Camilla’s mom turned around at that exact second and pointed the same accusing finger at them. “And don’t think you guys are off the hook for not stopping him or calling me. You two are both on kitchen duty tonight, so you better stop by the market on your way over.”
“Looks like I’m invited for dinner again.” Jordan lifted one side of his mouth. Camilla pinched the bridge of her nose and didn’t see his head dip close to hers until his lips brushed her ear. “And before you say it, it doesn’t count as one of my dates if your mom invites me.”
Chapter Seven
Early the following Wednesday morning, Jordan reminded himself that he was only making this uncomfortable sacrifice to impress Camilla. Then he pulled open one of etched glass double doors and cautiously entered the shop.
Inside, tranquil music played over the discreetly located speakers in the ceiling and displays of fancy beauty products and expensive candles lined the shelves along the walls. The floor-to-ceiling water feature behind the empty receptionist desk was made of teak wood and stacked river rocks, and he had to peek around it to see Mrs. Sanchez waving him over to her station.
As he approached, she whipped the black cape off the back of her padded leather chair with a dramatic flourish, smiled warmly and said, “You’re the calm before the storm.”
Mrs. Sanchez must have seen him pause in hesitation, because she clarified, “That means you’re my first appointment of the day. In about thirty minutes, it’ll be packed in here.”
“Oh.” He resisted the urge to tug at his collar. Jordan couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a place like this. Probably not since he was a kid and his first stepmother, Tania, took him and his half brothers to a high-priced salon in Billings.
Wow. That wasn’t a memory he’d thought about in quite some time. He hadn’t even seen the twins, who were a little younger than Daphne, since Cornelius’s divorce from their mother. Dirk and Dustin were the only Taylor offspring in several generations to not grow up on the ranch, yet Jordan still kept in contact with them to ensure they had everything they needed. Or at least Mac did and then reported back to him.
“Where do you normally go to get your cuts?” Mrs. Sanchez interrupted his thoughts as she lifted and inspected several chunks of his hair through her sparkle-studded reading glasses. She’d asked him several times to call her Denise, but Jordan still thought of her as Mrs. Sanchez.
“Uh, actually, there’s a guy who comes to my office every few weeks.” He didn’t say that Jenkins was his father’s longtime barber who often squeezed Jordan in after Cornelius’s routine cuts. “It’s just easier for my schedule that way.”
“Hmm” was all Mrs. Sanchez offered in response. However, her downturned lips said plenty. She was not a fan of either his barber or his classic, but rumpled hairstyle.
The stainless steel table stationed beside her looked like a surgical tray, the tools of her trade strategically laid out. She picked up an angled comb and powered on her electric clippers.
She’d only finished the left side above his ear when the shop door opened again and a heavy-set older woman bustled around the reception desk with a folded newspaper under one arm and a Pomeranian under the other. “Denise, my sister-in-law over in Rust Creek Falls just sent me a copy of last week’s Gazette, and it has the most unbelievable story.”
Mrs. Sanchez pointed the comb at the newcomer. “Mrs. Waters, if the health inspector shows up and sees Peanut Pie in my salon, you’re paying the fine.”
Jordan immediately recognized the name. Mrs. Waters was the next-door neighbor who’d brought over the bad casserole when Mr. Sanchez had his bunion surgery. Seizing on an opportunity to gather some additional insight about Camilla, Jordan tried to smile at the approaching woman whose short, tightly curled hair was so silver it was nearly blue. But Mrs. Sanchez forced his head forward so she could keep working.
“You said the same thing on Sunday, Denise.” Mrs. Waters made a tsking sound. “But poor Peanut Pie’s asthma is still acting up with all that chemical smell lingering in my house and it’s too cold for me to leave the windows open while I’m gone.”
“If you would lay off the home perms, Mrs. Waters, then Peanut Pie—and the rest of us—would all breathe a lot easier.”
