine-to-five job in one of the offices of Garrett Furniture.
Jordyn stepped out of her sandals, drawing his attention to her feet—and her sexy toenails. “Nice color,” he said.
She glanced down and smiled. “Thanks.”
“Did you have a good day with your sisters?”
“Until they ditched me—yeah.” She led the way down a narrow hallway, past a cozy-looking living area with plush pillow-back sofas and dark mission-style tables, skirting past a curving staircase leading to a second level.
“What’s upstairs?”
“Three bedrooms and another bathroom.”
“You’re not going to give me a tour?”
“No, but I will give you the coffee you said you wanted.”
He decided to be grateful for that much and try not to think about the fact that her bedroom was somewhere at the top of those stairs.
“What kind of coffee do you like?”
“Regular.”
A wide arched doorway led into the kitchen. Jordyn hit a switch on the wall, flooding the room with light.
“Almond biscotti, caramel drizzle, half caff, bold extra, Italian roast, Irish cream, French vanilla or breakfast in bed.”
He smiled. “I didn’t know breakfast in bed was an option.”
“It’s a flavor of coffee.”
“Oh.” He glanced over her shoulder at the coffee carousel. “Italian roast.”
She pulled a mug out of the cupboard, set it on the drip tray, popped the flavor cup into the machine, then set it brewing. She turned around, her lips curving as she looked past him to the doorway. “There you are, sweetie.”
Sweetie?
Marco felt as if the bottom had fallen out of his stomach, then he turned and saw the object of her affection: a mass of white, black and rust-colored fur that was emitting a sound that was a cross between a wheeze and a rumble from deep in its belly.
“What is that?” he asked cautiously.
“Gryffindor.”
“But what is it?” he asked again.
“He’s my cat.”
A cat.
Marco narrowed his gaze, finally nodded. Although it didn’t look like any cat he’d ever seen, he could acknowledge that it fit the general description, except—
“Where’s its tail?”
Jordyn laughed. “He’s missing an eye and half of one ear, and you notice his tail.”
“If he had a tail and it was twitching from side to side, I’d be less convinced that he was planning to attack me.”
“He’s a Manx,” she said. “They don’t have tails.”
“Are the eye and ear also characteristic of the breed?”
She shook her head. “No. He’s been through a lot more than I want to imagine.”
“How long have you had him?”
“It would probably be more accurate to say that he has me,” she said. “And it’s been almost seven years.”
“Did he come with the name?”
“No. He was a stray—battered and bruised and about three years old when I finally managed to convince him to give up his life on the streets.”
“A stray with the heart of a lion,” he guessed.
She nodded, surprised that he immediately recognized the origin of the name. “He’s loyal and affectionate. And very protective of me,” she added, when Marco squatted down to get closer to the feline.
But he didn’t reach out to the cat—which would likely have earned him a swat or a hiss. He just kept talking to Jordyn and let Gryffindor approach him.
Except that Jordyn knew he wouldn’t. There was a very short list of people that Gryff tolerated being near, and none that he’d known for less than three years.
Marco held perfectly still while the cat moved closer, his one gold eye narrowed suspiciously as he sniffed the stranger’s trousers. Jordyn took the bakery box from him, certain the scent of the sweet pastries was the reason for the cat’s interest, and set it on the counter.
But Gryff’s attention didn’t shift away from Marco. “Do you have catnip in your pockets?”
“Excuse me?”
“Gryff hates strangers.” She frowned at the cat. “Usually.”
“Maybe he senses that I’m not going to be a stranger for long.”
“Or maybe he’s being kind because he senses that you’re delusional,” Jordyn suggested.
The cat rubbed its cheek back and forth against Marco’s thigh, leaving a few white and orange hairs on the dark fabric. He didn’t complain; he didn’t even attempt to brush them away.
She removed his cup from the drip tray. “Cream? Sugar?”
He shook his head. “Black.”
She made a face as she handed him the cup, then set another in its place and popped in a French vanilla pod. Gryff wound between Marco’s feet, emitting some kind of noise that sounded suspiciously like
purring.
“When I was a kid, my grandmother on my father’s side had a cat—a fluffy white thing that was spoiled and mean.”
