Jordan decided, fleeing through the door, not trusting herself another moment in his presence.
Chapter Seven
Solomon squinted down the pier and across the expanse of the lawn he used to mow toward the woman and child sitting on a blanket. He felt left out. Yes, there was plenty to do within the houseboat—laundry to wash, sheets to change, a deck to sweep, and an engine to prime and lube, but he’d rather watch Jordan Bliss do her thing.
There was something about her that he found immensely pleasing. Not only was she nicely put together, with full breasts and slim thighs, but beneath her prickly exterior she was as explosive as dried timber.
He had to guess from that kiss yesterday, plus the information he’d uncovered about her divorced status, that she hadn’t had sex in months if not years. That telltale blush that highlighted her cheekbones when he looked at her a certain way told him she could be his with just a bit of persuasion. While an inner voice cautioned him that she was different from the women he normally pursued—sweeter, softer—he was confident his heart was safe from ever being lured toward love again.
He had to have her. That was the only way to overcome his growing obsession.
He watched for several minutes, waiting for Silas’s instruction to begin. His twenty/twenty vision took inventory of the picnic she’d brought: a canteen of pink lemonade, a plastic container of tiny sandwiches, another of vegetables and diced fruit, and a can of whipped cream?
Solomon searched for a workbook or instructional slate and saw neither. He watched Silas devour four sandwiches as Jordan toyed with the carrot sticks and celery stalks, laying them in various positions on the lid of a plastic container. This went on for some time, with Silas an avid observer.
Impatient with the child’s play and desiring more serious instruction, Solomon was preparing to intervene when Jordan pulled the top off the can of whipped cream. He immediately considered ways to use that can to its fullest potential.
Jordan squirted a frothy white shape onto a red paper plate, then let Silas dip his fruit in it. She then squirted out another shape—oh, wait, it was the letter B—and then a third and started pairing them together.
Perplexed, Solomon delayed his intervention. Out came several more paper plates, and Silas got to spray letters on them, his efforts far less proficient. Solomon had seen enough. Abandoning the lounge chair, he leapt over one railing and then another, and with a bound onto the pier, he stalked up the hill for a word with Miss Bliss.
“Jordan,” he called, not bothering to mask his disapproval.
The engrossed pair looked up from plates that appeared to read C and L.
“Clap!” Silas piped up, still caught up in the game.
“That’s right,” Jordan answered warmly. She lifted a wary glare at Solomon as he cast his shadow over them. “What do you want?” she demanded.
Spying a worried crease on Silas’s brow, Solomon caught himself. “Silas, I think the mailman came. Run to the head of the driveway and fetch the mail, would you? Ours is the box on the bottom.”
“Okay!” said Silas, scrambling to his feet. With a toothless grin he added, “Wanna see how fast I can run?”
“I’ll time you,” said Solomon, glancing at his watch. And the boy took off, sprinting like a deer.
Solomon didn’t have but a minute. “What is this?” he demanded, gesturing at the plates. “I’m not paying you to play with him. I want him to learn to read.”
“I’m evaluating what he knows, in a format that keeps him interested,” she answered frostily.
“Well, this had better not be an indication of your instructional methods,” he warned.
Her eyes flashed with affront. “If this is the sort of interference I am going to have to deal with, you can find another tutor.” She started stacking the cream-filled paper plates, one on top of the other, and shoved them in a white garbage bag. “I should
Chapter Seven
Solomon squinted down the pier and across the expanse of the lawn he used to mow toward the woman and child sitting on a blanket. He felt left out. Yes, there was plenty to do within the houseboat—laundry to wash, sheets to change, a deck to sweep, and an engine to prime and lube, but he’d rather watch Jordan Bliss do her thing.
There was something about her that he found immensely pleasing. Not only was she nicely put together, with full breasts and slim thighs, but beneath her prickly exterior she was as explosive as dried timber.
He had to guess from that kiss yesterday, plus the information he’d uncovered about her divorced status, that she hadn’t had sex in months if not years. That telltale blush that highlighted her cheekbones when he looked at her a certain way told him she could be his with just a bit of persuasion. While an inner voice cautioned him that she was different from the women he normally pursued—sweeter, softer—he was confident his heart was safe from ever being lured toward love again.
He had to have her. That was the only way to overcome his growing obsession.
He watched for several minutes, waiting for Silas’s instruction to begin. His twenty/twenty vision took inventory of the picnic she’d brought: a canteen of pink lemonade, a plastic container of tiny sandwiches, another of vegetables and diced fruit, and a can of whipped cream?
Solomon searched for a workbook or instructional slate and saw neither. He watched Silas devour four sandwiches as Jordan toyed with the carrot sticks and celery stalks, laying them in various positions on the lid of a plastic container. This went on for some time, with Silas an avid observer.
Impatient with the child’s play and desiring more serious instruction, Solomon was preparing to intervene when Jordan pulled the top off the can of whipped cream. He immediately considered ways to use that can to its fullest potential.
Jordan squirted a frothy white shape onto a red paper plate, then let Silas dip his fruit in it. She then squirted out another shape—oh, wait, it was the letter B—and then a third and started pairing them together.
Perplexed, Solomon delayed his intervention. Out came several more paper plates, and Silas got to spray letters on them, his efforts far less proficient. Solomon had seen enough. Abandoning the lounge chair, he leapt over one railing and then another, and with a bound onto the pier, he stalked up the hill for a word with Miss Bliss.
“Jordan,” he called, not bothering to mask his disapproval.
The engrossed pair looked up from plates that appeared to read C and L.
“Clap!” Silas piped up, still caught up in the game.
“That’s right,” Jordan answered warmly. She lifted a wary glare at Solomon as he cast his shadow over them. “What do you want?” she demanded.
Spying a worried crease on Silas’s brow, Solomon caught himself. “Silas, I think the mailman came. Run to the head of the driveway and fetch the mail, would you? Ours is the box on the bottom.”
“Okay!” said Silas, scrambling to his feet. With a toothless grin he added, “Wanna see how fast I can run?”
“I’ll time you,” said Solomon, glancing at his watch. And the boy took off, sprinting like a deer.
Solomon didn’t have but a minute. “What is this?” he demanded, gesturing at the plates. “I’m not paying you to play with him. I want him to learn to read.”
“I’m evaluating what he knows, in a format that keeps him interested,” she answered frostily.
“Well, this had better not be an indication of your instructional methods,” he warned.
Her eyes flashed with affront. “If this is the sort of interference I am going to have to deal with, you can find another tutor.” She started stacking the cream-filled paper plates, one on top of the other, and shoved them in a white garbage bag. “I should
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