“Anyway, do you want to hear my story or not?” The plump woman in a snug orange velour track suit plopped herself and Peanut Pie into the empty salon chair next to them and unfolded the newspaper.
Unfortunately, Jordan couldn’t see much of what Mrs. Waters was showing them. If he so much as tilted his head, he’d risk Mrs. Sanchez nipping him with the clippers. Due to all the buzzing around his ears, he also missed several parts of the story. From what he could pick up, though, there was some secret baby put up for adoption seventy-five years ago over in Rust Creek Falls. Apparently, everyone across the entire state of Montana was following the story of this family’s search because it had something to do with a famous psychic named Winona. There was a lead that the baby might’ve been named Beatrix but now went by the name Daisy. Or maybe it was Stacy? Now Mrs. Waters was singing a song about daisies. Yep. The name was definitely Daisy.
When Mrs. Sanchez traded out the electric clippers for a very sharp pair of scissors, Jordan quickly raised his head to the large mirror on the wall, only to find Mrs. Waters’s eager eyes making direct contact with his. “Have you heard anything?”
Jordan slowly glanced around the shop to see who the woman was talking to. He could hear somebody on the other side of the receptionist desk asking about something called a seaweed hydration pedicure and another hairdresser was now at the shampoo bowl with a customer and clearly out of earshot. He lifted a brow and asked, “Heard anything about what?”
“About the secret baby. Rumor is that the Abernathys are involved and I figured you would know more since you live by them, Mr. Taylor.”
Jordan jerked his head up and heard Mrs. Sanchez mutter a curse. “Keep still, mijo, or it’s going to be lopsided.”
He recognized the Spanish term of endearment, which made him hope that Camilla’s mom was so focused on what she was doing, she hadn’t heard Mrs. Waters’s use of his last name. Forcing his shoulders to relax, he smiled wide at the Sanchezes’ neighbor. “Please, call me Jordan. Mister sounds like you’re talking to my father.”
Mrs. Waters snorted. “As if anyone would mistake you for that flashy blowhard Cornelius Taylor.”
Jordan’s lungs paused midbreath right as the scissors poised above his scalp paused midclip. So much for hoping. Using the reflection of the mirror, he searched the face of Mrs. Sanchez, who was standing behind him. Instead of shooting daggers at him, she kept her eyes directed at the wet brown hair measured between her fingers and murmured, “Not that anyone could tell the difference judging by your duplicate hairstyles.”
Thankfully, a third stylist had arrived and called the older woman over to the shampoo bowl right then and Mrs. Sanchez returned to her diligent cutting.
He should have been relieved she wasn’t kicking Jordan out of the shop halfway through his haircut. After all, given Mrs. Waters’s reference to his father being a flashy blowhard, it was perfectly clear how the citizens of Bronco Valley felt about his family. Now he understood why Camilla had warned him about telling the Sanchezes who he was.
Still.
Jordan couldn’t just sit here like a coward, as though he had something to hide. When he finally caught Mrs. Sanchez’s eyes in the mirror he said, “So, now you know.”
She set the scissors down and ran the comb through his hair a few more times, as though she needed a moment to think of her response. Jordan’s heart pounded as his mind rushed through several defenses and explanations. Yet he shouldn’t have to apologize for who he was or where he was raised any more than Camilla should. He straightened his shoulders under the black stylist’s cape.
Finally, she sighed and said, “I knew all along, mijo. Nobody i
n this town is better informed on all the local gossip—including your unfortunate nicknames—than I am. Not only did I help Camilla get ready for her big night at that fundraiser gala at your place, I spent the following week with most of my clients showing me the pictures of her online.”
“So does everyone else know?” he asked hopefully. It would make everything so much easier if he and Camilla could just date openly.
“Let’s hope not,” she replied a bit too quickly, and Jordan’s optimism immediately deflated. “I saw you in the background of one of those pictures, you know. At the fundraiser. You were far enough away from her that nobody had put two and two together yet. But I saw the way you were looking at my daughter and I knew what was coming well before you showed up at our house.”
