Page 20 of Handling the Boss

“Oh my God! Jordan. I think you killed me,” he groaned, sitting back on his heels. “I’ll never recover from that.”

I sat back, wiping my mouth off with my hand, feeling a sense of satisfaction at how much I’d affected him.

“Do you want to stay over?” I asked, before my brain could catch up and tell me what a bad idea that was.

Fortunately, Jim’s brain was working better.

“I’d love nothing more,” he told me. “But this is a small town, and someone is bound to notice that I slept over. I don’t want to make things bad for you at work.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” I sighed. “I didn’t have to worry about stuff like this in Detroit. I didn’t even know my neighbors.”

“Come over to my place tomorrow,” he suggested. “It’s supposed to be a nice day. I’ll grill some food and we can just hang out on the deck.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “That sounds fun.”

I didn’t have plans anyway.

Jim gave me a huge smile, then pulled me in for a hug. And then it hit me – this thing between us was already getting serious whether I wanted to admit it or not. I just hoped this wasn’t going to end in heartbreak – for either of us.

Jim

Iwas unaccountably nervous about Jordan coming over to my house. Maybe because I was hoping that someday it would be our house. Hopefully soon. Not that I was stupid enough to bring it up right now.

After spending the morning cleaning, I took a shower and then got started prepping for our dinner. Jordan was coming at five, and by the time she got here I wanted to have everything ready so I could impress her.

If I was being totally honest with myself – and I always tried to be totally honest – after seeing her ex-husband I was the tiniest bit intimidated. Not by the guy himself. He looked like a pussy, and I was sure I could beat his ass. But it hadn’t escaped my notice that the guy was wearing a fancy ass suit that looked like it cost a fortune. I made good money at the factory thanks to our union contract, but I didn’t make designer suit money.

I looked around my house with a critical eye. It was nice thanks to my years of fixing it up, but it wasn’t fancy. I pictured Jordan’s ex living in a penthouse or a mini mansion, somewhere with high end granite countertops and stainless steel appliances and maybe a butler or something.

Then again, the apartment Jordan was staying at was a shit hole, so my girl’s standards couldn’t be that high. But it was also temporary. I had no idea what kind of place she lived in when she was in Detroit.

After brooding on it for a while, I decided to call the one person who always gave me straight talk and tough love: Lillian

“Hey Jimmy, what’s up?”

“Can you talk?” I asked, wincing as I heard one of the younger boys scream like he was being murdered.

“Yeah, let me go to my sanctuary.”

Years ago, before she and Martin got married, we’d helped Lillian remodel her basement, building a master suite with a sitting room and private bathroom. She called it her sanctuary away from ‘all the testosterone in the house’. When Martin moved in with his three boys, they added soundproofing between the basement and the main level to add more privacy. It was a testament to how much she loved him that Lillian even shared her space with him.

“Okay, I’m downstairs and alone, whatcha need?”

I told her about meeting Matthew and then going over to Jordan’s house, glossing over the exact details there. Lillian of course read between the lines.

“So you two had some sexy times finally?” she asked.

“We ran some bases,” I said, “but we didn’t get a home run, if you know what I mean.”

“Of course I know what you mean. I live with seven damn males and work with a bunch of knucklehead men in a male-dominated industry,” she said impatiently. “So what’s your question?”

“I’m worried she’s used to rich guys like her ex. Like maybe I’m not gonna measure up or something.’

“It’s not like you to be insecure,” Lillian noted. “That tells me you really care about this woman.”

“I love her,” I said firmly. “I’m going to marry her someday.”

“Look, if Jordan is the type of person to get hung up on the trappings of wealth, well then, she’s not the woman for you. But she works in a damned factory. No one fancy works in a factory,” she reminded me.