Page 50 of The Incredible Ordinary

I glance at Jordan, who’s biting back a smile.

“The ball was on the patio last time I checked,” he tells Theo. He nods and goes to get it. Once he’s back, Jordan glances at his watch. “Five thirty,” he says. “Meet you two back here in an hour and a half? We’ll take care of dinner in the meantime.”

He raises his brows at me.

“Sounds good,” I say.

“Yeah. Whatever,” Rory says when I lightly elbow him in the side.

A few seconds later we’re watching Theo and Rory walk down the street, both carefully maintaining the five-foot gap between the two of them.

I glance at Jordan. “You think they’re going to be okay?”

He throws one more look at the street before he closes the door. “It’s one of those things where you have to trust the process.”

“Or… go and spy on them?” I offer.

Where did that come from?

Once again, I’m startled by my own anxiety for Rory. Once again, I’m standing here, crossing my fingers that he’ll be good and do good and have fun, and I don’t know why I’m like this. It’s… I don’t recognize myself. Who is this stranger?

“A decent idea.” Jordan looks thoughtful. “But before we do, let’s place our bets on who’ll come out on top when they inevitably start punching each other again.”

I scrunch my nose. “That’s a no on the spying, then?”

He laughs and throws his arm over my shoulder as he starts to steer me farther into the house. “Come on. I promised we’d make dinner.”

We end up in a large kitchen that seems to take up the whole of the back of the first floor, where evening sunlight paints the walls golden. One wall is lined with matte black kitchen cabinets. There’s a kitchen island separating the dining area from the rest of the kitchen, and a set of sliding doors lead from the kitchen to a small, fenced patio, with one door slightly ajar, letting in the crisp fall air.

Jordan opens the fridge and gives the insides a quick once-over.

“I was thinking chicken enchiladas?”

I nod and roll up my sleeves. “Put me to work.”

He starts taking ingredients out of the fridge and lining them up on the counter. I go to stand next to him while he moves. He turns the oven on and pulls out a drawer filled with rows of spices and bottles of oil. He picks out a few and puts them on the counter, too. Every move is easy and practiced, like he’s done this a thousand times. He probably has. A well-balanced, successful adult. The good dad.

My lips quirk up while I watch him.

That? Not exactly a chore, by the way.

He’s barefoot, dressed in a pair of worn, ankle-length jeans, a white tee, and a loose navy shirt with rolled-up sleeves and the buttons undone thrown over it.

And when he bends down to grab something from the lower shelf of the freezer?

Fucking damn.

He straightens up and turns around before I have time to wipe the appreciative smile off my face.

“What?” He pushes a stray lock of hair off his forehead.

I shake my head. “Nothing. I’ve just always found it relaxing watching people work.”

I don’t know if I’ve ever watched anybody cook before, but as far as excuses go, this one will do.

He waggles his brows. “Settle in. The show’s about to start.”

I bite back all the dirty retorts and double entendres that rush through my brain at that. It’s good he’s not a mind reader, is all I’m going to say about that.