Mrs. Sanchez spread some pomade on her hands before applying it to his hair, which he had to admit looked about ten times better than when his father’s barber did it. Jordan wouldn’t be satisfied with just a trendy hairstyle, though. He wanted Camilla’s mom’s blessing.
Or at least her acceptance.
“So you’re okay with your daughter dating the so-called Charmed Prince of Bronco Heights?” Jordan inwardly cringed even as he continued to force out the hated words. “The Rancher Most Wanted?”
“Just don’t bring it up to anyone else.” Mrs. Sanchez whipped the cape off him with finality. “They might not understand what Camilla sees in you.”
Jordan left the salon with, he had to admit, the best-looking haircut he’d ever had, as well as a ball of confusion cranking through his gut. Still, he told himself to focus on the positive. Namely, that Camilla did in fact see something in him and her mother clearly understood what that was. Mrs. Sanchez had even called him mijo a second time. He should at least be comforted by that, right?
Instead, all he could think about was the looming fact that the rest of her family might never accept him.
* * *
Jordan took Denise Sanchez’s advice to heart and didn’t say a word to the rest of the family about being a Taylor, which was trickier to do since he was more comfortable spending time with the Sanchezes than he was with his own family.
There were a few times when he’d wanted to proudly claim his heritage. But then there were the times when he just sat back and listened. Especially when Dante made a comment about his students in the Bronco Unified School District not having enough funding from the state because many of the wealthier citizens from the Heights were sending their children to posh private schools.
As long as the rest of the Sanchez family didn’t associate him with some of his neighbors, Jordan grew more confident that their open invitation to Sunday night dinners would last indefinitely. Not only was it entertaining to watch them playfully argue and push each other’s buttons, but being around them was a bonus to spending time with Camilla.
And considering the fact that Camilla was as active in her community as she was at work and school, the free time she did have to spend with Jordan was very limited. In fact, he soon learned that the best way to be around her—and not have it count as a date—was when he found out where she would be ahead of time and “accidentally” ran into her there. Never at work, though, since that would’ve just made things more awkward. He was now well aware of the social power imbalance between them, so having her wait on him as a customer at the restaurant would’ve made both of them uncomfortable.
Instead, by strategically fitting himself into her busy life, he could prove to her, and everyone else, that he was taking this seriously. By the middle of November, Jordan had already participated in a creek-side cleanup, a coat drive and a Cub Scout car wash (Mr. Sanchez, the troop leader, couldn’t risk getting his surgery incision wet, so his daughter filled in). All of this, just so he could be around Camilla.
Hell, he’d volunteered so much lately, he would’ve been in danger of losing his own job if he wasn’t already in line to inherit a share of the company.
A fact that Cornelius reminded him of a week later.
“You seem to be spending a lot of time away from the office lately,” his father said at breakfast on Saturday morning. “I don’t suppose that has anything to do with you seeing that girl.”
“As a matter of fact, it does.” Jordan didn’t take a seat at the formal dining table because he had no intention of staying here long. “Her name is Camilla and I’m so glad you encouraged me to talk to her at the gala.”
Cornelius’s nostrils flared. “Don’t try and turn this around on me, young man. At the time, I was under the impression she was a Balthazar.”
“Well, your mistake helped me get my foot in the door with her so I’m grateful to you all the same. Things are going very well between Camilla and me, so I’d suggest you choose your next words very carefully.”
Clearly, Cornelius knew by now that arguing with his oldest son was like a chess match, one he didn’t want to lose. Instead of going after Camilla, his father stared at him for several moments, his silver eyebrows drawn together in an angry crease, before shifting tactics. “Is that another new shirt from one of your latest pet projects?”
Jordan glanced at the green Bronco Valley Rec Center tee. Somehow, he’d gotten roped into coaching the girls’ basketball team after they’d asked Mac not to return. “It is. But don’t worry, Dad. I’m still clocking in plenty of hours at Taylor Beef.”
