Read Restoring Jordan for Free Online Page B

tote—borrowed from Kell of course—I’m confident.
    I enter the lobby, and he’s already waiting. It’s chilly out today, and as he helps me into my belted peacoat, his fingers brush across my shoulders. Even through the fabric of my suit jacket and blouse, there’s a prickle where his touch has innervated my skin. I follow him from the building to his car, already warm and waiting at the curb. As he opens the door for me, and I sink into the warm leather seats, I’m taken back to Friday night. I can still see his hand stroking my thigh as he steered his car easily through the downtown Chicago traffic. Now, however, he keeps his hand to himself and his eyes on the road as he pulls from the curb.
    As excited as I was he wanted to take me to lunch, I lurch and gasp at his first words, and more than that, the harsh and serious tone of his voice as he speaks to me.
    “Do you think perhaps you should have told me you were a virgin?” He’s accusing, and frankly, he has every right to be. I should have known he’d be upset when he realized what he’d done to me—hell, what I more or less tricked him into doing—but he raises a good point; should I have told him? He wanted a one-night stand. How much of me did he really deserve?
    “Perhaps you should have asked my name. Perhaps you should have asked anything about me at all, perhaps you should have asked any one of a million questions you could have asked if you had a mind to know!” I’m accusing too. He wanted a one-night stand, and he got it. But wasn’t that what I wanted too?
    “And you weren’t seeking your own anonymity? Huh?” He must be reading my mind. “I made it clear I didn’t want any involvement with you.”
    “Then perhaps you shouldn’t be surprised I withheld my personal business from you!” Now I’m getting pissed—or is it hurt?
    “If I’m too old for booty calls, I’m sure as hell too old to be fucking virgins. You should have had some schmuck your own age help with your little … agenda. ” And then in a quiet voice that borders on a whisper and softens his face in an instant, he continues, “I could have hurt you.” His eyes glance to my own that are now still and without doubt showing my guilt as his own face registers some unknown turmoil.
    “Well it’s something of a moot point now, isn’t it?” I mutter. It isn’t really a question.
    “That’s for certain.” His words sting with the smack of rejection, but this rejection is hardly a surprise. So, why do I care?
    We are silent on the remainder of the drive to the restaurant. He’s taken us to Alinea, a place I could never afford and intimidates me as much as Foster’s, and after he parks and rounds the car to open my door, I’m still very much coursing with irritation, hurt, and absolute confusion I care. When he pulls the door open and offers me a hand to stand, I accept, struggling to meet his eyes though his steady gaze is on me, and as we’re seated at our table my body still bristles with anger.
    We manage to almost make it through lunch without returning to our negative conversation of before—almost. But when I make the mistake of asking him why he doesn’t like working with interns, our meal suddenly sours.
    “I don’t have time for design interns.” He says it simply as though there is no question to the factuality of what he says.
    “You say that like being an interior designer is a crime.”
    “No, I say it like being a design intern is a waste of my time.” His eyes are serious, and he believes every word he says.
    “But we’re free labor,” I try.
    “Free? Nothing’s free in this world, dear Adeline. What in God’s name makes you think that? The principals you will work under will be forced to double-check every last choice you make; they will have to babysit you when they ought to be doing their own work. You will be the most necessarily micromanaged person in this company, and someone will be saddled with all that time and effort on