“Gryff can be plenty mean,” she told him. “And there’s no doubt he’s spoiled.”
“And loved.”
She shrugged. “I’m a sucker for a sad story.”
“Should I tell you about the time my grandmother’s cat clawed my arm when I was twelve?”
“Did it leave a scar?”
“Actually, it did,” he said, unfastening the cuff of his shirt to roll it back.
His forearm was muscular, the skin tanned and dusted with dark hair. But she could see the trio of barely visible lines, all that remained of what had once been nasty five-inch gashes. As if of its own volition, her fingertip touched the top edge of one line, slowly traced the length of the scar. His muscle tightened beneath her touch, and her blood pulsed, hot and heavy, in her veins.
She pulled her hand away, swallowed. “Looks like it was a nasty scratch.”
“Bled like crazy,” he told her, unapologetically milking the incident for every ounce of sympathy he could get. “And I had to get a tetanus shot.”
“What did you do to the cat to make him scratch you?”
“Her—the cat was female.” He rolled his sleeve back down, refastened the button at the cuff. “And I didn’t do anything—she was just mean. Nonna P.—that’s what we called her, to distinguish her from Nonna V.—told me it was an important life lesson to learn that all females had claws.”
“That’s a pretty harsh lesson for a twelve-year-old.”
He shrugged. “Nonna P. wasn’t really the warm and fuzzy type.”
“You’re close to your family?”
“Too close sometimes, but that’s probably to be expected when I work with half of them and live within spitting distance of the other half.”
“I can relate,” she said. “I worked at Garrett Furniture for several years, and I still live with my sister.”
She went to the fridge to get the cream, added a generous splash to her cup, then stirred in two teaspoons of sugar.
“How can you even call that coffee?”
“It’s the only way I like it.” She gestured for him to sit at the table, then she got plates and napkins and the box of cannoli.
“Why bother to drink it at all if you have to disguise the true flavor?”
She shrugged as she sat down across from him. “I started drinking coffee in college—now it’s an addiction.”
“Probably the sugar more than the caffeine.”
“Probably.”
“So what did you study in college?”
“Mostly marketing.” She opened the box, lifted out the cream-filled pastries and set them on the plates.
“And leastly?” he prompted.
She smiled. “This and that. How about you?”
“Restaurant and hotel management.”
“A good choice, especially considering the family business.” She lifted her pastry to her mouth, bit into it. Flaky crumbs and powdered sugar rained down on her plate, but she didn’t notice. She was too busy humming with pleasure as the rich flavor exploded on her tongue. “Oh. My. God. This is...unbelievable.”
“You’ve never had cannoli before?”
“Not from Valentino’s,” she admitted.
“From where?”
“The Spaghetti House.”
“Seriously?”
“Valentino’s is downtown,” she explained. “The Spaghetti House is two blocks away.”
“The Spaghetti House uses dry noodles and canned sauce.”
“When I make pasta at home, I use dry noodles and canned sauce,” she admitted.
“Why don’t you save yourself the trouble and just get the noodles already mixed with the sauce in a can?”
“Are you a hater of boxed macaroni and cheese, too?”
He muttered something in Italian that she was pretty sure she was glad she didn’t understand.
“You should spend a few hours in the kitchen at Valentino’s someday,” he suggested. “To see and appreciate how real Italian food is made.”
“I may not be a connoisseur of fine cuisine, but I’m not a food snob, either.”
“I’m not a food snob,” he denied.
“Do you ever eat at a restaurant not called Valentino’s?” she challenged.
“Not if I want Italian food.”
“Exactly my point.”
“Do you have any furniture in this house that doesn’t have the ‘GF’ logo stamped on it?”
She frowned at the question. “Of course not.”
He lifted his brows.
“Okay—I get your point.” She licked powdered sugar off her fingers. “If I accepted your invitation to hang out in the kitchen at Valentino’s, would I see how the cannoli are made?”
“Sorry—my mother does the baking in her kitchen at home. But if you wanted to go home with me for a family dinner, she might be enticed to share her secret.”
“Thanks, but it’s probably easier just to stop at Valentino’s to pick one up if I have a craving.”
