Dirty Girl

Troubleshooting

Jordan arrived at the obstacle course early the next morning, scanning the area for any sign of Jake. She’d spent half the night trying to shake the strange cocktail of longing and frustration he’d stirred in her.

Pulling on a pair of work gloves, she made her way toward the tire jump station. The obstacle required a framework of stacked tires, and she joined the other volunteers, hauling black rubber tubes into place beneath the already blazing sun. Her muscles were aching within minutes, and she was mentally cursing her decision to wear white sneakers—right as she spotted him.

Jake was unloading another stack of tires, shirtless and tanned, his muscles flexing with every movement. She paused, caught off guard by how fast his facial hair grew. He’d been clean-shaven yesterday. She was sure of it. That soft skin on his face had rubbed against her body down there. There was no mistaking that memory.

And yet—there he was now, rocking a full five o’clock shadow.

There was no denying he was sexy as hell, but... something had shifted. The magnetic pull she’d felt the night before had faded.

Are you seriously that shallow? she asked herself. Letting your feelings waver just because he didn’t shave?

Jordan shook her head. And wait—did you just drop the L-word? Her breath caught in her throat as the realization struck.

She glanced over at Jake again. He was acting completely oblivious to her presence. She furrowed her brow and absentmindedly scratched her head.

Whatever, she thought. This wasn’t the time or place to have a meaningful conversation—not in front of all these people.

Though a nod hello wouldn’t have killed him, her inner voice grumbled.

Determined not to spiral into classic overanalyzing Jordan mode, she turned her focus back to work.

—

A few hours later, Jordan sat under a tent, savoring the shade and the breeze as she nibbled on her lunch. She’d just bitten into a juicy pineapple skewer when she saw Jake again—this time fully dressed in a tailored suit, clean-shaven, and chatting animatedly with a group of polished-looking professionals. Real estate agents, she guessed.

Jordan couldn’t help but admire the way he carried himself—confident gestures, engaging smile. He caught her looking, lifted a hand, and, to her surprise, waved her over.

She hesitated, then wiped her hands on a napkin and walked toward him. Jake greeted her with a grin and turned to the group.

“This is the lovely Jordan Malone,” he said, placing a warm hand on the small of her back. “She’s been a huge help with the mud run setup.” He pulled her a little closer, adding, “I honestly don’t know what I’d do without her.”

There was something in his voice—almost a tremor. Not nerves, exactly, but something deeper. Did he actually mean that? she wondered.

The others nodded politely, ignoring whatever tension might’ve existed beneath the surface. One of them asked Jake a question about zoning regulations. Before Jordan could slip back to her lunch, Brooklyn appeared, visibly flustered.

“Jake, we have a problem,” she said, clutching a laptop. “The Mud Run’s email server isn’t working. I’m trying to send the agenda to the registrants, but it keeps bouncing back!”

“I can take a look,” Jordan offered, stepping closer. She scanned the screen and nodded. “I’ve seen this before. You just need to verify your DNS record with a TXT entry. Web hosts are requiring that now. Go into your domain host and input the name and value from your web provider in the dropdown menu. The connection should refresh within a couple of hours.”

Jake blinked at her, impressed. “You know how to do that?”

Jordan shrugged. “I do it all the time for my clients. Just give me a few minutes. Can I borrow the laptop?”

Brooklyn glanced at Jake. The laptop contained sensitive material, and only people he trusted had access to it. He gave a quick nod.

“Be my guest,” Brooklyn said, clearly relieved.

Jordan found an empty table near the ocean and set up a makeshift workstation. As she typed, waves crashed in the distance and a warm breeze brushed her skin. The contrast wasn’t lost on her—this was a far cry from her usual desk view of snowdrifts in Thunder Bay.

Halfway through updating the domain settings, a video call notification popped up. She frowned, debating whether to ignore it. What if it’s important? I’ll just take a message.

She clicked “Answer,” and a cheerful strawberry-blonde woman appeared onscreen. Jordan’s mind froze.

OMG. That’s Mrs. Everett. What’s your plan now, Ms. Can’t-Keep-Her-Hands-Off-Another-Woman’s-Man?

“Hi there! You must be Jordan,” the woman said warmly. “I’m Amanda. Jake’s told me so much about you! I hear you've been quite the help with setting up for the mud run.”

Uh… thanks? Jordan thought. Jake’s told me absolutely nothing about you. If it weren't for Brooklyn, I’d have no idea you two were even married.

Amanda didn’t miss a beat. “Listen, sweet girl, I’m in a bit of a situation and hoping Jake can save the day. Is he around?”

Jordan blinked, thrown by Amanda’s friendly tone. “He’s not here at the moment, but I can go find him. Is it urgent?”

Amanda nodded. “A little. We’ve got a yoga emergency at the studio.” She sighed. “He’s really the only one who can help. Thanks so much, Jordan!”

As the call ended, Jordan shook her head, equal parts amused and curious. What exactly qualifies as a yoga emergency?

She quickly finished the updates, closed the laptop, and went off in search of Jake.

She found him near the registration tent, deep in conversation about wristbands.

“Jake,” she called.

He turned, and his expression softened when he saw her.

“What’s up, sweet girl?” he asked, walking over.

“Mrs. Everett says she needs you at the yoga studio. Some kind of emergency.”

Jake chuckled and ran a hand through his hair. “A yoga emergency, huh? Sounds serious. What’s the issue—did someone misalign their chakras?”

Jordan couldn’t help but laugh. “She didn’t say. Just that it had to be you.”

“Well, family comes first,” he said with a wink. “You done with the laptop?”

“All set,” Jordan said. “Emails should be going through shortly.”

“Thanks, Jordan.” His voice was low, warm, and his hand brushed her arm in passing. The touch was brief but electric.

He took a few steps, then turned and called over his shoulder, “Oh—and it’s Amanda. She hates being called Mrs. Everett. Says that's her mother-in-law's name.”

With that, he jogged off toward the studio.

Jordan watched him go, her mind a swirl of thoughts she wasn’t quite ready to unpack. She returned to her table by the water, letting the salty breeze clear her head.

If nothing else, this trip was turning out to be way more interesting than she’d expected.