Dirty Girl

What to Wear

“Of course,” Jordan said, surprised by how quickly she had agreed. Brooklyn had just asked her to help with a mud pit—the final obstacle of the race. Runners would have to wade through a ten-foot-long pit filled with thick mud to reach the finish line. And she had just agreed to set it up.

“What should I wear?” she wondered aloud.

“Something you don’t mind getting dirty,” Jake said with a grin. “And maybe some sunscreen. The sun doesn’t mess around out here.”

Jordan turned and found Jake standing directly behind her. Was she imagining it, or did he somehow look even more muscular than this morning when she had seen him on the beach with that other woman? Other woman? What are you thinking? she scolded herself. Her knees weakened as she met his blue eyes and inhaled his cologne. Damn, why did he have to smell so good?

She didn’t want to feel this undeniable pull toward him, but her body betrayed her. A deep ache stirred within her, an ache for him to touch her. As if he could read her thoughts, Jake reached out, taking her hands in his. He rubbed his thumbs over her palms before turning them over, tracing slow circles across the backs of her hands in a way that made her long for him to touch other, more forbidden, parts of her with that same tenderness.

“Though I’m not sure these hands are prepared for the kind of dirty work we’re about to do.” Why did he have to say "dirty" like that? It made her blush. She hated it. And wanted desperately to hear him say it again.

“My hands, like the rest of me, have no problem getting dirty,” she said with a smile, tilting her chin up in defiance. What in the name of everything good in the world was that? Jordan Malone, why are you torturing yourself by flirting with this guy?

Jake’s smile deepened before he threw his head back in laughter. He gently placed a hand on her back and slapped a pair of work gloves into her palms. “Well, Jordan, I do believe we’ll find out just how dirty you can get after building this pit together.”

“Together? Me and you? Building the pit?” she stammered. Think, Jordan, think! You must be able to come up with a reason to bail on this. There’s no way you can spend the day with him, smelling that cologne, watching him swing hammers and carry lumber over his bare shoulders, sweat beading on his tanned skin… But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t come up with a single excuse.

Jake glanced back at her, his smile lingering just a fraction longer than necessary. Something flickered in his eyes, something that made Jordan momentarily forget the ring she still wore, the awkwardness she felt, and the gnawing insecurity that had shadowed her since her marriage had ended.

“First, we have to pick up the supplies,” he said. “I’ll need your help loading the lumber.”

“Okay,” she agreed. “But this isn’t exactly my construction sundress.” She gestured to the hem of her cotton dress. “I kind of thought I’d be handing out water bottles or designing posters today. I didn’t exactly dress for manual labor.”

Jordan had assumed Brooklyn had been joking about the labourer position.

Jake’s gaze flicked over her, and his lips curved into something undeniably flirtatious. “Well, as much as I love how you look in that dress, I agree it’s not exactly construction-zone friendly.”

Okay, that was definitely him flirting. But why? That very morning, he had barely acknowledged her existence. And Mrs. Strawberry-Blonde—how did she fit into all this? Jordan wanted to ask, but she was afraid of the answers.

They made plans to meet at Jake’s truck in thirty minutes. Jordan used the time to run back to her room, change, and grab her water bottle.

What exactly does one wear to build a mud pit? She rifled through her suitcase and settled on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts she had packed in case she hit the gym. Smoothing out the fabric, she caught sight of something in the mirror—a bouquet of lilies resting on the dresser behind her. They must have been delivered while she was downstairs at breakfast. Curious, she peeled open the envelope.

“Love you more. – Caleb.”

For the past few years, Caleb had sent her lilies for Valentine’s Day. They were her favorite flower, and he loved seeing how she lit up when she received them. When he was little, everything was a competition. At bedtime, she would whisper, “I love you,” and he would grab her face, stare deep into her eyes, and declare, “I love you more.” It became their running joke, and now he signed all his cards with that simple phrase.

She smiled, tears welling in her eyes. She loved him so much. She was immensely proud of the thoughtful young man he had become. She also knew, deep down, that he felt guilty—that he believed she had never found love because she had been too busy being a mom to him. No matter how many times she reassured him that he was all she needed, Caleb never quite believed her.

Jordan remembered when Caleb, just six years old, had asked her, “Mommy, why did you marry my dad?”

She had paused, wanting to be honest but knowing that speaking ill of his father would only hurt him. “He was the smartest, most talented, most intelligent man I’ve ever met,” she had answered.

Caleb had thought for a moment before replying with the innocent yet heartbreaking wisdom of a child. “The world is full of smart, talented, intelligent men who don’t do drugs and abandon their kids. Why didn’t you marry one of them?”

Jordan wiped away her tears, squared her shoulders, and promised herself she would call Caleb later to thank him for the flowers. But right now, she had a job to do.