“Easier,” he agreed. “But not nearly as much fun.”
“I guess that depends on your interpretation of fun.”
“Speaking of—why didn’t you want to go to the movie with your sisters tonight?”
“I’ve seen it,” she said. “And I had laundry to do.”
“I think I understand now why they felt that you needed to be rescued.”
“From laundry?”
“From your belief that a washing machine is suitable company on a Saturday night.”
“Well, Charm Boy, you are a better conversationalist than my Maytag,” she acknowledged.
“And hopefully less agitating.”
She smiled at that. “Much less, so thank you for rescuing me.”
“I’d say we rescued each other.” He finished his coffee, then pushed away from the table. “But now I should let you get started on that laundry.”
She carried her empty plate and cup to the sink, set them beside his. She’d enjoyed his company, but she didn’t know how to say that without giving him the impression that she was open to anything more. So she said nothing, silently following him to the door.
“Thanks again for the ride home,” she said. “And the cannoli.”
“Thanks for the coffee.” He lifted a hand to touch the crystal cherries dangling from her ear, then tipped her chin up. “And the kiss.”
The—
Before her brain fully grasped the implication, his mouth was on hers.
* * *
Marco half expected Jordyn to slap him. Or at the very least, push him away. She’d given him no reason to believe that she would be receptive to a romantic overture, but he’d been unable to resist sampling the flavor and texture of her lips.
She didn’t slap him.
And she didn’t push him away.
After a brief moment of surprise and indecision, her eyelids fluttered closed and her mouth yielded to his.
He was nearly as stunned as he was aroused to realize she was kissing him back. Tentatively at first, as if she wasn’t quite sure this was a good idea. But after a few seconds—brief and yet somehow endless seconds during which he held his breath and fervently prayed that she wouldn’t suddenly decide to slap him or push him away—a soft sigh sounded deep in her throat, then she lifted her arms to his shoulders and melted into him.
He settled his hands lightly on her hips, holding her close but not too tight. He wanted her to know that this was her choice while leaving her in no doubt about what he wanted. She pressed closer to him, and the sensation of her soft curves against his body made him ache.
&
nbsp; He parted her lips with his tongue, and she opened willingly. She tasted warm and sweet—with a hint of vanilla from the coffee she’d drunk—and the exquisite flavor of her spread through his blood, through his body, like an addictive drug.
He felt something bump against his shin. Once. Twice.
The cat, he realized, in the same moment he decided he didn’t dare ignore its warning.
Not that he was afraid of Gryffindor, but he was afraid of scaring off Jordyn. Beneath her passionate response, he sensed a lingering wariness and uncertainty.
Slowly, reluctantly, he eased his lips from hers.
She drew in an unsteady breath, confusion swirling in her deep green eyes when she looked at him. “What...what just happened here?”
“I think we just confirmed that there’s some serious chemistry between us.”
She shook her head. “I’m not going to go out with you, Marco.”
There was a note of something—almost like panic—in her voice that urged him to proceed cautiously. “I don’t mind staying in,” he said lightly.
She choked on a laugh. “I’m not going to have sex with you, either.”
“Not tonight,” he agreed. “I’m not that easy.”
This time, she didn’t quite manage to hold back the laugh, though sadness lingered in her eyes.
“You have a great laugh,” he told her.
Her gaze dropped and her smile faded. “I haven’t had much to laugh about in a while.”
“Are you ever going to tell me about it?”
He braced himself for one of her flippant replies, a deliberate brush-off, and was surprised by her response.
“Maybe,” she finally said. “But not tonight.”
It was an acknowledgment that she would see him again, and that was enough for now.
* * *
Though Jordyn and Tristyn lived together, their different work schedules meant that the sisters were often going in opposite directions. As a result, Jordyn spent a lot of time alone, and she was usually content with only the cat for company. But after Marco had gone, the house seemed oddly quiet and empty.
She carted her laundry down to the basement and began sorting it into piles. Brian had planned to move the washer and dryer to the main floor, but he’d died before he had the chance to do so.
The Bachelor Takes a Bride (Those Engaging Garretts!) Page 7