Which was true. In the evenings when Camilla was working at DJ’s Deluxe, Jordan would return to his own office and catch up on reports and usually a stack of papers Mac left for him to sign.
“Speaking of beef.” Cornelius waved away the fresh fruit and Greek yogurt parfait Jessica requested the private chef to make. “Is it too much for a man to get some steak and eggs around here?”
“But the doctor told you that you need to be cutting back on the red meat, and I thought this might...um...” Jessica looked at Jordan, her wide eyes silently pleading for some backup.
Everyone always turned to Jordan when they needed backup dealing with Cornelius.
Jordan hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told Camilla that his nickname at work was the Smoother. Unfortunately, he was usually called in to smooth things over with his stubborn old man. Cornelius Taylor’s biggest fear in life was having someone think he was weak. The guy hadn’t always been this way, especially when his kids were younger. But each time something in life didn’t go his way—a divorce, a bad investment deal, a daughter who didn’t want to go into the family business—Cornelius would double down on his efforts to be in control of his image. Or, at least what he thought his image should be.
Jordan sighed. “It’s not going to kill you to eat a little healthier, Dad. Yogurt comes from cows, so nobody will think any less of you.”
“This is how it started with your sister, you know.” His father pointed a spoon at Jordan, and at first he thought he was only going to have to hear a rant about Daphne’s food choices. No such luck. “Volunteering once in a while is fine, Jordan. But do you have to give up all your valuable time to these charities? You already have commitments at work and commitments to this family. Just do what I do and send a check.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Jordan reached for an apple out of the fruit bowl in the center of the table. Now wasn’t the time to disagree with his father because Cornelius was currently digging into his yogurt parfait and to start an argument would only serve as a distraction. It was better to pick his battles.
Or in this case, Jessica’s battle, who mouthed the words thank you to Jordan before he headed into the kitchen to find the loaded breakfast burrito she’d had the chef wrap up for him.
Sure, Jordan might be burning the candle at both ends lately, eating most of his meals either in his car or in his office. In fact, he was exhausted by the time he fell into bed every night. But it was well worth it.
First, he was getting to know Camilla on her home turf, where she felt free to b
e herself. Although, if he was being honest, she was pretty damn authentic no matter where she was or who she was with. Even in a borrowed gown at a black tie gala or on the back of a thousand-pound Arabian stallion, her infectious laugh and zest for life stood out above all else.
Second, he was actually getting involved with the community again. He hadn’t felt this connected to his hometown since he’d played football at Bronco High. Third, and most important, by fitting himself into her life, he was buying himself more time in Camilla’s presence.
After all, their agreement never specified that the three weeks needed to be concurrent. It was a win-win as far as he was concerned because he still had those guaranteed dates sitting in his back pocket.
One downside to volunteering so often, though, was that no matter where he ended up, there was usually a news story or a social media post with a picture of him there. Camilla took great pains to avoid being caught anywhere near him in the photos since the comment sections were always littered with speculations about Jordan’s newfound interest in community events.
The other downside was that since none of those events counted as actual dates and usually took place in public, he’d now gone a couple weeks without kissing Camilla.
Finally, on a Sunday afternoon before Thanksgiving, they had their fourth date. Albeit, it wasn’t the most romantic place Jordan would’ve taken her.
“How much money do you think they waste on samples?” he asked Camilla as they turned down another aisle in some big box warehouse store near Billings.
“It’s not really a waste if they end up selling more product because people enjoy the samples,” she countered.
“But all these people are just grabbing the samples without actually putting the item in their carts. It’d be interesting to see a cost analysis report on it.”
Camilla took a tiny paper cup filled with cornbread stuffing from a tray. “For the past thirty plus years, this company has been giving away free samples in thousands of stores all across the globe. I’m pretty sure they’re still coming out on top.”
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